Survival Mode in a Pandemic

It’s been a couple months since I’ve written.  Ideas and titles for possible blog posts are written on scratch paper, tucked behind the Starbucks mug full of pens on the kitchen counter.  The mug was a gift for Jen.  She doesn’t drink coffee.  Thing is, I haven’t felt like writing, even though I know that’s exactly what I need to do.

I’ve lost a few pounds since the middle of February, yet this is the heaviest I can remember feeling.  I wasn’t trying to lose weight but, I don’t eat when I’m stressed.  I used to write to deal with stress, but I’ve lost the ability to focus.

This is new.  This is limbo.

I could search the internet to find the “experts” (can anyone be an expert during this?) who write about how to get up and shower and drink the coffee and plan the day during a fucking pandemic.  I don’t have the energy to search.

I have tuned into some podcasts – Ram Dass, Michelle Obama, Cheryl Strayed, Brene Brown – while gardening.  Many have given me permission to feel out-of-sorts; to be okay with not writing; to understand why I hate cooking the same 13 things over and over again.  (It’s no wonder I’ve lost weight.)

While I want to write something encouraging or uplifting, I can’t find the words.  I’m too pissed off.  I just now noticed that I’ve written “I” or “I’ve” or “I’m” 20 times in these first paragraphs.  All the experts would tell me to write about you, if I want this to be read.  Screw the experts.  I need to get this out there.  It’s about me.

Maybe it’s about you, too.

 

I am a mask-wearing, self-isolating, social-distancing island in a sea of folks who aren’t taking this virus seriously.

It’s not the first time I’ve been the odd one out.  The fringe is my zip code.  The unconventional is my groove.  And while I find solace in my garden, I am bone-weary tired of worrying about all the kids of the world, not just my own.  I am frayed from caring too much about how they’ll navigate once this administration is done raping and pillaging.  I struggle to remain optimistic, when my soul tells me that the pendulum has to swing the other way, all while I’m surrounded by folks who don’t want to let go of the status quo.

And it’s lonely over here, hiding behind my mask, hoping for the best, knowing full-well we are headed for an Avenger-sized train wreck that will make all other train wrecks look like something the Hulk might step on.

 

On a bright note, I have blooming, swaying, towering hollyhocks in my back yard, for the first time ever.  So that’s a happy thing.

 

I remember being told that if I want anyone to read this blog, I would be smart to steer away from politics and religion.  Well, dammit, we can’t afford to steer away from politics right now!  If all the quiet, low-under-the-radar, mind-their-own-business types would rise up, we might stand a chance.  Maybe we could see a return to civil discourse, manners, respect, compassion and love.  If we express our concerns and share our voices, maybe our kids could have a future!

Last night, I learned my neighbor – a nice young man, a homeowner with two happy, busy daughters – is shouting from the social media rooftops his support of the current administration.  I’ve been what-the-fucking since I saw his posts.  I’ve had numerous conversations with him.  We share concerns about keeping the neighborhood safe, fixing up our homes, finding roofing contractors and raising kids.  I thought we had a connection.  I’ve often felt like a mom-figure to him.  How the hell can he support Trump when he’s raising two daughters?!  How can anyone who has children, or professes to love females, support the current administration?!

I will lose a friend (many friends, most likely) when I put the signs up in my yard.  This will be the first time I declare my stance before an election.  Desperate times …

Don’t tell me about how Trump has done so much for the economy.  My neighbor and his wife have three jobs between them, to make ends meet.  That doesn’t leave a lot of time for effectively raising two kids.

 

This year I grew these from seed.  Don’t they look like something from a Disney movie?  They’re called Penny Blacks.

 

I can almost hear my family and friends rolling their eyes at what they probably perceive is my over-zealousness about the mask.  I’ve seen Will roll his eyes, when he thinks I’m not looking.  Truth be told, I’m rolling my eyes at them, too.  Thanks to Trump, that political divide in families has gotten much bigger.  It used to be that I could go to a family dinner and enjoy the food, the card playing and the banter.

I told you, it’s lonely being me.  But, it’s not an option to NOT be me.

A couple days ago, after a sleepless night of worrying about college kids and how they’ll cope, I was feeling the isolation of my stance on all things virus related.  I succumbed to searching for Facebook groups of like-minded individuals.  Even from the safe-distance of my home, I hoped to find my tribe – a group to commiserate with.  In case you didn’t know, there are scores of anti-mask groups on Facebook.  I couldn’t find a single group for those who wear masks, other than the group of 7 who make masks.   Instead, I opened a new tab to explore the possibility of moving to New Zealand.

 

Did I tell you we will have pumpkins this year?

 

Jen is on the island with me.  She went off to college.  We were nervous, scared and excited.  She came back home after seeing how cavalier the other students were about masks and social-distancing.  She’ll be taking classes online.

Who can possibly thrive in this narcissistic culture that can’t sacrifice a couple social engagements, wear a goddamn mask, or keep their asses home long enough for this generation (our future!) to be able to get an education?!  When will we see that serving only ourselves will be our end?

How can a culture, that is so supportive of athletics and team sports, be so full of folks who are shitty at being team players?

That sense of entitlement will cost us all those things that we hold dear, including our families and our futures.

 

I know.  You think I’ve gone off the deep end with all the time to over-think, during this extended period of self-isolation.  The introvert in me doesn’t mind the distance.  Perhaps I needed a pandemic to show me how to stick to my boundaries.  The HSP in me loses sleep with worry for all the kids.  If it weren’t for yard work and walking, I’d be curled up in a fetal position on my yoga mat complaining about my stress-induced back problems.

Here’s the thing.  We need to go off the deep end.  We need to get uncomfortable.  We need to go out there and make damn sure that our kids have a chance.  Complacency allows this massive train-wreck to happen.

 

The italicized portions of this post are a reflection of my coping mechanisms during this seemingly unending, politicized pandemic.  I rant for stretches and then I go out to the yard for respite.  “Oh, look.  A bee on the sunflower!  Oh, there’s my garden buddy!” (A wee bunny munches in the yard while I water and weed.  He’s not smart enough to be afraid of me, or maybe he knows I’m all bark and no bite.)

Then I check social media and remember to be mad at the world.  Jen and I vent together and shake our heads.  Then she goes back to a project (her coping mechanism) and I go back outside. 

Later, we’ll go for a walk, vent some more, take pictures of the offspring of the multiplying bunnies in our neighborhood, wonder at the moon, and consider how nice it would be to live somewhere else.  As weeks roll into months, we fret and worry and hope, and get ready to vote.

 

*I ran to the store before posting this.  Will and I had gotten Jen a pasta machine for her birthday.  Between all the pasta we’ll be making and the baking we already do, we needed to stock up on flour.  I’m pushing a cart that has a 25# bag of flour and a 25# bag of jasmine rice, and I happen to run into two, who I now realize are part of my tribe.  I rarely see them because they are staying home like Jen and I are!  We stood 6 feet apart and yelled through our masks and talked about the glasses of wine we hoped to be able to share one day.

I think maybe I didn’t know who was part of my tribe, until this pandemic.  For that, I am grateful.

Thank you, Universe, for showing me that Jen and I are not alone on this island.