The diary of a twenty something girl in self isolation

After leaving prison, some prisoners reported driving long distances on their first day of freedom. With no real destination in mind, just driving for the pure action of being able to. That iron bars no longer held them in and their freedom no longer kept. They drove. Perhaps that is what I will do when I am allowed outside again. Drive nowhere just because I can. 

I live in a one bedroom apartment with my boyfriend. The one bedroom includes the kitchen and living room and the bed. The only seperate room is the bathroom - so the toilet became a throne of peace almost. Or you could have a break in the shower. The walls are white - after the fifth day I decided they were too asylum-like for my tastes.  The house cluttered - the hoarding nature of myself coming back to bite me in the ass. Why did I need ten journals again? Or that giraffe stuffed toy. What was I thinking - I often glared at my stuffed toys as they seemed to be taking up room that I didn't really have to give. Our garden - a concrete car park. This was to be my constant environment for the next four weeks as the country went into lock down.  

I watch my boyfriend wash a tortilla like a plate - my face scrunches in confusion. Why is he doing that? The question comes up more than once during this time of self isolation. Even though we have been together for four years - being in constant togetherness in an one room apartment for four weeks is an interesting social experience. I feel as if I am on a reality TV show sometimes. But there are no hidden cameras and the only people laughing/crying are me and not the audience at home. 

The jarring Australian voice of my next door neighbour on yet another video call is my new alarm clock. I often wished he was British. That way at least my wake up call would be less cockatoo like and more soothing everything should be fine Judi Dench like. Though, alarm clocks were no longer needed as time started to become irrelevant. Why did 9am differ from 9pm?  Answer - it didn't. Time was meaningless. 

The chocolate ran out on day four. An event I remember well. The start of my spiral into a deep deep funk. Chocolate cured dementors sadness in Harry Potter and it seemed to be working for my new self isolation blues - so for this to run out. Well lets just say, it was bad. Unfortunately a run to the supermarket was out of the question - I had recently returned from Cambodia. So I was in lockdown lockdown. The taste of chocolate would soon become a distant memory. I do not even speak about the coffee shortage of day 7 - the day my sanity truly and utterly died. 

The sunlight and blue skies outside often mocked me. I retaliated with a swift closing of the curtains.  

On day seven I realised I had not seen sunlight that had not been filtered through a glass window since lockdown started. I had turned into a vampire; be it a slightly more unwashed unkempt version.  I decided to venture outside for my allocated walk. The walk was one of the most uncomfortable walks of my life. This was no breath of fresh air nor anxiety busting stroll; rather this was a tense five minute dash back home. I felt like I was in a game of tag. Trying to stay far away from every single human in my vicinity in fear of being tagged with unwanted human contact.   

The news became an addiction. Forget heroin or cigarettes, the news was the hit I craved. From the moment, my eyes slowly lifted in the morning to when they got heavy with sleep I was seeking out the latest death tolls, political mishaps, and pleas from health officials for more supplies. The news and the sadness connected to this become my drug. At a cost to my mental health. As I wrote this paragraph, I checked two different news agencies, I had a problem. 

On day eight I attempted a home exercise video. Big mistake. Those preppy perky ladies online killed me. I ended my session as a crying swearing heap on the ground. The next morning I woke up and my legs literally felt like someone was stabbing them with dull knives. This is why I hated high intensity workouts, I remembered. 

One day nine I discovered that my life had somehow become revolved around eating. I marked the passing of time through meals. It was an hour to lunch I would say. Or two hours till dinner. Or three to second breakfast. I had become a hobbit during this lockdown it would seem as well. While my feet did not yet resemble my new hobbit brethren, my legs certainly did. They looked like I was wearing a second pair of woolen pants. Well, at least I wouldn't have to splurge on long johns this year, I thought.  Though, my boyfriend would most likely think we had acquired a cat or something during this lockdown when I brushed against him at night. 

Makeup and sometimes basic personal hygiene were often forgotten. My hair had acquired enough grease to see McDonalds through to the New Year. My face decided this was the best time to break out. I looked in short, a mess. But I found it hard to give a shit about my appearance. I was unemployed so there were no Zoom calls to worry about, and my boyfriend had seen me at my worst before so me looking like an extra from The Walking Dead didn't faze him. I in short sinked into my unkempt appearance. We were in the middle of a fucking pandemic, so having well groomed eyebrows and shaved legs kind of took a back seat to that fact. 

During this lockdown, I tried to not think of days past - of days spent in the sunshine with friends. Or my present, days spent with anxiety hugging my back and sunlight filtered through windows. I tried to think of the future. Of what I was doing this for. For a future where deaths were not numerous; a future where I could hug my grandpa again. Where the 2 metres away rule was a distant memory, the personal bubbles popped, and the smell of hand sanitiser was not on the wind.  

That's what I thought about while locked away inside. 

And I knew my situation was not abnormal - I was one of the millions who were experiencing a new normal of being locked away at home. The virus the jail-keeper and our own conscience the key. And this fact alone also helped me - knowing I was not alone in this. That millions of people around the world shared my experiences of anxiety and fear. That there was this invisible bond between us through this collective action and shared enemy. My story may not be different than the millions of other people, but it is a story nonetheless.