Published in Tatum Mann’s collaborative zine Hibernation.

The transition of graduating college made me so dizzy I lost my appetite. This new symptom was concerning for me- I was always told I was a girl who wasn’t afraid to eat. My three brothers taught me I must devour what I want, or it will be taken by someone else.

The end of a friendship, the beginning of a new medication, all of the planning. My emotional energy was depleted. I needed boundaries. I needed to slow down. It was as if I was having a massive temper tantrum, and my parents put me in time-out before my kicks and screams could wreck my life any further.

I am not naive enough to think a global pandemic arrived because I needed a break, but that’s what a mind does in survival mode: it rationalizes. Like the first five minutes of time-out, the first day in quarantine lasted a lifetime. Eventually, though, I found calm. I relinquished the idea my parents would crack open the door, sit on the edge of the bed, and let me out early, knowing I learned my lesson. 

I actually began to welcome the stay at home orders. My life shrank, and the confinement steadied my feet to earth. Layers of responsibilities: work, school, social commitments, were shed. I felt lighter. I was left with nothing but my freshly polished apartment, a needle and thread, and the wide open two weeks ahead. Two weeks- I reckoned with myself. The length of a luxurious international vacation. But instead of exploring new places, I sought to rediscover a destination I hadn’t reached in years: a state of rest. 

I did my time. On week three, I stretched my arms and met resistance. My home, once a warm cardigan became a straight jacket overnight. I walked around the house only to hear the creak of my weight against the bruised wood. Where were my parents? I searched in the hope of making amends so I could return to normalcy. But they were nowhere to be found, they had abandoned me completely. My two week time-out became a life sentence without a trial. So did everyone else’s. We were all in solitary confinement, not knowing the next time we’d be able to slap hands, kiss cheeks, or be closer than 6 feet apart. Our time-out was, is, eternal.