Writing my maiden diary here, to use a horse racing phrase. If I don’t do it right, please forgive me. I expect nobody to read it, me being a nobody and all, but I am manic right now and I have the urge to do it after reading this diary and seeing an undercurrent of hesitation in getting the vaccine. Call it fear mongering, call it health shaming if you must.
I call it my personal hell. I am triggering all sorts of PTSD writing this it is so raw. This is my story. I expect nobody to believe me, because there’s no way to verify any of this and I’m too new to be trusted here. Take it or leave it.
First, I need to empathize with the people who are hesitating. Before becoming a Covid long hauler, I was firmly in this camp. I wasn’t going to get the vaccine until the red line below was crossed. I didn’t trust anything promoted by the Trump regime. I acknowledge my white privilege and that communities of color have been historically screwed over medically by our illustrious government, including this year. The science was too new to be 100% sure of the risks (yes, I know it has been and off and on effort since SARS). I bought the myth that they had to cut corners because the need was so dire. My red line was that it had to be approved by 2 of what I call the 3 remaining “non-propaganda authoritarian competent governments” left in the world, those being New Zealand, Canada, and Germany.
Second, I must tell you that even with the strictest quarantine, even with the most careful precautions, this virus will find a way to breach your defenses. I masked up. I washed my hands religiously. Didn’t leave the house except for work at mostly vacant construction sites. I did literally EVERYTHING my retired nurse mother told me to do, once she shared the horror stories permeating our bubble through her old work at the VA in the first wave. For me, it was one stupid bottle of champagne at an open house to celebrate completing a new senior living assistance house with my dad/former boss, me, and some of his closest business associates and friends. In that little amount of time, the virus got me good.
Third, let me tell you that unless you have had Covid, you are playing Russian roulette with three chambers full right now. You could be asymptomatic. You could have my story. Or, you could wind up here.
I contracted the swine flu back in that pandemic. I took a college Biology exam with a 104 degree fever, then checked myself into the ER. I recovered, and life moved on. No long term problems.
I contracted Covid in early October. I was a “mild” case, with a pulse ox at its worst being 82% (didn’t get it checked at my worst period, we didn’t think it was Covid at first). According to my retired nurse mom who had to go straight into basically PTSD with hazmat mode (thank the Lord she had the foresight to buy some for break glass in case of emergency at home) to take care of me, I was a borderline intubation and ER case. It was a miracle that I didn’t spread it to my family with underlying risk factors.
Covid is about 10 times WORSE than the swine flu I had. It is about 2-3 times WORSE than the bout of pneumonia I had during my second year of teaching in December 2017, when I couldn’t leave my bed for 3 weeks. I called out sick only one day for that as an aside. Call it stubborn male hyper masculinity. Remember, this is a “mild” case.
Eventually, I “recovered”. Here is what “recovery” looks like for a Covid long hauler with underlying mental illness.
Sunday, December 13, 2020:
The day started out with a ferocious argument with my father over a little thing I did while in my manic phase (I am bipolar, and yes I mostly take my meds, expect that to weave in and out of this tale). In my last manic phase, I got the idea to re-organize the house. It’s something I excel at and could pursue as a career post Covid. I was triggered because I am in a manic phase, and I triggered him for challenging his patriarchal authority. He rants like a three year old. I decide to activate my de-escalation protocol from teaching/group therapy and leave the house. I do it in a way that even helps him, as I do his planned work for the day and do Covid cleaning at local bank branches. It takes me four hours to do a task that used to take me two. I recognize that my occasional Covid brain fog and fatigue is starting while driving after running a red light, so that means I’m too dangerous to be on the road. I pull into a local park, and instantly take a three hour nap. Woken up by a police officer, who asks if everything is okay because it is closing time at the park. I signal assent and very slowly drive my way home. I misinterpret one look from my MAGA brother upon my arrival as a sign that I am not welcome in the house. I fall asleep.
Monday-Friday, December 14-18, 2020:
The events of the previous day hit me like a ton of bricks. I am 100% fatigued and have pushed my body too far. I was already on a downward spiral because of the argument and the misinterpreted look from last night. The realization that I cannot even do something as simple as wipe down fucking ATMs without consequences plunges me into a severe depressive and Covid fatigue spiral. As in, if there weren’t a concurrent mental health crisis, I should be hospitalized at the 9th floor of U of M Medical Center spiral. I sleep for 20 hours a day. I stop eating. I basically stop commenting here despite wanting to be involved in this community for better or for worse. I start writing my goodbye letter. I start going from random thoughts into devising a plan. Very dangerous ground. I call the suicide hotline 4 times as I have it saved in my phone and on speed dial in case of depressive spiral. They tell me it is unlikely I can find room at a mental health facility without actual evidence of an attempt due to unprecedented demand and social distancing requirements. They convince me to call my old safety net in Arizona and tell them to do text check ins every 4 hours, and to call 911 if I fail to check in after two of them.
My family doesn’t spot the signs, as they think I am isolating because I am mad at them from Sunday and don’t want to trigger me again. They think I am sneaking food at night. They have no clue. I don’t fill them in because I am a Covid long hauler and I already feel like a leech and a burden on them, and my distorted thoughts think that adding suicidal on top of that will break them even more. I forget the #1 mantra that suicide hurts those you leave behind much more than the pain you are currently experiencing.
Saturday, December 19, 2020:
My family finally figures it out and stages an intervention. Luckily, in the roughly year since I have had to move back in with them since my last huge mental health crisis over leaving the teaching profession in Arizona, I have trained them on how to de-escalate me if a mental health facility is not an option. They know not to call the police/911 unless it is the absolute LAST resort. It takes all day and it is a very painful conversation filled with Covid brain fog, but they talk me off of the ledge. We set boundaries on future physical labor and come up with the timer system. For every 30 minutes of physical labor in a manic phase, I must take 30 minutes of rest. For every hour of mental exertion I do, I must take 15 minutes of rest. Any signs of Covid fatigue or brain fog and I have to “put a lid” on the day.
*SKIP THIS NEXT ONE IF YOU DON’T WANT A PIE FIGHT TRIGGER* I am breaking my promise not to cross the streams and post about my Twitter life here, but I need to do so in order to keep it real and authentic and raw.
Sunday, December 20, 2020:
Today was fairly uneventful. Worked on my YouTube playlist of songs that encapsulate the clusterfuck that is 2020. Had many Covid brain fog moments, such as the now classic putting dirty clothes in the dryer and running it without washing them first. Watched the sausage being made in Washington, DC with growing disgust. Before going to bed, I post an epic and very raw twitter rant about the paltry $600 stimulus check. I attack everyone in DC with it. It’s bad enough to land me in Twitter jail and probably on some government watchlist somewhere, but I don’t know it at the time.
Monday, December 21, 2020:
Find out I am in Twitter jail. This forces me to find something else to do with my mind and energy, and my brain starts activating and plotting again, dodging the Covid brain fog such as running the dishwasher full of clean dishes a second time for no reason. Come up with the idea that I need to combat the illogic of my father hoarding food and becoming a total survivalist while also being a complete Boomer Karen (apologies to good Boomers and the people named Karen) and wanting to speak to the manager about how curbside grocery pickup is the worst thing ever.
The crisis du jour is that my blood pressure spikes to an ungodly 155/123 at bedtime for no apparent reason, despite not having Twitter rage stress, no physical or real mental exertion, and getting a free pass to check out of the news for a day. This is the third time this has happened since Covid “recovery”, and the other two times I could go to urgent care and have them take care of me. This time, urgent cares are closed and that isn’t an option.
Have a BLAZING row with my former nurse mother, who wants to take me straight to the ER. This of course spikes my blood pressure more! I counter with the fact that she is qualified to take care of me, and that the ERs are so insane that I will get better care from her, and that I might not even be admitted right now given how bad it is. We eventually, after I point out to her that she is not helping my blood pressure with this argument, come to a consensus that she will try to stabilize me. I agree that she can call ERs and take me to the emptiest one (good luck!) if she is unable to stabilize me.
Thank the Lord, she was able to stabilize me! I still don’t know the extent of the internal damage Covid has caused me. It is part fear of finding out the extent of the damage and part knowing that during the current crisis it is all hands on deck, and I won’t get to find out until the crisis is over anyways.
Tuesday, December 22, 2020:
I’m back into a mania again, and the timer system devised a couple days prior is working like a charm. I implement my devious plot and start the very long process of inventorying all of the food we have hoarded while most families turn to food banks or go without to survive. I’m a Millennial who has lived on the margins by myself in Arizona to survive as a teacher. This illogical hoarding and continuing to buy the same damn things gets me motivated to stop the madness.
Luckily, I do it at the exact right time, because my father had a senior moment and bought LOTS of groceries while picking up our prescriptions at Kroger, and mom went to a separate Kroger to get our latest curbside pickup order. He totally forgot about the pickup order, and our pantry, our overflow, our freezer, and our refrigerator are now bursting at the seams.
My mind races into action, and under my direction, we plug in an old mini refrigerator in the garage that doesn’t work well for cold overstock, shuffle around some stuff to make more bins for the overflow, and finally make smoothies out of a lot of the frozen fruit to decrease pressure on the freezer and as a reward. I get praised for my quick thinking and sharp mind, and have the conversation I had planned to have and geared up for another epic fight, only to find that they waved the white flag after the debacle today.
I am to come up with a plan to hyper organize the hoarded food. We agree to avoid even curbside pickup except for the barest of essentials and perishables. This cuts down his Boomer Karen argument, especially when I point out Amazon ships. I get them to agree to donate some of it to a local food bank once they get vaccinated. I am ecstatic.
The best day since October 9th, 2020, which is the only day I can think of that I could have caught Covid. The day of the stupid open house and that stupid swig of champagne.
Wednesday, December 23, 2020:
Been a full 24 hours since last sleep. Been up all night writing this, respecting the mental exertion boundaries timer and not feeling tired. Plan upon taking a very easy day, knowing that I am manic and cannot push my body too far due to Covid fatigue. Also know that this rawness can trigger a depressive episode, as I am literally crying writing this very sentence. Plan on making this day about the moral of this TL;DR story.
Please don’t play Russian roulette with your life right now. Get the vaccine at the first available opportunity.
Do it for the immunocompromised family member that the vaccine might not work for, like my mom. They rely upon everyone getting it because they cannot. Don’t sentence them to a possible death.
Do it so that we can finally go back to our damn lives. Look at your child suffering with a virtual education, or watching everyone suffer at in person schooling and taking the risk of allowing THEM to think that THEY are the one that kills a beloved teacher, or the fresh hell that is the worst of both worlds that many school districts are trying to do.
Do it so that we can ease the burden on our literal heroes right now, the brave men and women fighting in the trenches against this damn virus right now. Allow them the chance to heal, because their mental scars from this war are every bit as real as a soldier returning home from heavy combat. They are going to need serious PTSD therapy. Push Congress to fund that.
Do it because you (mostly) trust Dr. Fauci. Do it because you (mostly) trust our President-Elect Joe Biden, who kicked the ass of the person most responsible for this unfolding disaster out of the White House.
Do it because you are now horrified by my story, and wish to avoid becoming trapped in a personal hell called Covid long haul plus mental illness for the rest of your life. Do it for me.