March 7, 2020

I got out of bed at 5:47pm today. Truth be told, I didn’t know if I was gonna get out of bed at all, and am not sure what precisely spurred me to push past the headache, anxiety and melancholy, but I did. I’d puttered about earlier, though needed to retreat to the safety of my bed due to a spike in physical pain, where I lay in a ball, alternating between gazing out the window over the Bay, scrolling through a seemingly incongruent feed of inspirational quotes and whatever news the algorithms thought would be of interest, and closing my eyes while breathing deeply as I prayed all would soon pass. And it eventually did, not without conscious effort on my part and a few well-timed messages from intuitive friends. I wrapped my body in an oversized coat and set out — for where, I knew not, but some location. Four stops later and I’m home, not feeling any better and having accomplished little (ate my first food of the day, downed a bottle of juice, completed a return that was sitting on my to-do list). I wish it were different, but it’s not. Yet here I am: home, safe, fed, relatively healthy albeit not pain-free, about to take a hot shower, cozy up in jammies and attempt to relax while watching Hillary on Hulu with a pint of vegan Snickerdoodle ice cream. Perhaps every day doesn’t have to look the way you imagine for it to be okay…