I don’t usually like to get super-duper vulnerable on here, and I did a lot of my initial sobriety vulnerability in the OYNB group during the first 6-9 months of my adventure, from October 2019 to around summertime 2020, when I started working more as a sober coach and being more involved in smaller groups and on social media. Those ~20,000 of my closest friends are the ones to know and keep all my darkest secrets!

Some of you may not know, but I was diagnosed (clinically – the antibodies test came back negative, two months after suspected infection) with Covid-19 last April, and have been showing signs and symptoms of what is being called “Long Covid” pretty much ever since. The first couple of weeks around the infection were unpleasant to say the least, but I was also incredibly lucky, managing to stay away from hospital, having a good virtual follow-up from my doctor, and only having to look after myself (and at the time two cats). Symptoms were mainly an overwhelming fatigue, with some associated joint pain (I had been diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis about a decade ago, and the symptoms were similar), breathlessness, and a loss of taste and smell. I was signed off work for a few weeks (although as a mostly self-employed person, that didn’t mean very much) and within a month or so I was working to get back to feeling alright. Shaken, stirred, but not broken.

Other things were going on in my life at the same time, on a personal level, and I ended up having to have my troublesome cat put down, and lost two very important friendships in the fall-out of that decision. Then not long after, I had a “relapse” – after a couple of weeks of feeling halfway human, BAM came the fatigue and joint-pain again. I spent more or less the whole week in bed. Saw my doctor (in the flesh for the first time in months) – she queried whether it could be Long Covid, and prescribed some physio sessions. They helped, and the breathing exercises which I learned there, I continue to do. But every 4-6 weeks, my body goes back into Covid-Mode. It tends to last a few days, I’m usually feeling clear of it within a week to ten days, and I am SO grateful that it’s not worse or longer-lasting, but it does have an effect on my life. Of course it does. My joints get achey again, my head and whole body is heavy, and although I’m not breathless, I don’t feel like I’m able to completely fill my lungs.

My tendency has been to retreat as much as possible during my Covid Weeks (which is fairly easy in these Pandemic Times), and I am lucky that a lot of my work is able to be moved around or pushed back, but it obviously has an effect on my work, my networking, my ability to get out there (even on a virtual level) and bag myself some new clients. It has an effect on my writing, on my ability to hold space and compassion for my clients and the people I support in my group. It has an effect on my body, on my mental health, on my emotional and intelligent capacities with the accompanying brain fog. Not being able to move, not being able to get outside. Not having the energy to do any of the things which usually make me feel better, like cooking good, fresh food, or scrabbling around in my garden, or going for long walks in the park, or connecting with new people. Feeling the fog of depression rolling in – thankfully a fog I’ve been able to beat back every time, but it’s a persistent fucker, and travels heartbreakingly well with its close friends, fatigue and pain.

It is really hard to put this “out there”, because talking about it makes it real, and I don’t like *it* being real. I don’t like feeling sad, or scared, or overwhelmed, or tired, or in pain. I don’t like not knowing if it will ever stop, or if it will get worse, or if it will get better, or if I’ll just live the rest of my life wondering when it’s going to come back, constantly counting out spoons, trying to track a cycle, figure out triggers and causes and remedies. So many of my friends live with chronic pain and chronic fatigue, and did so long before Covid came around. I feel bad for them that Long Covid, even though it is not yet being taken seriously enough, is taking centre stage when people living with ME, CFS, EDS, and so many other syndromes and disorders, have been crying out – to little response - for help and treatment for decades.

I am super privileged. I get paid well for the work I do as a coach, and I am lucky to be supported by some wonderful people on Patreon. If I have to reduce or completely cancel my workload for a week or so, it’s OK. But if it starts to bleed into the second week, or if it coincides with the end (or beginning) of a month (or a year), the perfect time for reaching new clients and getting them to work with me? That’s when it starts to become problematic. (Yes, body, I’m talking to you – this flare-up is terrible timing). I’m lucky to only be teaching two full classes a week now, and to have an understanding boss and students, and if they have to wait an extra week or two for their grades? They’ll wait. I’m super lucky that most of my friends and family understand, they know that I do what I can, when I can. I’m super lucky that I gave up alcohol and cigarettes when I did. I’m super lucky that I’ve learned the self-care (as well as self-soothing) tricks and tips. I’m super lucky. I’m aware of that. I’m also *very* aware of what could happen if I have a bad *month*, rather than a bad week. I’m very aware of the fact that nobody knows what we’re dealing with, long-term. That I might be a “spoonie” for life. That this may be another brick placed into my handbag by life, that I will have to lug around with me.  

For now, I do the crying I need to do, the sleeping I need to do, the eating I need to do (currently eating more beans on toast and mince pies than all the Brexiteers combined, yes even in France). I take perspective. I try to move my body in the ways and places that I can. I listen to myself and my body and my needs and I act accordingly. And I grieve, a little bit. I grieve the person I was, 8 months ago. The person I was becoming. I miss just *knowing* that things will be OK. I miss that euphoria I got, the pride I had in removing the toxic substances from my life. I have most certainly gained a lot this year – professionally, emotionally, physically. I’m excited to be working with a new therapist, to have brought closure in my relationship with my old one. I’m glad to be learning from coaches and other “voices”, and to be sharing my own. I’m so glad to be working with a wonderful doctor who I trust with my body and life, bringing more of inner-Jo to the outside (and no, the relapses started way before HRT came into my life but thanks for the thought nope, not that). I’m grateful. I’m lucky. And I’m tired.

Today’s achievements were to be a hairwash and a walk in the park. As you can see – the hair is unwashed, and the park is unwalked. But I’m here. I’m writing. I’m sharing. I’m alive (and about to sing some very quiet Céline Dion, and have another nap).  

I have a couple of requests, for you who managed to read to the end:

Please, rethink any and all gatherings you may be having over the next couple of weeks. See as few people as possible. Not just to protect yourself, but to protect them. Not just from death/hospitalisation, but from potentially life-changing after-effects. I *know* it sucks to be lonely and alone over the holidays, or at any time. I do. But it’s one holiday, one year. Minimise the risk to yourselves and others.

Please, if you (or anyone you know) are looking for a life coach, a business coach, a sober coach, or a one-to-one language teacher (English or French) … think of me. If you want extra support on your sober journey, think of joining me and the other ducks in the Popup Duckpond (Facebook groups). If you want to sponsor a monthly mince pie for me, then please join my Patreon (patreon dot com / jowalduck). A little regular contribution from those who can, allows me to work and rest and share in the ways that *I* can.  

Love,
Jo <3