I thought there would be more silence.
I anticipated time to contemplate, to move into stillness. As much as I dreaded being trapped in my head, I was also looking forward to just being. My life is so full, all the time. I was looking forward to getting a little space to read, think, freak out, maybe even watch some mindless television. Sit on the balcony and watch the magpies.
Instead, my life has gotten more extroverted, somehow. All of my normal social obligations moved online, plus some I suddenly had time for once I no longer had a commute. I’m glad to be in contact with my various friend groups, but I find myself wishing for some of that silence.
For one thing, I’m still working. And work means meetings, and meetings mean video. So I’m already onscreen and communicating a lot during the day. But when I commute, I get a break afterward. For an hour each way, I literally can’t do anything else. I have to sit in traffic. I have to be in the moment. At most, I listen to music or the occasional podcast or audiobook. I can choose to listen to nothing at all if I like, and sometimes I do that. No commute? I end up staying online longer, finishing just one more thing.
And then I’ve been meeting with people almost every night, to game or fellowship or play trivia, on Zoom or Discord or Hangouts. I’m still on. I’m still engaging with people, and most of what we’re doing requires a moderate amount of attention. And it’s been a lot more than normal. I haven’t had an unplanned day in a week and a half, and every bit of it has been social interaction.
It’s a good position to be in. My friends are including me and showing me they love me. I’m getting solid distraction from the anxiety that could otherwise take over my brain. I don’t have to feel isolated at all, if I don’t want to. The problem is … I kind of want to.
I’m not recharging. Anxiety means I have a hard time getting to sleep, and sleep is tough for me even on good days. Most nights, I watch PBS shows on my laptop until I’m falling asleep on the couch, then drag myself to bed. Sometimes I don’t get to bed.
When I’m anxious, I also don’t eat enough. I had a couple of dizzy days from lack of fuel. And then I start neglecting myself in other ways. It may not be depression, but they’re the same shoe size.
So I need to step back here and there. I need time to write. I need time to read. I need time to figure out how to cry.
I haven’t cried yet. I never cry until the danger has passed. Sometimes the danger doesn’t pass for years. Sometimes I don’t cry for years.
I don’t think I can keep operating that way. Because on some level, as long as I’m alive, the danger never passes, right? There’s always going to be something. How long can I live in hypervigilance and flight mode? When do I accept life’s terms?
I’m figuring out one thing. Burying my head in a Sahara’s worth of games and chatter won’t help me find an answer I can live with. I need contemplation. I need silence.
Called 