The home in my head has always lived in quarantine
For as long as i can remember, its groceries have been antidepressants and smoking, and my body has been a selfish hoarder who stalks up for months, wipes out entire aisles.
Isolating from the people i loved came as a form of self-care long before government issued advisories about it. Long before they said “Stay home,” I would curl up in bed for days, all alone. I’m already an expert at keeping the curtains drawn and canceling plans and falling asleep right in the middle of all this mindless scrolling through my phone.
This is vain love letter to my depression, which prepared me for this kind of self – confinement, reminded my reflection in the middle of doing my make – up that i was a danger to other people. That i was always one triggering sentence away from explosion, my sadness was infectious and unwanted at birthday dinners, that it would be better to not go.
So i stayed home. And i made origami caricatures out of my melancholy, and turned all these endless blues into poems.
The home in my head has always lived in quarantine. I know how to take a pill, kill the lights, smoke till the blackness starts spinning, then swallows me whole. I know how to hold people at one arm distance when they are beating against my doors.
Now, as the world begins to do what I’ve done for years, i can’t help but wonder — does it get easier knowing everybody is going through it no matter where they are in the world? Have i been ready for this all my life, or have i just always been incredibly alone?
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