Freedom

        The isolation is getting to me. Being unemployed is only enjoyable if you are mobile and flush with money, and I am neither. It could be so much worse; I still get  around, albeit slowly, and I pay my bills on time and eat well as I wait to see if I qualify for long-term disability. But it’s too much time alone. I know there will be an end to this; I will eventually heal, even if it doesn’t feel like it. But I’ve already been out of work so long, and in true Portland fashion, the days have, for the most part, been washed in shades of gray and well-hydrated to boot. 

        I am not feeling particularly grateful for all the things I do have, though I spend time every day listing them and attempting to cherish them. I feel past that point. I fear that I am at a point where parts of my brain are starting to atrophy. 

        I have plenty of creative projects to work on, and an apartment stuffed full of books and music and things to keep me occupied, and I don’t want to do anything. Well, almost nothing. It’s been five years since I had a girlfriend, but it feel like much longer due to all the things I’ve been through, including the pandemic, which lasted approximately three hundred years. All I can think of is how lonely I am, how much I long to be touched, to touch someone. I need to stop thinking about it, and yet I don’t seem to be able to. 

        I know this is depression, but what good does it do to put a label on it? In the past I would take stroll around the neighborhood, take field trips to various destinations, go out to the bar, hit the junk shop or record store –and I still do these things occasionally, but they all take a lot of physical and mental effort, and most of them cost money. I try to take advantage of what free activities I can. I went to an art lecture and a poetry reading this weekend, the latter of which I was one of the readers. I had a great time and got to talk to a bunch of people I liked. It wasn’t enough. I came home afterwards and sat and stared at the wall. 

        I take naps but you can only sleep so much. After spending hours in the tube watching movies, I don’t feel like watching anything at night. The internet presents only ugliness and vapidity. I have talked to everyone on the phone who will talk to me; I have nothing more to say to anyone anyways. I meditate twice a day, trying to get good at wanting nothing, at fearing nothing. But I want so much and fear so much, and I’m having difficulty staying in that state of blessed nothingness for long. 

        This has been a fertile time for me; I’ve gotten a lot accomplished, artistically, and done some good, honest soul-searching. But enough is enough. I’ve had it, I’m ready to move forward, even if my body isn’t. And yet this time of isolation is nowhere near over. How do prisoners do it? I feel like I am on the verge of losing my fucking mind.