How I Navigated The Shit Show That Was 2021

I sat on this, my last post for 2021, for several weeks. Partly because I had struggled to write anything cohesive for some time, and partly because I couldn’t make it a “things I was grateful for in 2021” post to wrap up the year.

I don’t think even the most optimistic blogger could reframe 2021 as a great year. Months of lockdown, the underlying fear of catching COVID, distance from family and friends, and an overwhelming feeling of helplessness ensured that the past twelve months were a shit show for many of us.

Our government in Australia did a reasonable job of tackling the pandemic, but who knows what the real, longterm cost will be to the mental health of the population and the economy, and it is terrifying to think about how many other important policies have been sidetracked to save us from this virus. And it goes without saying how mortified I have felt about their lacklustre approach to climate change, their ongoing lack of commitment to women’s issues, and the arrogance of our PM on the international stage.

However, this isn’t a political post and in truth it was several personal challenges last year - that started with a serious health-scare in February and was followed by a problematic transition into semi-retirement — that blighted 2021 for me.

I can’t believe I felt optimistic in January

Of course, we were in a different situation back then. Our family had just survived a lockdown Christmas and re-entered the world with the excitement of William Shatner on his descent back to earth, optimistic and eager to move onto the next phase of our lives.

Hence, in my excitement about what semi-retirement would bring me in terms of opportunities for my writing, I forgot that the finger of fate is always on the button and that it would take more than a fancy-pants new computer to fulfil my grandiose intentions of becoming the next Sally Rooney. And so, when the emotional ramifications of the pandemic dried up my creative juices like a harsh summer in the Northern Territory and I struggled to string words together or find any reason to do much of anything other than watch back-to-back episodes of New Amsterdam, the year started to unravel.

Was my lack of motivation caused by menopause or some greater force at work?

When I couldn’t put words on a page, I questioned whether I was suffering from a case of minor PTSD related to COVID, or if I had simply underestimated the disparity between the expectations of retirement and the reality. But whatever the reason for my lack of focus, I spent most of the year wandering aimlessly around our apartment, achieving very little.

The difficulties some people experience during their transition into retirement have been well-documented, but in my defence, what the brochures fail to mention is that you don’t suddenly land in some nirvana after your last day at work. You still have to balance the books, care for those in need, and worry about the unknowns — made harder under the shadow of a pesky virus that seems to morph into something scarier each time it mutates. And that’s without all the overthinking that comes with one’s approaching mortality.

Don’t get me wrong, I am inordinately grateful that I am still be here with a wealth of choices, but it is clear to me now that retirement will require some adaptation. For example: Having waited my whole adult life to implement a proper fitness routine, my body has conveniently decided to degenerate with the speed of light since the acquirement of my new gym membership.

I’ve lost count of the number of conditions ending in itis I’ve suffered from this year, none of which I’d ever heard of before

But my biggest bete noire has been my preponderance to overthink. “Existential crisis” doesn’t cover the number of Camus moments I’ve experienced in my quest to work out exactly what the fuck I’m doing here. I have days when I feel guilty about not being productive enough and days when I feel guilty about taking on too much and not making the most of this wonderful privilege of free time.

The truth is, I have yet to work out an appropriate job descriptor for my new role; all I have recognised is an underlying pressure to reinvent myself or redefine my purpose.

I would struggle to answer the question of what I do right now

Like most retirees, I bore thepants off people about how busy I am. And, in fairness, I write a lot — but very little worth publishing; I read and file a lot of research; I try to stay fit within the allowances of my degenerating body, and I attempt to live vicariously through the lives of my children — albeit, I suspect they are not as keen.

But what am I actually achieving? And do I need to achieve anything?

My single accomplishment from this year’s shit show has been my clearer understanding that LIFE IS HARD for everyone, an acknowledgement that has carried me through many of these difficult, self-reflective moments and highlighted the importance of resilience to me again.

Fundamentally, I have always believed that resilience is the key to happiness, and yet in the past I struggled with the in-egalitarianism of it, i.e., why some people (seemingly) sail through life, whilst others are thwarted through no fault of their own.

Whenever I thought about it, I never quite understood the “pain makes you stronger” theory because I had let the traumas of my childhood define me. Unlike some, I struggled to harness my pain and magically transform it into a strength. Instead, I chose to wallow in it, allowing it to weaken and control me.

I chose to be a victim

And victimhood has served as the perfect excuse for my inadequacies, my fragility, my tendency towards mild depression, and my struggles with work and parenting. It makes sense that if your emotional battery has never been fully charged, you go flat much more quickly when faced with challenging life situations such as parenting, relationship disharmony and rejection, thereby increasing your predisposition to mood disorders. And as I discovered recently, difficult transitions like middle age — when there is more time to overthink the meaning of life — can also be a trigger.

The struggles of people who have suffered trauma are valid — as proven by research into the longterm effects on potential and mental health — but I’ve come to understand that being a victim is neither a healthy option nor a solution for my low moods.

So how to stop the pain?

For years, I masked my low-grade depression with self-medication — still do, to a degree. I had to, because despite my awareness that no one leads a charmed life, my anxiety-induced perfectionism and hypersensitivity ensured that the knocks hit me harder.

But this year, I had the time for an epiphany. Tired of wondering why the fuck I couldn’t enjoy what (by most standards) is a pretty good life, I spent the year experimenting with different strategies and medications (HRT as well as anti-depressants) in an attempt to change my outlook. I took the opportunity provided by COVID’s restrictions to rest, exercise harder, create boundaries in relationships that were becoming toxic, and to find a way to approach the rest of my life in a way that suits my brain.

I chose to live by two maxims:

1) “Life is shit and then you die”. Because when you expect the worst, (which you do if you suffer from anxiety), things can only get better;

2) And “Tomorrow is another day”. Because time does indeed move relentlessly forward and dwelling for too long on the unfairness and the absurdities of life is clearly a waste.

To the optimist, I know those maxims must sound ridiculously defeatist, nevertheless, they work for me.

Which brings me back to the question of whether pain makes life more meaningful?

Maybe.

I haven’t experienced life from the other side, so I suppose I will never know what might have been. What I will say categorically is that my pain has shaped me in many ways for the better. Although I’ve spent most of my life bemoaning the negative impact of my trauma, I do believe the knocks have made me a kinder, more compassionate person — if not a happier, stronger one. And the writer, Paul Bloom, agrees. He says:

“Some degree of misery and suffering is essential to a rich and meaningful life.”

Maybe, we do have to experience pain to understand what we are doing here. The gift of semi-retirement has given me the time to look at my life more closely, to separate the different elements and compartmentalise. All those cliched strategies for people with depression — walking in nature, fortifying relationships with family and friends, standing up for my rights, and being more self-compassionate — have helped me develop more resilience and autonomy.

I know now that anxious people such as myself place an inordinate amount of pressure on ourselves to lead perfect lives and then, when we don’t succeed, we view ourselves as failures. But as Mofiyinfoluwa Okupe’s pointed out in her article on Medium, though many of us may have come through the past twelve months without any outstanding achievements, we have “fought different, less glamorous battles…clawed through {our} own darkness and now {we’re} standing in the light.”

Every year brings a mix of highs and lows, and good stuff did happen to me this year: I caught a potentially life-threatening Melanoma in time; I watched my children continue to grow with pride; I discovered what I can only describe as the spirituality of swimming in cold water; and I fell more deeply in love with my husband. I have also been fortunate to live in a democracy that provides a wonderful healthcare system and (for the most part) promotes values I agree with.

And so, I will leave you with one final, simple quote which I hope inspires you as much as it did me, or at the very least helps you reframe your pain if it is holding you back.

“Sometimes when you’re in a dark place, you think you’ve been buried, but you’ve actually been planted.” Gratitude Addict

Photo by Motoki Tonn on Unsplash.