As of today, it’s been 57 days since I’ve been anywhere, except driving from my old place to my new place to move in.
Fifty seven days.
The last place I went was dropping my mom off at the airport for her to fly home.
I keep asking myself shouldn’t I feel…lonely? sad? worried? about the being only at home? And some moments, and some days, I do. But mostly I feel fine. And crushing, keeps-me-up-at-night guilt that I mostly feel fine about quarantine.
Shouldn’t I feel depressed?
Shouldn’t I feel achingly sad?
Shouldn’t I feel despair?
Shouldn’t I feel anger at the lack of leaders, and the deniers who continue to endanger others? (Okay, yep, that one I definitely feel, all the time, it’s just there, seething under the surface, ever-present.)
Shouldn’t I feel lonely?
Shouldn’t I feel scared that I have no idea when we will be able to see our families again?
Shouldn’t I feel ashamed that we have our health, and work-from-home jobs, and have all that we need?
I do, some moments, some days.
Some days I have to keep myself from sobbing all damn day. Friday was one of those days. But they’re rare (at least mercifully, so far?). Other days, I have intrusive and unbelievably stressful ruminating thoughts about work, as in: how long will I have a job, and what the hell will we do when I get furloughed or laid off? Some days, I feel like I’m deep under water, in suspended animation, as one day drags into the next, and I just hear myself talking words to the kids to pretend it’s all “fine” and that I’m not actually drowning.
But right now, in this moment, right here, as I ask myself: shouldn’t I feel bad that I don’t feel anything? That I don’t miss going places? And right now, in this moment, no, I don’t feel bad. I don’t have anywhere I miss going, yet. I feel mostly fine.
But that is in this moment. Ask me again in 57 more days?