Everyone has been writing about the anniversary. Here we are, marking a year of lockdown from the pandemic—more or less. Given that it’s thirteen months, can we say I’ve developed a small case of procrastination?

That’s part of what I’ve been thinking about lately: that the lockdown is bringing out things we don’t like about ourselves, including pandemic procrastination. I’ve talked about this with a few friends, and a couple have mentioned that they find themselves procrastinating all the time. They’ve always battled it but now it’s worse, even though there’s far less to do. No dinners, none of the sports we used to play, no concerts, no art, no bars. But they keep falling behind in their work, and all those projects around the house they were going to tackle remain on the to-do list. 

Because really, who cares? Because—jammies. Staring at the wall. Hours passing.

Another friend says her chief fault lies in being cynical and critical, mostly toward herself. Glass half-empty sort of person, she says, and that’s been getting worse this year as well. I was surprised to hear this, since I see her as being a kind person. “I think less and less of myself, actually,” she said. “How badly I’m coping.”

I’ve taken a different route. My faults lie in the being too organized, obsessive, overly-scheduled. I overwork. And with no sports, bars or dinners to funnel off the energy, I put my head down and plough ahead on multiple projects, and I’ve been doing that for more than a year. 

This is a useful fault to have in late-stage capitalism. I joke with my film students. Producers doing meetings have a tendency to ask, “What’s your chief fault?” If you answer solemnly, “I have a bad tendency to overwork,” just look at their producer faces brighten. 

But I’m not humble-bragging. It’s not good to be so obsessive and driven. You miss out on a lot, and I’ve battled it all year in different ways: taking an online yoga class, going on long walks, making sure to keep in touch with friends, even if it has to be on zoom. 

A story in The New York Times last weekend was headlined, We Have All Hit the Wall. 

An article in Forbes: Is Pandemic Burnout Draining Your Motivation and Energy?

In that one, journalist Naz Beheshti writes, “The Harvard Business Review recently conducted an extensive survey of burnout and well-being under Covid. Amongst their findings:

• 85% say their well-being has declined during the past year
• 62% are struggling to meet their workload and to balance work with other responsibilities
• Many report difficulty maintaining strong connections with others
• Exhaustion and cynicism are on the rise
• Burnout levels are highest among Millennials”

I’m not a psychologist, but what I sense is that many of us aren’t just sick of the pandemic. We’re sick of ourselves—and particularly tired of whatever faults we’ve been defaulting to. We’ve all been spending too much time alone, even if there are a couple of other people in the house. Especially if we’re parenting children. 

I think what we’re lacking, as much as anything (bars, sports, concerts) is context. As in, I’m not so bad. At least in context.

It’s spring here in Toronto. On a particularly long walk yesterday, in one far-flung rutted alley I saw the grass growing green between the tire tracks. The daffodils are coming out in our garden. I’ve received the first jab of my vaccination and presumably am gaining immunity. This will end.

But I think it may take longer to stop being sick of myself. The year has held up a mirror and the reflection hasn’t been flattering. Exhausting, actually.

Don’t be too hard on yourself, the psychologists say. 

As if not being hard on yourself is all that easy, either. 

Lesley Krueger’s latest novel is Mad Richard. You can order it here.