Prompt Images
I stare listlessly out the window from the bedroom in my apartment, like I do almost every day now. I’m watching individual people walk down the street like lost children. We’re all a little lost nowadays, aren’t we?
The world is utterly unrecognizable from just weeks ago.
I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. The details differ from state to state and house to house, but we’re all living in the same dystopian movie. We are all trying to make sense and purpose of this goddamn motherfucking bullshit.
As for me, every single one of my spring races has been cancelled. A freelance assignment that I was so excited to work on got axed for cost containment. I’ve been furloughed indefinitely. And there are no live sports on television or in real life.
It sucks. Big time.
This is where I’m encouraged—by some unwritten rules of etiquette and social grace—to smile and count my blessings aloud, so the whole class can hear them.
But hey! At least I’m healthy.
But hey! At least I’ve got a good support system.
But hey! At least I can use this free time to catch up on chores around the house.
Wait, did I just say chores?! I’m supposed to be thanking my lucky stars about chores?!
Get a fucking grip, lady. You’re losing it.
I guess I am grateful for all of the things keeping me from dying and decomposing alone in the streets. Sure. Why not? But is gratitude really the prevailing emotion I’m feeling? Or is it just an easy out, a polite means to avoid having real-ass conversations with you, with myself, with each other?
Are we really that terrified of admitting we’re feeling down? Are we really that scared of being vulnerable? Of being called ungrateful?
Ha! As if name-calling would be the worst thing in the world at a time like this.
In the blink of an eye, we all had to grow up in a new, unexpected, and pretty horrifying way. Full-grown adults—with mortgages, kids, jobs—are supposed to have answers, to solve problems. But we’re just lost and hopeless kids, forced to stay inside to avoid the invisible boogeyman.
It feels… pathetic, in a way. This is not what I want from my life.
We had to come to a point of acceptance of a new reality, one that none of us got to choose. We had to sacrifice a lot of things, to let go of what we wanted individually.
Proms and graduations.
Weddings.
Sports seasons.
Vacations.
Jobs.
Our routines and ways of life.
And it all happened so fast.
Do those experiences or anyone’s individual circumstances matter more than the health of millions of people across the globe? Of course not. I’m not a fucking idiot. I’m not a monster. I’m not one of these anti-science, troglodytic, greedy disciples of Ayn Rand.
Look, I get it. These things we’ve lost are not matters of life or death.
But they are life. They are the moments that make our lives feel special and worth living. We’ve worked hard or waited patiently for them. They are important because we’ve endowed them with meaning and weight.
That counts. That matters. Don’t just shrug and resign. Don’t just whisper c’est la vie and melt into your couch in a pile of resentment. What you want, from your own life? It fucking matters.
We don’t have to pretend we’re some hardcore Neanderthals who care only about survival. Life is about more than life or death.
We’ve evolved, baby. And that comes with emotional baggage.
Let’s put this in perspective. If someone handed you a decaying pile of garbage, would you say thank you? Would you feel the need to express gratitude that it wasn’t a bigger, more rancid pile? I really hope not.
So, let’s just be honest with ourselves. This fucking sucks. You can say it. There’s no reason to be a sanctimonious martyr about it.
Some might suggest that there’s no use in complaining.
That it won’t do you any good to dwell on the negative. But if actions speak louder than words, and we’re doing the right thing by our actions—staying at home and maintaining distance from our coworkers, friends, and family—then it’s okay for our words to be pissed off and loud.
Is it my turn? Perfect.
Life is short, and I’m so goddamn frustrated that we may have to spend a full year drifting in this uncertain, lonely limbo. I hate it here.
At the risk of sounding like a more boring and reasonable Veruca Salt, I want to go see my dad. I want to eat pizza in New Jersey. I want to hang out with my friends. I want to play sports and run races. I want to go back to work. I want go to the grocery store without feeling like I’ve entered enemy territory. God, what I’d give to spend too much time in the produce section, picking the perfect apple.
I won’t get to do those things for a very long time.
Sure, it’s the mature and measured thing to do to play the long game. To look ahead to a time when a vaccine is in circulation, the economy has stabilized, and kids are back in school or outside playing.
And I’m totally into it. I’m with you, scientists. I have your back, you benevolent supergeniuses. I’m going to wait it out as long as is necessary. I’m going to do it. I’m going to make it.
But I’m not going to sit here and pretend this is paradise.
I worked really hard to love my life, and I crossly resent what this pandemic has done to me and to all of us. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m not in control.
But I refuse to minimize all the things I miss and care about, just because there’s a greater war effort. I’m allowed to mourn. I don’t have to skip over the part where I’m upset or sad or angry—so fucking angry—that we don’t get to choose this time in our lives.
Being authentic is not the same as being pessimistic. So, while I do believe we’ll get through this, I also believe that pretending we’re all fine only makes it worse.
So, go ahead! Beat the shit out of your mattress. Scream into a pillow. Cry in the shower. Stand on your front porch or balcony or street corner, open your mouth a safe distance from all passersby, and make whatever guttural sound comes from within you.
Trust me, it does a whole world of good to let it out.
RELATED
