(Trigger Warning: suicide) 

I’ll never forget watching scenes of the terrorist attacks on 11^th September 2001. I was at a church conference and it was break time. Delegates were stood around watching the news on a large screen, frozen in horror as we witnessed the second plane hit the towers. There was something distinctly surreal about seeing something so horrific unfold, and a debilitating sense of powerlessness that rendered us all silent. I think there may have been prayers later, along with chatter and theorizing about how the west would respond. George Bush would be having discussions with his war cabinet no doubt, but I remember feeling worried about my neighbours; this was in Bradford, a multicultural city with a high Pakistani Muslim population, and despite it’s open and welcoming vibe, I was fearful that fringe racist elements would see this as an opportunity to exercise some vigilantism.

For days and weeks after the attacks, I had nightmares, sometimes as I was just dropping off to sleep. Feeling like I was falling, flashbacks to the images of men and women jumping to their deaths to escape the flames. Such experiences are normal in the face of trauma, and victims of trauma are often triggered by other people’s pain. It’s hardly surprising, then, that I have been having similar dreams again recently. Hearing almost daily reports of Covid-19 deaths has taken its toll on me, challenging my usually positive mindset and undermining my go-to rituals  and mantras – nothing seems to work, at least not in the same way. I find myself pinned to the news, sometimes switching stations to get a new nugget or perspective – there is none – and despite my anxiety rising, I can’t look away.

It’s weird to be tiptoeing along, part of an insecure (socially-distanced) huddle where no-one appears to have any clear sense of the boundaries, no firm game plan in mind. There is the mask thing, which I think is supposed to stop you passing the disease on, but doesn’t necessarily stop you catching it. The enhanced version is personal protective equipment (PPE), which some high-risk staff now have, but several months too late for many, who have either passed the virus onto their friends and family, or passed away themselves. There is the magic 2 meters, which is only 1.5m or 1m in some nations, though it’s accepted that some, including teachers, support workers and numerous other key workers will find it impossible to maintain it – but they’re not in line for PPE. I have taken to ranting during the daily briefing and the various TV debates that invite pontificating politicians and righteous journalists to lock horns. Sometimes, I get so incensed by their analysis of our apocalypse that I butt in relentlessly like some angry Question Time panelist, refusing to be ignored. Not that I’ve got anything pertinent to say – my words  sound childish, my lips set permanently in a defiant pout. But I feel driven to speak, to fill the air, to counter the silence. I know silence is supposed to be meditative, restorative, stimulating, good. But right now it’s deafening, anxiety-inducing, crippling and sad. I want answers, dates, hugs and handshakes – and a functional track and trace app, Nightingale schools, mental health support and finance for freelance artists. I don’t want to see people leaping from windows because they can’t afford their rent. I don’t want to get calls when I’m at work at NHS 111 who are so depleted in lockdown that they’ve literally banged and bloodied their head against a brick to get someone to listen. I haven’t reached that point but I feel their pain – some days I’ve been so stressed my words have come out garbled and slow and I’ve taken to my bed for a few hours to get my energy back. Surely, I’m not the only one.

In this time of crisis, when we’re speaking of ‘new normals’ while still working out how to mourn our numerous losses, maybe we need to help each other grapple with this change by simply allowing some space to speak. To say what we’re missing, what we’re frightened of, instead of endless distraction. Of course, I have my moments of distraction, but I committed years ago to reflecting intently on my own feelings, validating them, and not hiding them behind fluff, nonsense and denial. All that does is squish them down, set for an eruption at a later date. And some very vivid dreams. But that’s another post.

Photo by Fabian Møller