Covid and Me

October 2, 2023

 Slow, slow, slow recovery. Each day it shows me how I cannot rush it.

A friend wrote on my FB Covid post, Enjoy the forced rest. I was like, No, no, no. I hate forced rest! I prefer to pick when to rest. But the problem has been that I haven't been able to allow myself rest. I have noticed that when I need it the most is often when I don't allow myself rest. 

 

But now I am loving the rest. Just what I needed and wanted but was scared to have. It was easier to stay occupied than sort out the flow of thoughts and feelings floating through and through and through over these hours, and days, and months. Ya, so easy to see what Covid’s purpose is in my life, my current life, is. So easy. To know myself better. To observe the way my mind works and reacts. But I still can’t figure out the purpose of losing smell and taste. I like asking that question though. What is the purpose of losing my smell and taste? 

 

I have read, watched news, and lusted after fountain pens during these weeks. I have had terrible symptoms — both gastric and respiratory but the worst has been the moments of  blank mind. Total disappearance of memory and thought. It made me cry yesterday. 

This weekend, I went to karate and kobudo. Only 30% effort but still I was exhausted, and in the middle of doing a sai kata the next steps vanished. I stood still on the black padded mats, feeling so foolish and when memory returned with some help from Sensei, I finished quickly and vigourously. Angrily. 

 

But to go back to How I Survived Covid — it was by looking at fountain pens and inks. And telling myself that if only I had ‘that’ pen I would not be depressed. That I would get through these days easier. And convincing myself that playing with it would take me away from my anxiety. Absolutely the wrong reason to buy a pen, and I resisted. I did browse a local website and write in for a quotation for one of their pens, and they replied. How often I had that impulse, to buy a new pen, and still have it, frightens me. But it did help me get through the worst of covid. My sweet, patient, spouse, listened to my pen obsessing mind. 

 

This morning I wrote in my journal. I used the vibrant Platinum Silky Purple ink in a fine nib. I wrote — I woke depressed and with an anxiety dream. Don’t know why sometimes I feel like owning something new and pretty will make me happy but I also know that those are the times when nothing will in fact make me happy. 

Today I made a cup of black tea in one of my Irish teacups.

 (A wedding present from my spouse’s Irish aunt. Hand painted and each one unique — so pretty. Today’s was one with a floral design in bright pink, purple, and deep blue, with green leaves and gold trimmings.) 

I wrote in the journal —  It was one of my almost favourite ones and it made me happy, but I also found fault with it. I didn’t pour in the right amount of water. 

And of course I can’t smell or taste my beloved Ceylon tea.  

 

Hard to 'see' happiness when the body is ailing. But it is there.

 

I did play during these days with a Lamy 1.9 stub nib I hadn’t used before, and some new inks. This brought minutes of happiness, and I discovered my fountain pen profile. I like looking at every pen that exists — from a $5 Platinum Preppy to those exorbitant pens costing as much as $65,000 and probably more — and every ink that is shared on the fountain pen lover groups I am in. But I don’t like glimmer inks in my own pens and my pen preference is monochrome. I especially like black pens with rhodium trims. And sometimes I want to fill a pen of every nib size I own with black ink and only use those. I don’t do that — as I know I will miss vibrant colours after just an eye-blink.

 

In my dream last night… I had a party in a home, my home, and people I hadn’t invited kept showing up. Then I went to the front door of the building to say goodbye to the last guests and when I returned, I unlocked the door to my apartment with my key and went straight into the bathroom and shed my clothes to shower. Suddenly three strangers were in the apartment, and I realized I was in the wrong one. I said, but the key worked, sorry, and scrambled to put on my clothes. They attacked me, with ill intentions, and at first my punches did not connect and were weak when they did. The two men and one woman just laughed but then I began finding the strength to fight them off… 

 

I woke with a fast heartbeat, though not especially scared. I’ll be unpacking this dream today. Probably that is all I might do and read one of the booker list books. I finished one last week — Western Lane — and even managed to write a review of it in one of the book reading groups I am in. 

 

Ya, slow, slow, slow, recovery. And most days I say, be patient, though some days I cry with frustration. I am glad to have enough mental clarity to observe myself as I go through this. And today I could write this blog post. Yet my inner critic says, But you can’t yet write what you need and want to.