It’s been a while since I’ve written in my journal. In my 20s, I journaled constantly, filling dozens of Mead composition books. It was always a form of therapy—an outlet for a shy young man prone to depression and anxiety.
But, over time, I kind of got better, and my writing branched into blogging and local journalism, and this remains the bulk of my daily writing today.
The journals I gathered into dusty boxes, remnants of a troubled journey.
But tonight, six months into a global pandemic that has kept me semi-quarantined alone in an apartment, cut off from regular human contact, I’ve felt the urge to start journalling—perhaps needing again this kind of therapy. I am lonely, anxious, and depressed.
And yet, ironically, I realize I am not alone in my loneliness, anxiety, and depression. I know huge swaths of Americans share in these quiet sufferings.
And so I thought by journalling again, and sharing some of these writings, it might be a small way to say both to myself and others—you are not alone.
This morning began as most mornings do these days. I awoke in a bedroom and an apartment that I’ve allowed to get far to messy. Dirty clothes scattered across the floor. The wind blowing through my window is already warm. Today promises to be the hottest of the year—over 110 degrees. Wonderful.
I roll out of bed, pull on some clothes, shoes, and a face mask and walk to a local coffee shop to get my morning coffee—to go, of course.
The local downtown Starbucks closed at the beginning of the pandemic and now, I believe, the closure is permanent. I don’t weep for the closing of a Starbucks (well, maybe for the workers) but I am disturbed, while walking down Harbor, to see some small businesses permanently closed.
I walk back toward home and in the alley behind the pet store I remove my face mask and enjoy the morning ritual of a cigarette with my coffee. Sorry, mom.
Speaking of which, my parents recently moved away. They were my “bubble” during the pandemic. Actually, for the first couple of months, I refused to hug them, afraid to infect them.
But at a certain point we broke down and started hugging. Our daily walks, talks, and a hug were my emotional solace in this great loneliness.
Now they live in Washington state (by my brother and his family) and I miss them terribly. I love them a lot and sincerely enjoy their company—my dad’s upbeat thoughtful demeanor, the concern I always see in my mom’s eyes. Today we spoke on the phone and my mom prayed for me (as she always does) and I could hear that she was on the edge of tears.
It’s tough right now.
Back in my increasingly hot apartment, I take care of my morning work from home—answering student e-mails, posting the daily article on the Fullerton Observer web site.
I finish an article I’d started about a week ago—a comparison of the voting records of the two candidates running for the local State Senate seat.
I post a few comments on the online discussion boards for the two writing classes I’m teaching (remotely) at Fullerton College. I don’t really like online teaching. I feel disconnected from my students. It’s weird and alien after 14 years of teaching in-person.
I’m out of my anti-depressant medication and (not having a car) I know I must make the long, hot walk to Ralphs. I also need some groceries. I pop on my headphones and listen to Neil Young’s “Greendale” album as I make the hot trek. I linger a while in Ralphs, cooling off, before the hot trek home.
“Greendale” is a cool concept/story album released at the height of the Iraq War. It has a sort of rural/environmentalist/anti-war vibe soaked in the drone-y guitars of later Neil Young’s post-grunge aesthetic.
Back at home, I cool off by sticking my head in the freezer.
I watch a couple episodes of “Schitt’s Creek” while eating sushi I got from Ralphs (Don’t judge—I like their Philly rolls).
In the afternoon, I perform my grim daily ritual of posting the Orange County COVID-19 numbers on the Fullerton Observer Facebook page. Only 2 new deaths today. Yesterday it was 19. When will this end?
I spend the rest of the afternoon reading a few issues of a magazine called Orange County Review, which was published in the early 1920s. I want to write an article about what was happening locally and nationally 100 years ago. There are striking similarities between then and now. The world had recently emerged from a global pandemic (the 1918 flu) and a World War.
Hyper nationalism, white supremacy, and anti-immigrant sentiment were on the rise. The more things change…
Oh, I forgot to mention, on my walk back home from my morning coffee, I saw a sticker on the crosswalk signal of Commonwealth and Malden. It had a picture of an American eagle and stated “Reclaim America” and had a web site www.patriotfront.us. A quick Google search informed me that this is a Neo-Nazi, white supremacist, Neo-Fascist, and American nationalist group. I tear the sticker off.
When will this end?
What else did I do today? I guess that’s about it. Will I continue this? We’ll see. I must say, after writing this, as is often the case, I feel a little better.
But seriously, when will this end?
