I‘m good at being in my own company. That’s not to say that I always like my own company: I am entirely capable of irritating myself, winding myself up, stressing myself out. But at least I know myself reasonably well. I’m used to myself; I know what to expect. And sometimes I can be quite good at cheering myself up, being kind to myself, and making myself laugh. I’ve lived on my own for years, and I’m good at it. Much of the time, I actually rather like it - I’m content to know that there are people out there when I need them or want them or have to deal with them, and that I also have plenty of time to myself here in the Hermitage to balance that out.
In the worst days of my depression, at the start of this year, I didn’t want any other company at all; couldn’t face it, in fact. I needed to curl up and hide away, like injured animals do; and even the shortest, simplest interaction with other people was exhausting. I know that was a difficult stage for some to understand, wanting to help me in some way but having to stay at arms’ length. But that was precisely the help I needed, to be left alone. Others worried that it wasn’t good for me to be left just with my own thoughts, but the truth was that I simply had no energy to interact with others. I was deep down in the well of depression and to start with I just needed to rest there and, strange as it may sound, find out quite how deep the well was.
But rest, solitude, a retreat, the company of a few close friends, and lots of love and prayers at a distance, made all the difference. I started to move towards the daylight, and part of what encouraged me to do that was deliberately planning treats, little things to enjoy. By early March I was just coming out of my lowest, most exhausted state and looking forward to simple treats like coffee and cake at a cafe with friends. But then lockdown arrived.
I understand the response of some who felt that lockdown would help me, in terms of taking off the pressure I might feel to re-engage with the outside world and particularly with the more public aspects of my job role. But to start with, it hit hard, very hard, because just when this tortoise was starting to poke her head out of her shell, she was told to pull it back in and stay hidden away. No coffee and cake at cafes, or walks at National Trust properties, or any face-to-face interaction that wasn’t essential. Those things that had helped encourage me forward were taken away, and the darkness seemed to edge back in, and I sank down again.
Of course, lockdown hit many people, perhaps all of us, hard in many different ways. One of the things I used to say was, “Oh, but I’m lucky compared to so-and-so”. That was true in many ways. But I’ve come to see that it can be a distinctly unhelpful way to try and cope. It‘s a way to try to look on the positive side, but actually serves to diminish our own pain and nudge us off the path towards healing. Yes, I have been fortunate in very many ways during these few months, but that doesn’t take away from the struggles that I have had. If we diminish our own struggles by saying that they don’t compare to those of others, we don’t actually help ourselves - we say that our feelings and experience don’t count, and we don’t face the full reality of what we are going through. Our struggles, our pain, are all real and difficult in themselves, and it’s okay to say that.
So lockdown came at just the wrong time for a hermit who was taking a few brave steps to re-engage with the world outside. But it was what it was, and like everyone else I read the guidance, worked out what I could and couldn’t do, and got on with it. Fortunately, caring for my horse counted as my legitimate daily exercise, so I did have plenty of Toby cuddles, and socially-distanced chats with the few others I saw at the stables. But that was all, in that strictest phase of lockdown; and it felt as though it set my recovery back.
Coffee and cake at a cafe would have to wait a long time. But later on in lockdown, my first socially distanced walk with a friend made my heart sing: proper conversation and an almost-normal activity. Buying takeaway cake for a friend and myself was a cheering-up treat. And I still had the furry physical company of horse and cat.
Still, I struggled. I came to realise that what I really missed was physical human contact - a hug. That was it, really; just a hug. I’d not thought before about quite how precious and essential physical contact is for most of us as humans. And although I am quite a tactile person, I have learnt over time that some people aren’t and that I shouldn’t assume that everyone wants a hug. For a while I dealt with all this by joking about it: “When lockdown is properly over, we‘ll need T-shirts, saying either ‘Warning: you are about to be hugged!’, or ‘Stay away: hugs not welcome here’.” Underneath the joke was a longing that just got stronger and stronger.
I haven’t often had cause to rejoice at government announcements in recent months. But when they said that single people could form a support bubble, I was straight on the phone to my sister. I did try to be considerate of the needs of others in the wider family and not simply say, “I’m coming to stay!” in case others were in greater need. But in the end we decided that her family and I would indeed form a bubble.
Never has a hermit been happier to leave a hermitage. Three hours’ drive and I was in my bubble, being hugged frequently and well, being able to sit on a sofa right next to someone else with shoulders touching, being able to move around other people without constraint. As long as we stayed inside their house, life felt suddenly normal again - and how wonderful mere ’normal’ was.
I had never thought I would crave a hug that much. Being content to live on my own, I hadn’t imagined how much I would need the physical presence of my family and friends. But there is something about touching another human being, about the physical warmth of another body, the feeling of security of someone’s arms around me, that lets me breathe out and relax, and tells me that I don’t have to cope entirely on my own. I’m a very fickle hermit, really - now wanting to sink to the bottom of the deep pond of my mind and spirit and shut the world outside, and now wanting to reach out and hug and connect and just hang out with other people. Please Lord, don’t ever ask me to be a real hermit! I clearly couldn’t take it.
I guess we all have different levels of need for the company of others, and different levels of need for that to company to involve physical contact, be it a hug or a handshake or a kiss on the cheek. Whatever our preference, lockdown and the need for social distancing have taken away our freedom of choice, and that‘s hard. Some of us have missed close company; others have not been able to get the space and quiet they crave. Even now, we can’t relax around others when we are always estimating what two metres is as we have a conversation, or doing the do-si-do into the road to avoid someone else on the pavement.
The Bible tells us that God made us for relationships, and knows our need for the companionship of other human beings. He created us bodies as well as minds and souls; and Jesus himself came and took on a human body. So many circumstances of life can separate us from other human bodies; lockdown is just one example, though extreme in its own way. It is a loss, and it is hard, and it’s good to recognise it and allow ourselves to grieve for the contact we miss.
I will I suspect always have a streak of hermit in me, but I’ll never take a hug for granted again.
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