Say goodbye to the world we knew before. Before the schools closed. Before most of us were sent home to work. It is difficult to make sense of this new world where uncertainty is on speed-dial.
Some days, my mental health is challenged. Other days, I am up. Then slowly down again, gripped by something in my stomach that makes me feel out of control.
Then I feel OK again for a day or two. Then I am down again.
I realise (eventually) that it is OK not to feel OK. Like the rest of the country, I go to bed exhausted and anxious; and I wake up exhausted and anxious.
My wife and I are permanently wrecked, permanently at the end of our tether. Our two children - a boy just turned two and a girl just turned five - are so, understandably, out of their routines that they are awake at 6.30am every day and it is a struggle to get them to go to bed before 9pm most evenings. So my wife and I are going bananas, basically.
Obviously, we are hiding this side of our psyche from our kids. But sometimes they do come out with some real zingers.
My daughter asked me the other morning: "Are you going to die, Daddy?" I certainly hope not. But nobody really knows for certain whether they will be a statistic of the virus.
The isolation only makes the darkness and fear inside me worse. Constant texting, WhatsApping and Facebooking only hardens it all. We are humans and we need human contact. Which is denied us at the moment.
My wife is a better person than me, so she insists we get out every day with the kids for a few hours. So, observing social distance, we went to Glendalough.
It seemed like we had the lake to ourselves. Unimpeded by pesky people, my daughter went at full speed on her scooter on the boardwalk.
Bringing up the rear in Glendalough, my young son was in his buggy with his mother. We sat at the edge of the lake and put our bare feet in the water.
It felt pure.
It was a pure moment.
There was peace in the valley in Wicklow.
The only sound was the birds in the trees around us, singing soothingly, as if their birdsong was just for us.
On the Saturday, we went up Killiney Hill, south Dublin. The view from up there was powerful. With no ships in the bay - and no planes in the sky - it was another pure moment of aching beauty courtesy of Mother Nature. You could almost be fooled into thinking there wasn't a virus out there. For a bit anyway.
On St Patrick's Day, we sat on a cold and empty beach at Seapoint and I buried my daughter's feet in the sand for two hours. There was also a trip to Marlay Park in Dublin to feed the ducks.
Last Friday at 8am, we drove to Brittas Bay. We made sandcastles on the beach. We held the kids' hands and ran down the dunes. We took off our shoes and socks and ran into the sea. I wanted to keep going, and swim with the kids and my wife on my back to a part of the world where the virus is not. But there isn't such a place.
We have great fun with the children in the house, too (The Wizard Of Oz is playing in the background on Netflix for the 20th time, for instance), but it is heartbreaking to hear your daughter ask every day when can she play with her friends or go out to the local playground.
Late at night, when the kids are asleep in their beds, I get the fear, I sometimes wonder about the faith I was taught at school and where it went, and whether it might somehow come back to me now, when I need it, more than ever.
Brendan Behan described himself as "a daylight atheist". Yet when it got dark he'd start thinking there might be a God. I'm a bit like that, too. I want there to be a beneficent God, or a higher power, for my kids, for all the kids in the world, for everybody in the world. Someone bigger than us who would tell everybody that this will pass and it is going to be all right. Then my inner-atheist tells me to cop the f**k on for Christ's sake.
Still, you could argue that to declare oneself an atheist is paradoxically an act of faith because it presupposes some kind of knowledge that there isn't a God.
I'm kind of with Bono on all this. The U2 singer said a few years ago Nietzsche is dead, God is alive.
I won't start going to church, but I will start praying for some hope, for an end to all this.
Trying to work from home (my rickety computer is on a kitchen table groaning under the weight of toys and children's books) is difficult. Somehow the work gets done. This is despite the pungently nappied two-year-old spilling food on the computer and the five-year-old banging on the door to be let in when you are trying to talk to your boss. Nothing, it turns out, can be as important as a question about Peppa Pig.
You start to see the world through the eyes of a child.
And start to see the wonder or the opportunity for connection - not fear - in all this.
Dr Harriet Lerner, a psychologist and author of The Dance of Fear, told The New York Times last week in relation to how fear can be helpful with this dreaded coronavirus: "If we make a deliberate effort to hold onto our humanity, it can bring us together."
This virus has changed us in lots of good ways. We have started to talk to each other again. We are nicer people, not because we have to be but this virus has made us realise what is important in life. I have had random and wonderful conversations with strangers (up Killiney Hill, by the ducks in Marlay Park, in the trails behind the sand dunes in Brittas Bay, at petrol stations on the M11) and I felt better, or uplifted, after sharing a moment with a fellow human being.
Maybe I need my head - or my bloods! - tested, but I think this is bringing us all closer.
Bringing us together.
Amy Winehouse sang that love is a losing game. But love, I believe, is the only game in town.