When the global pandemic hit, I thought I would ace self-isolation. I live alone, I’ve got this right? Why wouldn’t I? I’m used to it. I’m good at it. I even enjoy it.
I was wrong.
Back in ye olde life, I didn’t actually spend that much time alone at all. I was always connected.
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To work friends, to work foes, to family and friends, and strangers on the internet. From those moments of contact, I experienced emotion and change. I learnt things, I felt things – micro-learning and micro-feelings that layered up to create a day in my life.
So, back in this land of normal, the hour or three before sleep each night, alone, were fine. I reflected, I tuned out, I rang mum, I devoured guilty pleasures like Ramona Singer or Lisa Rina – or a cheeky pinot noir or two. I made plans and I kept the momentum of life going.
It wasn’t a perfect life and there were a lot of gaps – a partner, a lover, children, a better job, holiday plans – but it was a life.
Now those daily distractions are gone, I’m struggling. Isolating alone isn’t all at-home facials and Netflix.
It started off OK. A little more freedom with my work hours, a bit of ‘catch up’ time to get the things done I’ve been thinking about for ages. The novelty of Zoom meetings and virtual Friday drinks. Setting up the home workspace and seeing how excited the dog was to have me all to himself every day. Not wearing a bra under a fleece hoodie and combining boxer shorts and Ugg boots.
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