Little and poor sleep. Mornings start around 5.30am even on the weekends. I spend hours absorbing the sunlight pouring through my window.
Just out of spite and fear, my ex and I start talking again for a brief spell of familiarity.
It’s difficult to get true breaks from work. I feel guilty when I take fresh air breaks, so the window becomes my new best friend. Even with the lack of sleep, I start feeling rested. Is this what living slowly feels like?
Routine prevents me from slipping into endless cycles of panic eating. A few days in and work piles up more than ever before. It’s an odd thing to complain about while thousands of people get furloughed.
My mental health starts to deteriorate. I’m “fine” for one minute, and explode into uncontrollable sobbing the next. I lean on sport and yoga to distract myself from the pain.
It comes to a point that isolation is normal. It can feel normal.
Disassociation is normal. Or is it?
“How can any of this be normal?” I keep asking myself. Phone calls with friends and family are the new norm. I joke that I have a richer social life now than ever before.
I keep a list of those who will pick up the phone.