Tug of war

I want to write; I don’t want to write. That tug-of-war has extended all through my days: I’m tired, I’m hyper; I’m starving, yet nothing sounds appealing; I’m bored, but don’t want to do anything. I want to get out of here, but I’m scared to leave the house. Even the chores are in conflict. Laundry sits in the basket until a new load needs doing, an endless yin-yang cycle of darks and lights. I start and stop and finish nothing. It reminds me of the few times I’ve driven a stick-shift car: the grinding gears, the stalling, the panic and praying, all that herky-jerky just to get to the next red light.

Mostly, I feel like I am wandering around in a stupor—some sort of delirium. And the rain doesn’t help at all.

I go to the fridge too often, hoping some magical food-fairy has filled it. Digging around is depressing: a wrinkly tomato and suspicious-looking cheese. Despite buying two-weeks’ worth of food last time, in ten days we’re already down to the dregs.

I’m not using this downtime well. I’m not learning German or ukulele, or making sourdough starter. I’m not exercising, or writing anything besides these viralries. I think what I’m doing is a sort of mourning: I liked my life as it was. The few things I wanted to improve about myself require public spaces and social gatherings, so I am leaning towards giving up self-improvement. All winter, I had my moments of being too much of a loner-hermit-homebody, and I would say to myself, “I really should get out more.” It almost makes me laugh.

The sun just came out. Time for a morale march.