I really didn’t want to publish this, as I think I’ve been too negative here, and it has become a place for me to be a baby. But I don’t want to encourage deleting unpublished posts and hide behind a fake façade, so here is some more whining ( 🙂 )
They all talk about the 14 days of COVID-19, but nobody talks about the aftermath of the 14 days. Nobody talks about the long-term symptoms and the long-term destruction that it causes on our bodies. Nobody tells us that infection can occur literally after we’re tested negative.
I’m in my 9th day of symptoms today and my 6th day without my sense of smell and taste. I’ve been reading a lot about people who’ve lost these senses for weeks, even months, post-COVID-19. Some people lost it for good. It’s terrifying me.
I’ve been asking all my friends and relatives who caught it before about this; the relatives who took the same vitamins and meds-but, of course, less-have all gotten back a day or two after losing them. A friend of a friend lost it for over a month, and a friend regained 80% of her sense of taste gradually and only 20% of her smell (she’s been negative since November).
Imagine not being able to enjoy the taste of your coffee or the smell of your loved ones; it’s like going around the world with no colors. I know some people have it harder, but I’m finding this so hard to swallow.
I’m trying almost everything. I even tried the “Jamaica recipe,” which consists of burning clementine and orange and eat/drink them puree. Nothing.
I still have 5 more days of this, and it’s over. I even planned my next week, and I am hoping it is the great breather I need after the 14 days of aloofness. I really really really want my smell and taste senses back by next week.
For those of you who know, know, and for those who don’t, well,you know now. I’m still in my fourth day of symptoms, but my anxiety is slowly easing up, and I’m more relieved that tomorrow is the fifth day and tomorrow we’ll know the result of my family (hoping for the best, please God.)
Aside from my physical symptoms, the psychological ones almost killed me; I couldn’t stop crying for three days straight; I even woke up at night to continue crying and then go back to sleep. My anxiety mainly went into three phases;
Phase 1 was when I first knew the panic of having infected anyone at all, and especially my friends who have high-risk family members; it suffocated me. I couldn’t not think that I will be the reason behind their pain, any pain, and that I might kill them and go through so much all because of me.
Phase 2 was the shame, the shame of carrying something that isn’t really my fault, yet it felt like it is. The shame of contracting a virus in the middle of a pandemic. It made me feel like I started COVID-19; it was born and bred in me as if I created this virus, and I killed people with it knowingly and not knowingly.
Phase 3 was the extreme guilt that I might be the reason behind my family getting the virus. This is the worst part, and I’m still very stressed about it, but less stressed as tomorrow we can know. They don’t have any symptoms, and we’re all being extremely careful, and I’m taking all precautions, so I do hope from the bottom of my heart that they remain safe and healthy.
But the anxiety is a beating, more than anything. I’m scared for my family more than anything, but I guess I’m trying to think that if it happens, it happens. I didn’t choose to get sick, and I definitely didn’t choose to infect my family if I did. It’s a pandemic, and I fought it for almost 8 months, and with my weak immunity, that is something.
Yesterday was exceptionally scary for me, as I spent my new years eve alone in a room, it’s something I was always afraid of. I had my dinner, ate cake, wrote here a little, watched some Friends, and slept at 11pm because I was sleep and because what even is the point?
Today I lost my sense of smell and taste, adding to my fatigue and back pain symptoms. I’m also sneezing today, which makes me panic more. John Mayer has been helping me a lot these few days, so I’m grateful for him.
I think it’s about time we talk about 2020. Generally, I’ve been avoiding writing these two days as I’ll sound depressing-more depressing than my previous post, but I need to talk about 2020.
2020, what have you done? How can so many pain be fit in 12 months of nonsense? How can I lose my people, my city, my sanity, my health, in one year?
2020 you have aged me like no other. You gave me a good few months only to take it all away in your days; you took away the anxiety only to throw it back at my face on Tuesday, as the last laugh, claiming your win, claiming the last bits of shards that were left from my life.
2020, you win. I no longer will fight you. In the first 6 months, you taught me severe loss and unbearable feeling of staying silent while my loved ones are tortured in front of my eyes. You taught me to work 16 hours a day without a meaning, working only to reach a dead end. You taught me to stay quiet on justice and reminisce on memories I never lived. You taught me great nostalgia that ached me for so long.
And then you taught me the real meaning of anxiety. Of days of pure blackouts and unbearable anguish. You taught me how to see life as a dark, hopeless abyss and go on days terrified, to my bones, to wake up in the morning.
And then it got better. For around four months, you taught me love and grace and peace. You taught me to see the beauty in everything and notice the pretty little things in people. I was able to find my happiness again; you taught me how to smile without trying.
And then you took it away from me, now, as you are about to end and as I thought the hard phase is now behind me. You forced me to carry all the weight that took me too long to leave behind; you forced me to carry it again.
And you showed me hell, for three days you threw the worst scenarios that could’ve happened in my face, and it’s still the beginning of the road; I’m still in the first days, and it physically still isn’t as hard on me.
2020? You destroyed me. I thought you didn’t, I thought the first few months were just that, and it’ll get better, but now as I celebrate new years eve alone in a dark room without anyone by my side, I can tell you that you put me in a place I always dreaded.
I might not even stay awake till 12am, because, what’s the point? That’ll only depress me even more.
I’ll just sleep you away, I won’t even stay up to say my goodbyes. I’ll just sleep you away.
I don’t feel like writing, but i know crying alone in a dark room won’t do me good, and if I let myself sink as low as I am sinking right now, it’s going to take me months to stand back up.
My aunt told me it’s not okay to be weak, but it’s okay to cry if that what makes me feel better, and i can’t stop crying.
Why do I feel like this is my fault? Why do I feel this overburdened responsibility that I’m the cause of eternal misery, and that I won’t, nor anyone around me, find happiness anymore?
I’m thinking of what would’ve been my upcoming weeks; we had so many things planned and set out. We were going to have two gorgeous getaways, and new years eve is in three days, and I’m going to spend it alone in a dark empty room.
Well this sums up 2020, I guess. Saying goodbye to 2020 alone in my room, and I would’ve probably be worse by then because that’s what it is I guess, that’s 2020 for you.
I think if this is true, I would probably have seen everything in this hellbent year, my mental health would’ve been tested in the most awful ways and I’m not sure how much I can polish back from it.
For tonight, I think I’ll go back to watching Friends and hoping all of this goes away in the morning.
I’ll try to keep on writing to feel sane, or maybe finish posts I’ve already began writing, I hope I can commit to this.
I hope my head stops hurting, and my tears dry by tomorrow.
It’s one of those nights, I guess, where I’m too tired, and I can’t seem to find any happiness in the world.
It’s okay; I was bound to have a relapse; I expected it. It’s not major anxiety, just small levels of that, so that’s great, and I’m so grateful, but it’s just major sadness over everything, really, over everything.
It’s one of those nights where Between The Bars is on repeat, and for those who don’t know, this is my major depression song. I first heard in Skins (remember Skins? When Effy Stonem was religion and Freddie dying was the saddest thing you experienced?) at 14. I can’t remember the scene where this song started playing, but I remember thinking of how facile and beautiful it is, and I remember that it made me sad, and it still does, and it’s on repeat tonight.
Let us live in the moment; I keep telling myself. Let us be here, now, just right here. Let me sit at the top of a hill and watch the sun sets over the city and then admire the skyline and attempt to take a photo of it. Let me be with you now and not think of how I’ll lose you tomorrow.
But I’m finding it hard to live my moments because here I am, the day after, and it’s all gone, and you’re going, and I’m back to listening to Between The Bars with a very sad heart and with me crying next to a Christmas tree.
Here I am, binge eating a big bag of chips, drinking my tea, heater turned on keeping my always freezing feet warm, with lights turned off, and warm lights coming from the Christmas tree lights, and Elliot Smith singing to my ears, telling me that there is no reason to feel happy.
There is an Unica chocolate bar sitting beside me, taunting me to eat it, as if the 8 Unicas I ate today were not enough, as if the disgusting big bag of chips in my hand is not enough to make me feel like the ugliest person on earth.
I couldn’t even take a shower. I was just about to get into a hot shower, hoping to wash away all the agony of the world, and as I was opening the faucets, no hot water came down. It turns out that the hot water faucet broke that moment, and I couldn’t shower.
Honestly, what’s the point of it all? Of feeling happy and then feeling miserable for a longer time? What’s the point of living if it’s a vicious cycle of infinite dilemma and anguish and many nights of big bags of chips and a repulsed stomach? What’s the point of living, if it’s only to feel pain?
I wish God listens to me when I tell him that I need to die, but he doesn’t, and I’m still stuck here trying to figure a way to survive all of this melancholy without having to sit beside a Christmas tree and listen to Elliot Smith.
Yesterday was really good; I had a smooth day at work, and I had friends come over for a movie night, which made my heart very happy. I don’t know what happened today; I don’t know why everything I ever felt the past 3 weeks is almost gone.
Tomorrow I’m on a field mission with work, and I should be very nervous about it, but I’m too sad to think about it, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
I’ll also be seeing my friends at night, from university, whom I love, so it should be okay too. It should be okay? I should be okay.
I’m just really tired, and I didn’t have any caffeine all day, except for the tea right now, and I think I have a runny nose. Is it symptoms of COVID-19? I keep getting these now and then and getting paranoid over the virus. I’m not even sure if it’s really symptoms or it’s all in my head. I guess I’ll have to wake up tomorrow and see.
Drink up baby, look at the stars I’ll kiss you again, between the bars Where I’m seeing you there with your hands in the air Waiting to finally be caught Drink up one more time, and I’ll make you mine Keep you apart, deep in my heart Separate from the rest, where I like you the best And keep the things you forgot People you’ve been before That you don’t want around anymore That push and shove and won’t bend to your will I’ll keep them still
This is me getting back on my coffee challenge for this week. I finished it, and I loved it because 1) it helped me finish tasks I should’ve finished weeks ago in the areas where the coffee shops are, and 2) I got to drink coffee.
I’ll be breaking down the list of coffees I tried this week; the story behind the coffee shop, and the coffee itself, but before all of that, I have a few disclaimers to start with:
Disclaimer #1 my knowledge of coffee is zero. I love drinking diverse coffee, but I have no academic background in anything coffee-related, and I don’t find myself appreciating high-end coffee; I only know that Ethiopean black coffee is an amazing energy boost because my waiter friend at my old favorite coffeeshop (now closed) would tell me; “looks like you’re staying here for a while, let me get you an Ethiopian black coffee to stay awake.”
I’m just a very coffee drinker enthusiast, and I love trying all kinds of coffee. Thereby, my feedback is purely based on illiteracy and my love for coffee shops and the aforementioned.
Disclaimer #2 I’m not sure yet, but I might have missed the blissful sparkle I was feeling last week, but I’m not sure yet. I know that having Black and Breaking The Habit on repeat isn’t a good sign, but I’ll try to keep this as cheerful or neutral from whatever I’m feeling as possible.
Day 1; Starbucks
First things first, no, I don’t love Starbucks for its glamour; I genuinely love their coffee, I genuinely find it so good. My favorite is Caramel Macchiato, and it’s absolutely addictive, much to my pocket’s despair.
Any notable story: Just one. It was back in June of this year, and it was during my 4 days anxiety blackouts. I left home at 6 pm on terrible terms, and I had work outside of Beirut, and I could not stop crying all the way. When I finished, it was already 9pm, and I knew I could not go back home.
I waited 30mins until I found a car, with 3 men inside, that agreed to get me to a place close to Beirut. They let me ride with them until I found a bus, which took me to a place close to a Starbucks. Not having anything to eat since morning, I got myself a Caramel Macchiato and walked another 30mins to my best friend’s old abandoned house that I had the keys to (I spent the night there, but that’s a story for another time). I felt like death, and the only warmness was my coffee, so thank you, @starbucks (sponsor me, will ya?).
Day 2; Concierge
Concierge is a cute little coffee shop in Badaro, with a very cozy interior and perfect quietness for studying/working remotely. I had Caramel Macchiato, which tasted good, but not how I remember it used to taste like.
Any notable story: Concierge was the last place I went out to before the March COVID-19 lockdown. I had happy moments there, but they need to brew their coffee the way they used to.
Day 3; Backburner
The reason why I chose Backburner is to try a new coffee shop that has been on my list for a while. I tried their Spanish Latte; it’s good; the coffee is a bit intense but in a pleasant way, but it was way too sweet, which I later discovered is one of the specialties for Spanish Latte.
Any notable story: Not much, but I met our head of office’s husband there, so that was a bit awkward. I also tried out their chocolate chip cookie, which was INSANELY expensive, and I regretted not asking for its price before I bought it.
The size of my overly expensive cookie. Look at the size.
Day 4; B Hive
B Hive might be the busiest coffee shop in all of Beirut, maybe as crowded as Sip. I love their B Hive Latte, and I love their friendly waiters, who I for sure find more common topics with than the husband of my head of office.
Any notable story: old B Hive, the one in a building with a small nice garden and a snug upstairs studying area, was my to-go studying coffeeshop at university because it was quiet and because my friend liked it. I don’t get how people still can study and work in it now with all the crowding and buzz.
Day 5; a coffee from a street espresso
We all know this only tastes good when we are cold, thirsty, hungry, or not feeling okay. I personally love it a lot when they don’t overdo it with Coffee-Mate and condensed milk.
Any notable story: I never enjoyed street coffee until 3ammo Abu Mohammad, our coffee guy from FoodBlessed’s office. He might be more home to us than our actual homes, went through so much with us, so many days where we ate nothing and only drank his coffee. “It’s 3000 LBP for everyone, but it’s 2500 LBP for you,” he tells us every time. (It’s 2500 LBP for everyone)
Leave. Don’t stay in your place and contemplate all the possible ways your bed can comfort you to death. You need to leave and be with people.
I know this is not what you want, what it’s telling you. I know it’s telling you that being with people is the worst thing you can do; it’s telling you that you are the safest if you stayed alone, in your bed, chair, in your place where no one can alleviate your fear and what it makes you feel.
This is not true.
When you’re alone, it’s where it can shine bright. Just like fungus, it needs darkness to grow and cling to your skin. It’s when you’re all alone that it’s the strongest; it can convince you that you’re the reason the world is so ugly and that it’s all your fault, everything’s all your fault. It can convince you that the minor setback you had is the biggest mistake in the world. It’ll feed on your fear, on your loneliness, on the fact that no one can help, no one is here to save you.
So leave. Get out of your bed, be with people. They can never hurt you the way it can; they can never do to you what it’s doing to you when you’re all alone drowning in your thoughts.
Be with people. Drink coffee with your mum and listen to her complain about your sister coming home late. Annoy your sister while she studies and talks to her about nonsense and listen to her complain about your mother complaining about her coming home late.
Or talk to her, if she understands, tell her how you’re feeling and what’s troubling you; it’s always best to let someone walk you through the problem, tell you that it’s not as big as you think it is. Let her tell you that it’ll be alright; let her give you solutions and reasons why you shouldn’t worry. Talk, acknowledge, feel the safety of the people around you.
Whatever you do, don’t stay in your place, don’t stay alone. Be with people, whoever they are. It can be the friends you love but didn’t have the energy to see, or the family gathering you were trying to avoid. Anything that makes you leave your bed. Anything but staying alone.
I don’t have great advice on anxiety, as I still can’t find my way out myself, but one thing I am more than sure of is that it is much more vicious when I’m alone. It feeds on my insecurities, and convinces me of the worst, and makes me believe that I should not leave my bed because leaving is unsafe, and that leaving would only make me feel weak and exposed. But it never is; being with people is always the better option, always better than staying alone. I promise.
It literally feels like forever since I last was living in that weird and bizarre life. This week, it was normal; I lived my normal life with normal feelings and normal friends and outings and routine.
I normally saw my friends, and I normally celebrated my birthday with many of them exactly the way we used to in the past few years, and I normally blew the candles on my cake as my family wished me happiness. It was like the normal I always had before.
I normally woke up every day with a normal feeling, like life is normal, and it’s not whatever it was before October 29. We had a normal Halloween event with major stress and running around, and I normally pulled my hair out because of the official papers I had to do and I normally went to a university to apply for a second BA. I normally lived and met the people I always knew and loved. It almost felt like the past year did not exist.
God, what an awful year that was. I cannot describe it in words, but if it were in front of me, I would want to punch it so hard, my knuckles would start bleeding.
I’m hoping, I’m praying-and practically begging, that the curse of last year decided to stay with 22 years old Nour, and now that I’m 23 years, I am finally rid of all of the abnormalities, of the behemoths, of all the evils that I carried on my naked and frail shoulders.
I didn’t even go to my therapy session last week; that’s how normal it was; it was a time way before I had to go to therapy twice a week to function as a semi-normal person. The only not-as-normal thing was my night at my previous work with my previous roommate, but that’s okay, even that sadness was alleviated.
I wish I don’t have to go back to my life, I wish I can stay stuck in last week. I was my normal self, making jokes with the registrar at the university and having a normal conversation with the cute lawyer, without the chaotic anxiety lurking nearby.
I got stuck in traffic, got soaked in the rain, walked for hours, cleaned my closet, slept a little later than usual, over-drank Starbucks, had Sunday breakfast at my aunt’s house and played around with my baby cousin. It was exactly like old times, before the age of 22 and the year 2020 destroyed me.
Thinking of tomorrow; the overwhelming chores that await me, the meetings, my supervisor’s judging eyes and her unending requests, and the 220 unread emails from last week, I am not as troubled.
I still feel at peace. The nonchalant I used to feel most of the time, the “just go with it” attitude, is all here. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m still under the influence of the normality that was last week or because I’m 23 now, and I’m finally over whatever it was that I had throughout the past months.
I think I won’t know until tomorrow. But I’m hoping for the best. Let it be a normal Monday; let it be normal.
It’s 11:42pm. I just finished work, and I’m very tired and sleepy, but I need to write this down.
It has been three days since I last wrote here; mylast post was the first day of my most recent anxiety. It passed—l hamdellah.
I’m now in phase two of post-anxiety; the severe exhaustion and depression, but that’s okay; I know it’ll pass in a day or two. This is not what I wanted to talk about; I need to talk about another thing.
I keep apologizing, to people, to things, to life. I was in a van going home, and I noticed how sad I get whenever I see anyone less fortunate or unhappy. As if it is my fault. As if their happiness is my responsibility. I find myself apologizing to them in a low voice and an aching gut.
To the old man who just got out of the van carrying tens of medications in a yellow Spinneys bag, I’m sorry. To the guy who is crossing the road wearing ripped shoes, I’m sorry. To the baby sleeping in his stroller as his mother exploits him to get pity money, I’m sorry. To the woman who is carrying her wallet in a black plastic bag, I’m sorry.
To the waiter and waitress standing all day waiting for customers, I’m sorry. To the children selling red flowers at night, I’m sorry. To the always smiling man selling gum near the Tayouneh roundabout, I’m sorry. To the cleaning man who fell asleep on the street, I’m sorry. To the people selling juice and kaak and corn in a trolley, I’m sorry.
To the sadness in my dad’s eyes and the desperation in mum’s, I’m sorry. To my sisters’ tears and worries, I’m sorry. I wish I can hug you all to safety; I’m sorry I am not of much help, I’m sorry I can’t make it easier on you.
I’m finding this extremely hard to finish, but I need to write this down. I’ve been carrying everybody’s burden on my shoulders for so long; It’s killing me more and more every day. Recently, whenever anyone tells me a story about a person in need, or a story about someone getting laid off from work, I turn aggressive. I’m sorry, but I will probably take responsibility for their poverty and unemployment, and it will kill me even more.
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I can ease your pain, I wish I can take it all away. I wish I can give you health and safety and stability and happiness. I wish I can give you life.
But I can’t. All I can do is send you wishes and carry your problems and pain upon my shoulder, hurting myself and not helping you with anything. I’m sorry my existence turned out to be this way; I wish I were not so broken and more of use.
I have been working on this extensively with my therapist; he’s trying to convince me to let go of some of these responsibilities. I’ve been learning how to let go of things I cannot control, of things that I did not cause. I’m trying to learn how to leave people’s pain and deal with mine. (I guess it’s harder than I thought)
But I’m happy I can finally acknowledge all of this. I thought it’s normal to carry everybody’s issues and treat them as my own; I thought that’s why I’m in the humanitarian sector in the first place. I didn’t realize that carrying the world’s poverty is why the humanitarian sector is alienating me.
I’ll learn to leave your sadness for you to deal with; I’ll learn how to let go of your responsibilities and focus on mine. I’m sorry you can’t afford your medication and your school and your rent; I can’t afford your medication and school and rent either, and I’m sorry for that;
They’re so lucky, those who’ve found their place, those who’ve found their safety. They’re so lucky, those who are in the safety of their home; they know when to eat dinner and when to eat lunch and what to expect for tomorrow and what to not.
They’re so lucky, those with the stable routine and the weekly outings. Those who ride their bikes in the morning and finish their days in the afternoon. They’re so lucky, those who know where their place is and where to find it.
I find myself looking at photos of friends having breakfast, or a married couple finishing governmental papers, or a fifth-grader getting off the bus and running towards their house, or a taxi driver listening to the morning news and complaining about the economy. I find myself looking at those happy and unhappy faces who may not be having the perfect days, but they have found their safety.
Do you remember the feeling of when you lose, or when you think you’ve lost, your mum in the grocery shop? The coldness, the unfathomable fear, the tears you’re too proud to let out? This is how I feel, all the goddamn time.
I’m 22, almost 23, and I’m always cold and scared and feeling like I’ve lost my mum at a grocery shop. I never know where my mum is, no matter how much I run about or how much I search; I always seem to search in the wrong places because I could never find her.
The feeling goes back and forth, but it mostly stays lingering most of my days. I have some distractions, there are some places and people where I have bliss and where I try my best to shrug the coldness away, but it’s all very temporary.
I’m cold again the minute I step outside, the minute the people leave. It’s some drug, a really good one actually, but it’s not my place. And even within this drug, I’m so scared I might lose it.
I call this feeling a lot of things; anxiety, existential crisis, attachment/detachment disorders. I don’t know how it started, but I’m begging for it to leave me. A lot of people have found their peace and security at my age, why can’t I?
A lot of people, my age, younger, and older, have stability, and are leading a stable life. It doesn’t need to be happy, it just needs to be a stable life where they are not scared all the time and where it’s okay. Where it’s just okay.
It’s just that I’m scared. I’m very scared all the time. I’m walking an endless road, barefoot, and I can’t seem to know where I’m walking to and where I might reach. They keep saying that we need to go through some pretty bad things to reach our actual euphoria.
Can someone tell them I’m the weakest? That I can’t take this feeling of belongingness, this coldness?
