A Pandemic Year for Women: Bridging the emotional divide in a socially distanced era

EDITOR’S NOTE: A UN report from September 2020 on the economic toll of COVID-19 on women, notes that “the impacts of crises are never gender-neutral”. The report delves into the many ways women have been disproportionately affected, financially, by the ongoing pandemic: For instance, industries that predominantly employ women have been worst-affected; women’s paid labour and women-run businesses are hardest hit, and the gender poverty gap is projected to widen. The impacts of the crisis, however, go far beyond the economic. News stories and surveys have looked at how women are bearing the brunt of childcare and household chores while they work full-time remotely. Isolation and confinement have meant that cases of violence against women are on the rise. While the coronavirus pandemic and resultant lockdowns have been especially hard on women, there are also many stories of resilience, courage and hope that have emerged in these times. On International Women’s Day 2021, we launched a series called ‘ A Pandemic Year for Women ’. These essays have been written by women with varying experiences of the past year, who rose to the challenges of being mothers, artists, healthcare workers, community outreach professionals and entrepreneurs, students, and above all — individuals trying to make their way through an unprecedented time. These first-hand accounts do not look away from the costs of the crisis, but they look beyond too: to the future, to what is possible, to what still remains to be (and must be) done. Read the essays here on Firstpost, in  ‘A Pandemic Year for Women’ .

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Four days into the national lockdown, I matched with someone on Hinge. They replied to my picture and said something about me being an artist. A quick look at their profile and “I reply to messages in full sentences,” had me interested. You see, I was recovering from having dated someone who had (as the messaging app informed me) had “seen” my messages, but would not respond. My long text messages would get a “k” in return.

The new Hinge person and I covered a lot of ground in the first few days about how we would communicate and told each other we wouldn’t leave each other at “seen”. We both admitted we were looking for something long term. I am an independent artist who spends a lot of time working alone, and my work centres around stories of the body, desire, love, and belonging. The lockdown was just a three-week affair, and I knew the solitude would not bother me. I had started to feed dogs and cats in my neighbourhood, and cook exotic dishes, like everyone else. I was relaxed and happy, secure that this would all be over soon. But the lockdown kept getting extended. And we kept talking. Most of my romantic relationships have blossomed on the web. I got online when I was 16 and this is my 25th year on the web. In the early days of the internet, people would say, “What’s an online friend? That isn’t real; it isn’t as deep as meeting people in real life, etc.” Now people are watching Netflix with others while they live in different places, have virtual dates, sext, get naked on their phones, and let themselves be vulnerable with strangers. The lockdown and the enforced distances in a way legitimised online relationships, especially the kind I had as a teenager. I had started to get closer with my Hinge person and I was worried about where he stood on the political spectrum. I found out that he was undecided, and it bothered me. In the pre-pandemic life, “undecided” would mean immediate disqualification. Yet, with so much uncertainty around, I could not shun a source of comfort, warmth and safety; someone who would reply, who made me feel seen. I wanted to feel secure, safe, wanted, and sexy. So, we continued. There was reliability. There was a sense of belonging, which felt like a balm to my soul. Such security was not what I deemed important in pre-pandemic life. Anybody who did not meet my rigid list of wants would be coolly unmatched, deleted, and perhaps even blocked. I had only dated people like me; people who had experiences like mine, privilege like mine, wokeness like mine, politics like mine. With this person, I had nothing in common, but he was my comrade during adversity. In choosing him, I chose security. [caption id=“attachment_9420611” align=“alignnone” width=“640”]  Illustration courtesy Indu Harikumar[/caption] A lot of my art revolves around connections, and is tied with my own personal quest to forge healthy relationships. In the past, relationships had left me so scared that I always rejected people before they rejected me. I deemed that the men I dated were faulty, when in reality, I didn’t have the courage to let anyone in, and so I judged them as soon as they showed me some affection. With Hinge person, it was different. As someone who took pride in being independent, I would not let anyone take care of me. Yet, I let him take care of me, virtually, because I was tired of being so strong all the time during the pandemic. I was happy for the change of guard. When I was sick and anxious, I loved how he said, “I am here. You will be fine. I won’t let anything happen to you.” When I was once in utter distress, he said, “I will take care of it. Don’t worry. We will work this out.” I felt loved. It wasn’t that our virtual union was without friction. Though I believe “Love means letting someone be”, I rarely do. Especially if they choose to love me. I behave like I have perfected the art of living and everyone could gain with some direction from me. He pointed this out to me. He said he was finding it difficult to open up to me because, “You want someone perfect, I am not that person.” I woke up, and took notice. I told myself, “If I don’t like this person, I should leave. I should not beat them to fit the prototype I have in my head.” This clarity helped me and I felt at peace. At times, I felt attacked by him. Suppose I said, “I fought with my father.” He would say, “Who fights with their father?!” I would immediately feel that he was judging me, and that would make want to fight back and I did. Yet, in the pandemic, with fewer distractions, I had the time and space to sit with my discomfort and let it pass. It felt safe to let him come closer. In August, our relationship, which was primarily through text and audio calls, was about to change. We were to meet. I was happy and also very nervous. Our relationship was something we had built wholly online, with zero physical interaction. Meeting him meant that this comfort that we had with each other could go away. There was a possibility that one of us would not like the other. Meeting him meant decisions. A yes or a no. He said if I didn’t like him, he wouldn’t ask me why. I said I wanted to know why. We met, we liked each other, so we didn’t need to go there. As restrictions started to ease, I wanted to meet more often. He was always busy; he had earlier admitted that he was a workaholic. There was an imbalance that grew. I was too eager and he didn’t have the time. I was resentful. I worked on my anger. On my birthday, he could not meet me. I was disappointed, and I worked on my anger. I found some peace and understanding. I enjoyed my birthday. The imbalance continued to grow: new expectations, and no time to meet those expectations. I kept digging deep to understand, and after a point I was exhausted. I didn’t want to wear understanding like a badge of honour. And then, there were my own insecurities. I was worried that he would break up with me because of the weight of my expectations. My insecurities meant that I got passive-aggressive and pushy. It was all weighing on me. Then we both fell sick. I finally told him that I liked him, but constantly understanding his busy-ness meant I was abandoning myself and my needs. I asked him if he could meet my needs, now or in the near future. The knowledge that he was not in a place to meet my needs was better than being hopeful. We decided to go our separate ways, without causing more hurt to each other. Over the next few months, we eased out of each other’s lives. To my comrade in adversity, I would like to say, thank you — you made me feel so secure during the dark days of the pandemic. Thank you for acquainting me with the different parts of me. Thank you for coming my way and I hope curiosity, and not anxiety, will lead us onto new bountiful paths.