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How Pandemic Fatigue Has Affected Me as Someone With Chronic Illness

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“I should call the building inspector,” I mused to myself as the walls closed in around me. It didn’t seem very structurally sound for walls to do that.

Cabin fever. Pandemic fatigue. Whatever we call it, it leads to the same emotions of loneliness, isolation and an overall sense of ennui.

It wasn’t so bad in my part of the country when the weather was warm. Parks and playgrounds offered sunshine and solace as a balm to our cabin fever. Now, the weather is simply rainy and oh so cold. As someone with chronic illnesses and mental health disorders, socialization was part of my lifeline.

Gone were my son’s playdates.

Gone was brunch with friends.

Gone were the huge holiday gatherings.

Gone were even my in-person medical appointments and therapy sessions — all replaced by a screen.

In their place was guilt. The guilt of not having the virus. The guilt of stable income and a safe home. The guilt of having the freedom to distance learn with my son when so many people I knew were unemployed, struggling so much more than I was.

We socially distance. We wear masks. We skip big social events to do our part to prevent and stop the spread. I struggle with wondering if I’m an asymptomatic spreader, whether my son is keeping up with his peers, and the pure exhaustion of it all.

As individuals with chronic illnesses, we’re already isolated from society, especially if you have a weakened immune response or are immunocompromised. Long term, I’ve personally learned pandemic fatigue can lead to feelings of anxiety and depression. Never one to wince at a crowd, it’s difficult to leave my house alone anymore. I’ve tried to bring it up in therapy, but even then, phone visits don’t pack the same punch as an office meeting.

I come from a position of extreme privilege and I am so.very.tired. I cannot imagine the circumstances many families are facing, but I’m sure they, too, are very tired.

The light is at the end of the tunnel. The vaccine is here. I must simply wait for my place in line and I’ll do so. And after sharing this albatross around my neck, the walls stopped closing in quite as much, knowing I’m not alone.

Getty image by Victor Tongdee.

Originally published: January 28, 2021
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