The following was originally published at dearquarantinediary.com on March 27, 2020.
dear quarantine diary,
Today I woke up with a dull headache. My eyes blinked open to an empty Google Meet room; all I saw was my sleepy face in the corner of the screen.
That’s right, I thought. I fell asleep on a video call with friends. “Keep talking amongst yourselves,” I remember saying, my comforter pulled up to my chin. “At any volume. I don’t care.” I didn’t want to fall asleep alone.
I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the living room, which is also the kitchen, and I was struck by an ever-so-college ambience. Overflowing sink and trash cans. Ash on the white Ikea coffee table. And, of course, a pyramid of empty White Claw cans. “Really, Lizette?” I said, as if I was addressing my twenty year-old self (or maybe just my quarantine self).
What a party I had. Alone in my Oakland apartment. My roommate at her dad’s place. The dog with her.
Not even mice come inside in California. Are critters keeping my friends and family company back east?
Part of me wants to lecture myself; drinking six cans alone is a red flag for loneliness! But another part of me points out: I wasn’t alone. I was with my friends—making dumb innuendos, playing slumber party games, taking bathroom breaks then coming back with instant cornbread.
I think it’s important to take stock of our coping mechanisms, whether we drink or smoke or make sure we’re in constant communication with at least one person.
But I forgive myself for reverting back to college for a bit. They were fun times—hopefully not the “best four years of my life” or whatever, but still. Every night, my friends and I could stay up late—a drink or lighter or pencil in hand—talking about anything, from what professor we’d wanna get high with to what post-collegiate life might look like. What will we become?
And now people of all ages, from all places, are asking:
What will we become?
Your friend,
Lizette
