Self-Destruction Shouldn’t Be Conflated with Survival

My mental health wake-up call in the middle of a pandemic.

My house has been in some form of lockdown for 323 days today.

With the exception of a few driveway visits and a short-lived pandemic pod, so that we could see our lovely neighbors for a backyard Halloween party, we’ve been stuck here amongst ourselves.

At first, the pandemic was frightening, but it had an element of fun to it; we all thought it would only last for a few weeks, and there was a strong sense of camaraderie in the community. My children were excited to see their friends on a screen and to wear pajamas all day. Bedtimes got pushed back, and mornings became quiet unrushed affairs. In a manner of speaking, parts of the pandemic’s early days were peaceful and amusing.

The streets were dead. Not a soul could be seen anywhere, and it was both ghostly and also a welcome vacation from having to be places and doing things.

Time untethered itself from the outside world and lay loose and coiled in a pile of family activities, and donuts for breakfast, and PBS, and iPads.

But that feeling of pleasant curiosity did not last long. It took one grocery store trip for me to realize how scary things were getting. Entire store shelves were empty, and signs hung everywhere asking people not to touch products unless they planned to buy them. Basics like milk and eggs were in limited supply, and if you…