OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.
I slept through the night. No gaps, no surfacing, no tossing and turning, nothing – just sleep. Instead of making me feel great, this fact really depressed me in the morning. Why? Because sleep felt like something special. The most natural, necessary, healing process that should occur every night is an anomaly in my life. And there is something deeply saddening about it.
Also, I am coping only on the surface of things. The pressures and responsibilities are outweighing the satisfaction and the rewards. Burnout is lurking just around the corner – it has been for a long time now, but I somehow usually manage to recharge my batteries, just enough to keep going, again and again, but for how much longer? For what? Why? Something, eventually, has to give. And I don’t want it to be my health. Not during a pandemic.
I think I am mourning the rest I had promised myself but could not deliver this month. Despite all the achievements, many things feel like failures and it’s hard to know where the truth lies.
I finished reading ten books in January. That feels good. But maybe it’s just the easiest form of escapism.
I am still looking forward to stuff: The first vaccines are arriving. Australian Open begins in a week. John Oliver returns. February does hold a few promises.
BUT: How is it possible that Captain Sir Tom Moore is in hospital with Covid-19? How?
Say no, Karina. Be selfish. Stop apologising.
Be kind. Wear a mask. Support local.
“Physical distancing remains one of the key strategies to curb this pandemic.”