A personal essay on the strains lockdown has on mental health
It has been nearly four weeks since I was discharged from a mental health ward. At first I was very calm about lockdown. We needed to decide if we would keep my husband in our bubble – he's a police officer and considered an essential worker. My mother, my husband and I are all fully vaccinated. The decision was made that it was okay unless we saw cases appear in the South Island, and then we'd reassess. That night at the dinner table I shocked everyone by saying, “I am going to miss the gym a lot”. I should have known then that I was going to really struggle this time around.
I felt the walls closing in on me on the first night of lockdown. Day two did not begin well at all. I found myself kneeling on the floor in my bedroom trying to focus on my breathing. I had already been in my own mental lockdown for eight weeks and I was in a place where I really needed those daily interactions outside of the house. I felt completely overwhelmed and I tweeted about it. A steady stream of suggestions of activities I could do to cope started to appear, but I didn’t need suggestions about how to keep my mind busy – I'm an expert at that. Four weeks on a mental health ward ensures you know how to do that; cross stitch, painting, writing, baking, yoga, mindfulness, walking. I have done all of these things to the absolute limit during my time being unwell.
What I needed was human contact. I had gotten to a place where I was changing my external scenery to help keep my mood steady and it had been working. My saviour was being able to have a zoom meeting with my psychiatrist and get my sleep medication sorted. She said that she thought I was suffering from bipolar depression which would account for my lack of sleep and irritability. I sought solace in the bath, a quiet relaxing place for me to be so that I didn’t take out my bad mood on anyone.
A few days later I tended to my beehive. The bees were a great distraction and I stood there in my bee suit going over each frame until I found the queen. She looks healthy and strong and I am hoping that I will get lots of honey this summer. I also spotted the first of the waratahs flowering in my garden. I walked the dog in a nearby park next to the mighty Buller river. Other people out walking stayed at a safe distance and we smiled at each other from afar.
Day seven was tough. I woke up and decided that I desperately needed to move to the city and found myself looking for a new job and flats in Wellington. I texted my husband “I am moving to Wellington” he replied with “ok”. If I lived in the city at least during lockdown I could go and sit at Oriental Bay and people watch. It isn’t uncommon for me to feel this way, and when you get this sick with a mental illness it is natural to think that a move will fix everything, but we all know that you only end up moving your illness with you. I went for a walk and stormed up the hill near my house trying to release all my frustrations and anger out. My neighbours called out “hello” from their side of the road as they walked their dogs and I barely acknowledged their presence under the storm of dark clouds that were following me. The dog was in a fantastic mood because he was getting a walk and I resented him for that. At lunchtime my husband turned up with filled rolls to share and we talked about what a pain the ass my brain was and how it was playing tricks on me.
Over the next few days I stopped grieving for a more interactive world. I put on makeup, blowdried my hair, and wore a jersey with a bright red poppy to help cheer me up. I contemplated wearing a bra with underwire and something other than track pants but I decided comfort overruled and stuck with elastic. I was finally sleeping properly and my depression started to subside.
On Friday, when the Prime Minister was due to make her announcement about whether the South Island was to move levels or not, my friends and I discussed the options. One expressed her dismay that at level 3, work and childcare actually becomes more difficult. She has to go to work but she doesn't want her children to go to school and sit in their bubbles. Level 3 life at school is tough. There is a lot of desk time and not a lot of play. It's hard on the kids. So she wants to keep her children at home but she won't be able to be there.
In the weekend, rain clouds were still hanging above Westport. The weather was matching my mood as I'd hopped on the scales to check my lockdown weight. I shouldn’t have done that. I went to the beach and admired the driftwood structures that families had been building - and which had now become a heated debate on our community Facebook page as to whether it was ok for people to dismantle them for firewood.
The South Island moves to level 3 tomorrow. My anxiety has increased as I realise that the things I really need still won't be available. I'm looking forward to being able to go and get a coffee at the local food cart and takeaways, but what I really need is the gym, my drawing classes and face to face meet-ups with friends. My mental health depends on it.
