Looking forward.

I’ve spent a long time during this quarantine trying to figure out why I’ve been so down. Of course, everyone’s going through it because this is new to us, and it’s lasted longer than we ever imagined it would. A lot of us are running out of things to do, things to talk about, new things to try.

This time is particularly hard for me because I’ve always defined my life by the things I can and will do. Even as a teenager, I’d spend one day out of every week recapping the things I had to look forward to and post it to my Tumblr. I’d re-read it over and over again any time I started to feel sad. Those things and only those things got me through each day.

But now, I wake up morning with a sense of dread. How many days have gone by? How many do I have left? I have these mini existential crises where I forget who I am, where I am, and what anything is. They’re quick moments, but they have lasting effects that leave me in a weird daze for hours after they’re over. For the first time in my life, I have nothing tangible to look forward to. Every single plan I have is conditional, and I feel more unfulfilled than I probably ever have.

Of course, things could always be worse, but that doesn’t bring me comfort. Complaining doesn’t help either. Someone who lives their life anticipating the future has a hard time appreciating the present.

As days go by, it gets harder for me to accomplish anything. Rarely can I write, it’s almost impossible to read more than 20 pages of a book in one sitting, and I’ve stopped getting joy from music. I’ve never been a TV-watcher, so I spend hours re-watching episodes of shows I’ve already seen. I don’t have the capacity to absorb any new information. Every time I’m on the verge of completing something, I remember there’s no end goal. So I choose not to finish it.

The worst thing about me is, I do what I can get away with. There are no real consequences for not getting something done these days because it feels like there’s always tomorrow. And the day after. And the next 6 months after. Those dishes aren’t going anywhere and neither is that laundry. I know, it’s a terrible way to think, but this mindset is like quicksand. If only my anxiety would dissipate, maybe I could pull myself out of it.

Now, we’re at a point where I can’t sleep. I’m actually afraid to. As soon as my body starts to creep toward restfulness, I spring up in bed gasping for air as if I’m suffocating or drowning. Part of me thinks it’s the weight of nothingness that’s crushing me, sitting on my chest so heavily that I can’t breathe. If I fall asleep, it might consume me and maybe I won’t wake up. The thought terrifies me.

I know I usually do my best to end these things on a positive note, but optimism requires exactly what I don’t have right now. I know this thing won’t last forever, but that idea doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t make merely existing feel better. It doesn’t motivate me to learn something new or get something done. It just keeps me here, waiting, wishing, praying for something I can finally look forward to.