Happy Sad

Here’s the thing, I thought the hardest thing about living by myself during whatever we’re calling this strange peri-apocalyptic period would be navigating the sad stuff alone. I thought I’d be at my lowest when I was at my lowest, (if that’s not stating the obvious). In reality, the low moments have been pretty low and there have been times when I’ve felt acutely aware of my isolation. But in some strange way it has always felt easier to reach out and ask for help when things were tough. People seem to understand what it means to struggle a bit on your own. Everybody’s had wobbly days. There have always been friends willing to call/Zoom/pop a crate of wine in the post. I’m not complaining. I have lots of good people. I’ve felt more than supported throughout this mess.

However, I’m beginning to realise that it’s actually the good times which have knocked me for six. Sunny days, writing breakthroughs, movies I’ve really enjoyed: the moments when I’ve had something to celebrate or enthuse about and there’s no one around to be joyful with. For example, in April I won a literary prize for The Fire Starters and, after the online prize giving, ended up resorting to celebratory drinks with a collection of stuffed animals. It turned out the sound of one hand clapping is a pretty pathetic sound. The whole experience left me feeling incredibly conflicted. Both happy and sad and a little bit tragic, wondering why I was popping the champagne with Humpty Dumpty and his crew, rather than actual human beings, then remembering I had plenty of lovely human beings who’d be happy to celebrate with me if we hadn’t been having a pandemic that week.

The same thing happened on Thursday night. As part of the Eastside Arts Festival we had a wonderful online launch for Postcard Stories 2, my fifth book and second collection of micro-fiction. It’s a gorgeous wee book with stunning illustrations by Benjamin Phillips. Emma Wright at the Emma Press did a fabulous job of both editing the stories and hosting a really lovely launch. In some ways it was even more special than previous book launches. It felt warm and relaxed (I wore my slippers throughout), and for the first time friends from all over the world were able to join me for a launch. The audience felt like a genuine cross section of everyone who’s important in my life. Emma, Benjamin and I had a great chat, a few readings and some wonderful questions from the audience. All in all the evening was an absolute joy. Then it was over and I closed my laptop. Everything felt extremely quiet. I couldn’t even be arsed to get Humpty and the lads together. I sat on my sofa and drunk some wine and felt a bit sorry for myself. I wondered how it was possible to run through such a range of emotions in the space of a single hour.

Over the last couple of days I’ve had a little time to think about how I felt on Thursday night. It’s weird having such a strong sense of community and connection, (all those familiar, much-loved names appearing at the bottom of a Zoom screen, all those encouraging comments and validating tweets), and yet simultaneously feel so intensely isolated. I suppose it’s heartening to realise that my natural bent is towards doing life in community. There have been points this year when I’ve wondered if I’ve grown too comfortable with isolation and I’ll never want to be social again. It’s good to be reminded that I need people; that life feels a lot thinner and less lively when I’m on my own too long.

These days, I have to keep reminding myself over and over that my current experience of real life is a distorted kind of reality. Most of the situations that are making me feel sad or lonely are situational. They’re no reflection on me , so much as the fact that the world is seriously messed up right now and a lot of things are beyond my control. Which, once again, might sound like stating the bloody obvious. An awful thing’s happening, of course I/You/We/Everyone feel’s bad. But I think I needed to stop and remind myself, and maybe also some of you, that it’s ok to cut yourself a bit of slack these days, (not just in the low times, in the good times too). Maybe, like me, you’re trying to make sense of your own wobbliness, maybe you have a tendency to psychoanalyse every negative thought in order to work out where you’re going wrong. Let me stop you there. You’re not going wrong. I’m not either. We’re in the middle of a serious shit show and everyone’s doing their best to muddle through. So it’s ok that I feel utterly joyously happy to see my stories loose in the world and simultaneously warm and fuzzy about all the people who want to celebrate with me and also totally gutted that I’m reduced to looking at them on a stupid screen.