I’m fucking melting.

Day twenty-four. The isolation used to make me feel invisible and forgotten but now it just makes me normal, and so it began gloriously for me.

But as work resumes and real life comes trickling back, I am mentally revolting, wretching at it as I fight to finish my sentence, my thought, my testimony, my proof of person, but am already being spoken over in the first phone call in forever. I remember the war of conversation, being trampled by stronger personalities or apparently more important thoughts, but now at all how I tolerated it. How I didn’t fucking scream.

And then there’s the wolf, the wolf and his callous opportunism, looking for the inside scoop on how this experimental emergency e-teaching works but forgetting to don his sheep’s clothing and to ask me at all how I might or might not be coping, living alone in my thirty-nine-meters-squared isolation. I can’t bring myself to respond, nor do I have the mental fortitude to do so. I’d rather be left alone, thanks.

Sinking further into myself, anything from outside feels like an intrusion, harsh and abrasive, and I am cut up into scraps by simple words and the perseverating and the dwelling and the lack of a sounding board. Too far gone within to know where to begin the tale without coming out attacking, alienating, back right where I did begin. So I perpetuate it all, the surreal and strange sequestering. Anyway, I don’t believe in simple words. There are all kinds of emotional evidence woven everywhere, especially there.

And all this inertia, my gawd. I feel like I’m Jell-o, not the cool, firm, delicious kind in the fridge, but the uneaten bowl left on the counter, warm and wobbly, horrifically unappetizing. The Wicked Witch of the West said it best: « I’m melting, I’M FUCKING MELTING. »

The eyes get wet and the chest heaves when they bang their pots, and I bang mine, too, awkwardly, alone, on my balcony. It’s nice what it means, and even to see the people, for a few minutes and from afar. Because it isn’t just for the emergency services workers, it’s also a hello, I see you, I  am still here. But it’s all so very strange, still, and I am doing just fine but sometimes we are wrong about things.

 

 

 

 

À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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