Lockdown Fatigue
The phrase “lockdown fatigue” gets thrown around a lot. It was especially common around Christmas and New Years, as an explanation for the terrible surge in cases happening then. I always thought it was a funny phrase. How do you get “fatigued” of something that every person on Earth was tired of from the moment it started?
Lockdown fatigue struck me not as an unfortunate development, but a default state. If you’re a long-haul trucker, fatigue is unavoidable. It’s how you manage and push through that fatigue that determines the safety of yourself and others. The same applies for Covid: everyone is tired, but you just have to keep going.
I felt the difference this week for the first time. Fatigue is not discomfort, or dislike, or boredom; it’s exhaustion. I still felt irascible and frustrated, as I have this entire cursed year. The distinct change was in my mental calculation of the merits of lockdown. The running arithmetic in my head has been that I hate staying inside, living a pale imitation of life. But it is ultimately worth it to keep others and myself safe. This week, I began to question how worth it that really is.
When we first entered quarantine, it was an easy decision for me. I was terrified of the disease and how little we understood it. The people who said we should prioritize “normal life” and the economy, such as Texas Lieutenant Governor Dan Patrick, who suggested grandparents would happily sacrifice themselves for their grandchildren’s economic future, were ghoulish. How could a decent person object to staying inside for two weeks or a month to save countless lives? But would I have agreed to stay inside for an entire year, knowing 500,000 would still die? That’s a different, more difficult question, and I don’t think I would have given the right answer.
I find myself more tempted by irrationality. I catch myself wondering how I have not gotten it yet, how cautious I need to be with my behavior, whether I would even get sick. There’s an angel and a devil on my shoulders. They are arguing over how careful I should be. The devil is getting impatient and the angel is running out of shits to give.
I am still avoiding crowds and washing my hands and opting for outdoor activities and getting tested and not traveling and taking my temperature and wearing my mask. But I don’t want to anymore. (I actually do like the mask. I have a bunch of black N95s from Costco and when I wear them with sunglasses I look like a huge bitch in a good way.)
The thing I’m most sick of is what I call “Dinosaur Talk.” When you put a group of 4-year-olds together, there’s a good shot they share a common interest in dinosaurs. Without the desire or ability to have a structured dialogue, kids will just start spewing facts at each other:
“The Tyrannosaurus rex is strong enough to bite through a car.”
“Well, a triceratops could bash through a car with its big horns.”
“But a brontosaurus is 200 feet tall so it could step on the car and smash it.”
“But the T. rex can whack its tail around.”
“Some dinosaurs can fly.”
“Yeah, and some only eat leaves.”
That’s what conversations sound like now. Most people are not living enough to have any news, let alone good news, to share. So, things quickly devolve into the Covid version of Dinosaur Talk, pelting each other with random facts in a way that vaguely resembles conversation:
“Hopefully we’ll all be getting the vaccine soon.”
“Yeah, my grandma just got it.”
“But it’s so disorganized in most states.”
“But J&J will be out soon which will boost supply.”
“As long as we can beat the variants.”
“But they’re saying it’s effective against the variants.”
“Oh really? I saw a different study.”
“Which study are you talking about?”
“Wait, which vaccine are you talking about?”
“Which variant are you talking about?”
“I don’t even know.”
“Ok, well, nice talking to you. Be safe.”
A friend who manages bands recently sent me an album by a new group he’s representing and asked if I’d see them live. I told him, honestly, that I would watch someone shit their pants on stage if it meant I could attend a show. The worst concert I’ve ever been to was in a basement in Ridgewood, Queens. (If Bushwick is the mental asylum of New York City, Ridgewood is the rubber room.) It consisted of a woman in a ski mask kneeling on the ground, disrobing completely, and screaming into a microphone so earsplittingly loudly that it confirmed my belief in the existence of a “brown note.” I would happily buy a ticket to that now.
My loved ones are tired of my kvetching and bitching and moaning, so I have to do it here. By now, I’ve crested the largest wave of frustration and returned to my recurring mantra: It’s getting warmer. Days are getting longer. Cases are dropping. Vaccines are here. Hang in there. The lingering emotion is jealousy. I’m deeply, deeply envious of all the people who have gone about their normal lives this entire time without crumbling from anxiety or guilt. Dinners inside, visits to friends’ houses, spontaneous flights to Colorado or the Maldives, bars, clubs, life: all without that spasm of terror that runs through me when I can’t recall the last time I Purelled. And they probably got sick and got others sick and made this last longer for all of us, but it does not seem to bother them. I am jealous of that.
So what can I say? I hate this. I have lockdown fatigue. I’m done. But hey. It’s getting warmer. Days are getting longer. Cases are dropping. Vaccines are here. Hang in there.
Great piece. Same. 😀😭😑