It’s the same pale, wrinkled white curtains that hang past my left hand. The teal walls which only know the hum of rain drops from my sound machine. This mockery of raindrops; the only thing to fill the empty space of sound between, the cars passing by, and whatever Netflix program may play, each day.
Time comes and goes, until I peer to my calendar a new date. I only really know the difference in days, as dictated by the 12 hours of sleep I get. From when I wake, it simply feels as if the days already happened, or at least I know how it will go.
I wake up, there’s still no appetite to be had. I probably should eat so I call up my mom who leaves a cup of orange juice on the floor, accompanied by a toasted english muffin with peanut butter. I hear the patter of knocks on the door, so I know it’s there. Neither of which I can taste. I only know what they are based on my other senses alone. Nothing else to distinguish. My mom says I must eat anyway, because I need strength for whatever the rest of the day or the next day may bring. She’s right on that one.
Across the way are another duo of windows, which bring the morning light from the outside world into that corner of the room. I haven’t turned on my lights, really, since being home.
The rest of the day only holds a class or two, which I am barely engaged with. I’ve only been up for a few hours and my body craves another nap. A heating pad lays across my lower back for most of the day. It’s the only warmth or comfort I have felt since a week from today.
I’m merely entertained by my friends and I exchanging TikToks because it’s, most recently, the only thing that has brought a smile to my face. I’m always guaranteed a good smile or chuckle from that to boost my morale for the day.
The evening typically settles and I find myself lying, still, in my bed. I have not much to do other than peer out my window to the barking dogs that exchange hellos. I can’t even really pet my dog since being home. That’s all I’ve really wanted to do, too, exchange smiles and comfort with him.
Instead, I lay on my side, with my eyes mildly open to try and ease my mind. There’s not much to think about. At times, I’ve found I over think, under think, or just not think of anything at all. It’s all been the same.
Dinner comes around, and I’m still not hungry, but I eat anyway. I feel great at first then realize I can’t even taste my food, again. There’s not much fun in that.
I’ve become more anxious than usual due to the repetitiveness that has encompassed my life. Im okay, I say, but I don’t know how much of that is the truth.
I’m isolated from the world for ten days, and currently going on day number 8. The countdown is the only real sense of hope I’ve had.
Sure, good things have arised, good news and a few good moments, but no one to share them with.
About a week ago, I contracted COVID-19. My symptoms, mild. With only scattered aspects of a cold. Truthfully, you don’t fear the virus until it hits close to home. Whether that be your friends, family, or in my case, yourself.
I’m here saying, it is true. I tested negative one day and two days later, returned home with a positive result. What many have regretfully lacked to acknowledge though, is that in regard to the illness, my body has handled this virus well, and many do. My mind on the other hand, has not. Being stuck in my room, with no physical contact and a mind to wander on its own, has not been of benefit to my mental health, and that is where this virus has taken over, for me. A mental health decline is one of the symptoms, I’ve come to realize, the CDC has mistakenly left off the list.
It’s hard to look back at what was going on in my life a week before now. Sure, it was not long ago, but it has come to feel like it.