Around about 13 months ago the first lockdown started in my area. It was drastic and shocking. People where fearful of stepping outside, and given that we’re closely bordering on the hot spots of Northern Italy that wasn’t so surprising. Things gradually tailed off, until towards late summer we could pretend that everything was close to normal. But it wasn’t. The virus came back from its beach holidays revitalised and ready to go, and since October we have been in a more or permanent twiglight zone of ever present but ever shifting restrictions. Even as the vaccination stumbled into existence, stalled, and stumbled again, rules on wearing masks outdoors were introduced. Low level paranoia is ever present. And social agression is growing.
Initially at least this didn’t have too great an effect on me. I’m used to, even comfortable with, being shall we say socially self-sufficient. It was an opportunity to get things done in the house in various shapes and forms. I could spend far more time on working through my photo archives. And the fact that we had very luckily completed a lengthy trip to Patagonia and Antarctica just weeks before the pandemic hit helped a lot.
But time dragged on. And on. I initially got more involved in social media, but after 6 months or soon I had to bail out of Facebook, and I haven’t opened Twitter for several months. I’ve vapourised Whats App - not that I ever got on with it. My only online connectivity now is via email and a few forums. I discovered this a few weeks ago: Not depressed or flourishing? How languishing defines modern life | Mental health | The Guardian. Aparently it’s been doing the rounds. Now I’ve got a name for my malaise.
I’ve always had issues with the competitive nature of social media, especially where photographers are involved, and especially on Twitter I got profoundly depressed with the constant flow of masterpieces presented as “just a snapshot from today’s morning stroll”. Perhaps to some it functions as a support community, but to me there was strong sense of becoming more and more an outsider. Adding in the endless stream of people demonstrating how creative they are in lockdown pushed to dread Twitter. The all-pervasive mindless Americans with their bloody Trump didn’t help either (at least that’s stopped. For now.)
The downward spiral made me less and less productive, in all spheres of life. I could not, and still cannot pick up a camera without really pushing myself. There are a million things I could write blog posts about, but I haven’t got the energy to get off the couch. I feel a lot better when I’m outside, but I have to spend most of my time in the basement in front of a computer screen talking to people half a planet away. And when it comes to going outside, I have to get dragged kicking and screaming off the couch. Physically and mentally I’m going downhill fast. I find myself starting online fights in the day job just to feel something, anything. Probably not a good career move.
And my work space has invaded my creative space, killing off that particular refuge.
A few weeks back I started to get interested in planning a trip maybe in Autumn, but finally stopped because just the thought of having to book flights, having to pack, get up (off the couch) and go to airport is just overwhelming. I can’t do it.
Apart from my long-suffering partner I have almost nil significant human contact, either online or real world, with my efforts at improving this having completely broken down. Seems nobody much wants to hear from me. I guess we’re all in the same boat.
Down in the cellar, where I’ve spent 90% of the last 14 months
Andra tutto bene.
