When a postcard won’t quite cut it
CN: depression, self-harm
On navigating the pandemic, depression and an international move.
On March 13, 2020, I was getting ready to celebrate my 28th birthday. A friend of mine was supposed to visit from Paris, but we cancelled our plans because of the thing that had just been declared a pandemic two days prior. Instead, I decided to invite some friends for coffee and cake. As long as we didn’t hug, I thought, we would be fine. March 14, my birthday, was the last day I hung out with a large group of people in an indoor setting. I made apple cake and posted it on insta, captioned “The world might be ending, but at least, there will be cake”.
More than a year later, the world hasn’t ended. But if someone had told me in March 2020 that I would still be working from home in April 2021, that taking walks would be my number one hobby and that I would have a favourite mask, I would have laughed at their pessismism. A year ago, I was convinced that I would be able to have a party for my 29th birthday.
At no point during the panini was my job in danger. As an academic, I can easily work from home. I miss going to the office, but I know I’m privileged I don’t have to. I don’t have kids, so I never had to worry about them catching the virus at school. I didn’t have to balance work and childcare when daycares were closed. The handful of friends that had COVID escaped unscathed. My parents have received their first dose of the vaccine, and my grandparents — may they rest in peace — passed away before the pandemic hit.
And yet, I’m not okay.
I started a new job in September 2020 when infection numbers were low in Europe. Optimistically, enthusiastically, I made the four-hour move from Göttingen, Germany, to Nijmegen, the Netherlands. I packed up my books, my lacrosse sticks and my cat, but left behind five roommates and some close friends.
Ever the overthinker, I’ve never been great at spending time with myself. Living with roommates was a blessing during the first few months of the pandemic. From making sourdough bread to playing board games, they provided some much-needed distraction in these uncertain times™. After the move, I found myself alone in my apartment every night with too much time on my hands and too many thoughts in my head.
During one of my trips to the local bookstore — back before you needed an appointment to browse the shelves, take in that calming smell of books old and new — I picked up a postcard. The message, “Happy Vibes”, seemed just like what I needed. I put it on my bathroom mirror as a little reminder to myself.
There’s only so much motivation a postcard can give you. Only so much a scented candle can do. Only so much a daily yoga session can fix. I shouldn’t complain, I told myself, we all feel a little blue. After all, I had just landed my dream job, made an international move, and started a new chapter. Despite the daily reminder, I could feel the happy vibes waning. Activities that used to spark joy — reading, baking, lacrosse — became chores. Actual chores became unconquerable. I felt lonely and helpless.
Somehow, I made it to the beginning of December before my big breakdown. On December 8, I was sitting at my laptop long after the official workday had ended. In addition to my new job, I was (and am) still finishing up my PhD. Writing hadn’t been going great for a while, but that night I just couldn’t take it any longer. What started like most nights turned into a panic attack. Years ago, I would sometimes bite my own hand when everything was too much. That night, I was so close to biting myself again. Instead, I mustered all my courage and called the huisartsenpost, the after-hours emergency GP.
Half an hour later, I found myself in a doctor’s office, talking to a 50-something GP who made sure I would make it through the night without bite marks on my hands. I don’t remember what he said, but he found the exact words I needed to hear. Back home, I popped a lorazepam. It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks.
What follows is the anticlimactic road to recovery.
My regular GP — whom I would have preferred to meet under different circumstances, maybe for a cold or a lacrosse-related injury — put me on antidepressants and encouraged me to start therapy. Luckily, I found a therapist within weeks. We spent the last couple of months working on all the things that got me into this mess in the first place. Have eight sessions of therapy solved years of perfectionism and self-esteem issues? No, but they helped me to better understand myself and gave me a starting point for the journey ahead.
The last year has impacted us all in different ways. I’m still not okay. But I’m in a much better place than I was four months ago. Most importantly, though, I understood that my feelings are valid, even if others have it worse. I asked for help when I needed it. And I hope those of you who are in a similar situation get what you need. I see you.
Here’s to my 30th birthday party in 2022.
