Writing myself in quarantine.
Last night, I learned that I am the kind of woman who sits by herself playing card games made for two people. Entertaining the idea of intimacy with one-sided conversations about love and trust and vulnerability.
“What did you first notice about me?” I ask myself, and I think of what I would notice first about my body. Maybe my nose, which I consider a more formidable feature; one I have admittedly come to respect. Or perhaps my smile, which other people have mentioned to me. I suppose I’m always laughing so I probably seem fun, or at least happy. Maybe I’d notice that too.
Quarantine is challenging me to mull over my sense of self. Stray thoughts pull at the threads of my being and I fear that in time, I may unravel.
I play with the idea that one day, I’ll look out the window at 5 am into the foggy haze of early morning, observe the milky sky reflecting light pollution, and decide to join the world. I’ll throw on a robe over my underwear, climb onto my roof deck and coexist under the stars with all the other lights. Head back, arms out stiff like branches, body twirling in the open air.
It would be on one of those nights when I’m itching to do anything but sleep. In my restless humor, I would almost feel the world tilted and spinning on its axis. An uncanny likeness.
Most of my nights are contrary to these dreams of freedom. Typically, my warm room has me chuffed, no less than a kid in a candy store, as my bed holds me tight like a hug.
It’s cold outside, and no matter how desperately I wish to feel alive, I’m comfy here. My chaos is contained here, where distractions temper my urge to scream. The soft glow from my lamp keeps me settled in a state of lethargy. Oh, how I want to be free.
Maybe on another night, that falls within a week I haven’t spent confronting night terrors. I’ll drive my body through the window frame, to the edge of the deck. I’ll pitch my torso over the side and scream for the world to hear. Shrill thrill syncing with the sirens that pass by, piercing the sounds of night. I’d scream, and laugh, and dance. Perhaps my roommates would join me.
The hardest part of quarantine is confronting all the conflicting realities that dictate who I am. Insanity is admitting my mind is split and I actually enjoy the fractured bits. “They make me who I am!”
I wrestle with the knowledge that I am lonely and recluse, bold and cowardly, animated and apathetic, at once. So many little things compounded to the shape of me. Reprieve is the license I grant myself to reject all deliberations of personhood.
