I wonder if all those years ago, when I started this blog with a regurgitation of hatred and frustration with the world as I wrestled with my identity and insecurity, I would ever have even contemplated living through such a torrid and dreadful time such as this.
Over 1,000 people per day are dying of Covid-19, our hospitals are being overloaded with intensive care patients and looking out the window of our Paediatric Outpatients department, I see a huge white tent housing the dead that can't fit into the hospital's mortuary.
It's like a scene out of a zombie apocalypse movie, and the bottom line is, I'm not even on the front line. I mean... People say I am on the front line, as I enter Bedford Hospital every day, but that tag doesn't sit comfortably with me as I wile away my days on the paediatric reception, almost tucked away from the horrors of it all.
Individuals say, "Thank you for all of your hard work on the front line", not knowing I spend the majority of my day reading BBC news articles and stealing a cheeky biscuit.
However, 10 months on from the beginning of this nightmare, I don't feel as if I've struggled. Life has been boring if stable but I haven't felt as if I've missed out on anything. Maybe because we're all in the same boat, that familiar FOMO feeling of staying in on a Friday night when the world parties isn't there, because the world isn't partying. The world is mourning.
I've had the first dose of my Pfizer/BioNTech vaccine, or whatever capital letters and small letters make up "biontech", and it seems I may have escaped the illness that millions of others have suffered with. I just hope that when life returns to (near) normal, we all realise the importance of the luxuries we have and how lucky we really are.
My life has changed so much from post No. 1. The amount of clean slates and declarations of solidity that have come and gone in a fit of anger or alcohol-fuelled psychosis would make the most battle hardened cat get nervous, but as I approach my 30th birthday, I'm still standing.
Not only am I still standing, I guess I'm moving forward. I've had a good 18 month stint in the sports journalism world and I am proud of the patience I have shown in accepting that the perfect role won't just materialise. Appreciating that this career will move slowly and not everything will fall into place at once; while it's perfectly acceptable to keep living on a receptionist salary - especially in a time where so many are losing their jobs.
It reminds me of things I have read. Some people get married at 18, divorced at 22 and re-marry by 25. Some are CEO's by the time they are 30 but dead by 40. Some spend their entire lives working for their dream retirement for their dream retirement never to come. Life moves at different paces for different people, and yes - I do still look at the semi-colon tattooed on my wrist and remember that I shouldn't even be here to tell the tale.
The New Year episode of 2012, the ill-fated trip to London town that resulted in a trauma so deep I still cannot remember what happened to this day. The 10 days in the Barnet Priory with the man who screamed all night and the constant, never-ending panic attacks. They are my experiences, but also the experiences of a different man, all wrapped up into almost 30 years of a life that has plenty more to give. However, I am also not so naive as to think I am incapable of returning to those days. I must stay on my toes.
This melancholy tone of this post is a result of potentially the most defining moment of humanity this century so far. A global pandemic that has shut down whole economies, whole countries and has decimated so many lives, figuratively and literally, does that to you.
Whatever happens, I have somehow managed to always be in the right place at the right time, and long may that continue.
