Louise O'Neill: There is so much fear in the air and it is difficult not to internalise it

I hadn’t written in my diary since February 29 and re-reading that entry was like falling down a portal into another world, another lifetime, writes Louise O'Neill

I’ve kept a diary since I was eight years old. The first one had a white laminate cover with a lilac and pink floral pattern, and I would begin each entry with ‘Dear Kitty’. (Yes, I had just read The Diary of Anne Frank).

It’s interesting looking back how small my life was in many ways; my journals revolved around what I had eaten for dinner, the particular reasons I had for hating my sister that day, and how much homework the teacher had given us. But It’s a habit I maintained all the way through secondary school, university, and into my adult life.

When the severity of the situation we currently find ourselves in became increasingly clear, I found myself unable to write. I would wake up and reach for my phone, scroll and read, scroll and read, searching for ‘coronavirus’ over and over, until suddenly it would be time to go to bed again and I would wonder where the day had gone.

Last week, I told myself that I should start journaling again. It would be an interesting thing to have in years to come, I thought, a personal documentation of these strange, unsettling times. I hadn’t written in my diary since February 29 and re-reading that entry was like falling down a portal into another world, another lifetime.

I was making plans, reminding myself that I needed to make a hair appointment, writing about my excitement about my American friend’s visit for St Patrick’s Day. That trip didn’t happen, needless to say, nor did the hair appointment, something I now deeply regret as I slowly morph into Sideshow Bob. There was no mention of a virus or what will surely be the Collins Dictionary’s word of the year 2020 — social distancing.

I didn’t write about how my hands were cracked and raw from all the washing and sanitiser gel, how I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d been washing them incorrectly all these years. I seemed blissfully, or perhaps more accurately, wilfully ignorant. If I thought about the coronavirus at all, I assumed it wouldn’t impact Ireland. Like snakes and tornadoes, it wouldn’t come here.

I had a phone call with my therapist yesterday. We talked over one another occasionally, I misinterpreted something she said because I couldn’t see her face, couldn’t be guided by her expressions and her body language. She asked me how I was feeling, if the uncertainty of the past few weeks had manifested itself in a desire to fall back into unhealthy behaviours with food. No, I said. But something strange had happened earlier that day.

A friend and I were texting about Kanye West and Taylor Swift (I know, how very 2016 of us) and we had very different opinions. It wasn’t a particularly heated debate – I don’t think either of us care enough about celebrities to fall out over them - but my hands started shaking and I felt like I might get sick. When I mentioned this to my therapist, she said that it sounded like fear.

I almost laughed out loud. What do I have to be afraid of? I’m lucky enough to work from home and my job isn’t essential. If I was a doctor, a nurse, a healthcare provider, a hospital janitor, yes, I could be forgiven for feeling afraid. If I worked in a pharmacy or a supermarket, dealing with agitated people all day long, I could understand being afraid. Those are the people who are on the front line in this crisis, often times putting their own lives at risk to protect ours. The sacrifices they are making are incredible sacrifices. What am I doing? I’m sitting at home, tapping away on my laptop. A hero, I am not.

But still… I’m worried about family members with compromised immune systems, I’m desperately concerned about what might happen if they need medical attention and there simply isn’t enough ventilators or ICU beds there for them. I’m worried for the medical staff who might be forced to make gut-wrenchingly difficult decisions and the impact that could have their mental health. I think about the statistics around domestic violence, how one in the three women are living in abusive environments, and I worry about how the situation may have escalated due to self-isolating at home. I’m worried too, for friends and family who may lose their jobs as a result of this — the scars left by the 2008 recession have not healed yet for many of us and this looks set to be even more bleak. There is so much fear in the air and it is difficult not to internalise it, to feel it running through your veins, waking you up at 4am with your heart racing, thinking of all eventual possibilities. So yes, I say to my therapist. Yes, I am afraid.

So this week I have been doubling down on all the things that help when the anxiety begins to rise in me, pooling in my throat. I have chosen books that are comforting rather than challenging. I’m spending less time on my phone and more time in nature, alone. I’m meditating and journaling and burning through all the yoga videos on Youtube I can find.

I have, for some inexplicable reason, taken up baking — soda bread, lemon muffins and blueberry scones. It makes me think of my grandmother, and of the things she loved to do; baking and gardening and knitting. Moving mindfulness in practice, all of them. And I wonder what she would tell me to do. Breathe, Louise. Don’t forget to breathe.

LOUISE SAYS

READ: Hamnet by Maggie O’ Farrell. This book, which looks at the little-known story behind one of Shakespeare’s most enigmatic plays, was long listed for the Women’s Prize and it’s easy to see why. It’s a remarkable novel from one of our best novelists.

WATCH: Tiger King on Netflix. This seven-part documentary series about big cat collectors in the US is, to put it mildly, absolutely bonkers. Binge immediately.