BY FRANCES KANOUS
It has been one year since we boarded the ride we’ve come to know as Covid. I know that it’s been exactly one year because the internet reminded me. On This Day: We had recently been informed that our offer on a house was accepted. A ranch in a tree lined neighborhood, about 2 miles from our current place. Not a whole hell of a lot bigger, but the location was ideal. On This Day: Apparently, I hadn’t left the house in over 72 hours. Two kids and two adults, instructed to stay put. My husband and I had never experienced anything like this in our lifetimes, but we are no strangers to chaos. Hey, I don’t have to go to work this week.
Before Covid, I was already tired. I have a thin, relaxed face that is never hidden by makeup. I wear my exhaustion with pride. You see me here, like this, because I worked for it. Everything I was schlepping through in March of last year, for both myself and my children, cannot be compared to some of the things I’ve endured up to that point.
I have a tattoo that says 1/20/12. Approximately 6 months before my daughter was born; I decided not to get high that day. Since then, I have single-parented, gone to school, failed school, worked double shifts and been fired. I have dated, cohabitated, suffered a miscarriage, had a son, twice been institutionalized, and married my husband. And I stayed sober. I may have lost out on some typical twenties mischief, but those events made me well-adjusted enough to endure a few weeks of seclusion.
Closing came and went. Moving, unpacking, homeschooling, and working from home. Increasing uncertainty and a toilet paper shortage. I thought I put this kind of madness behind me when I dropped out of school. My children had not yet realized they wouldn’t see their friends for months. I’m a hermit, so this won’t be difficult.
Summer 2020 was pure political madness. In Michigan, we had an attempted kidnapping of our governor. Were they crazed supporters of Donald or just truly passionate about their freedoms? We will probably never know. Nobody endured this pandemic without coming out radicalized in one way or another. Myself? My political compass now reads “anarcho-something-or-other.” I don’t have any patience for middle of the road politicians or policies. All or nothing, time to get with the program. And what a liberating declaration that is! Subpar progress will no longer be tolerated.
Angst and frustration could be seen erupting in any large city in the U.S. You can only spend so much time screaming at the top of your caps lock before you burst out onto the streets. In Lansing, we had our fair shake of protests and riots. For some, this was an opportunity to be in the company of others without Sam having any say. For most, this was their first time demonstrating their deeply rooted rage. It was overdue, but Covid created a perfect storm for anyone whose oppression was perpetuated as being a myth. The hand that kept the American voice muffled was quickly becoming viewed as untrustworthy.
I accompanied them in the streets: Washington, Capitol, and Michigan Avenues, among others. I didn’t yell or make demands because my voice was not the one that needed to be heard. But I marched in solidarity and held my BLM sign. Plus, I got to watch a car explode. Thanks for letting me join you.
A longing for connection was burning in most everyone. I was added to an online group started by a handful of locals: Party Like it’s Covid 1999. It was wild. Everyone was live-streaming their activities from home. Day drinking, food porn, racy pictures… someone may or may not have taken a shit on camera. There was an intoxicating mixture of boredom, excitement, and taboo. Elements I had not witnessed since the days of ingesting whatever substance would fry any available brain cell. Almost a decade clean,
It was both new and old for me. Returning to an old lifestyle is said to be a death wish for sober people. Luckily it’s just social media.
Both virtually and at rallies, I saw names and faces I had once rejected due to our differences in lifestyle. Seeing them was a treat for this hoe-turned-housewife. The longer I engaged with some of them, the more I was confronted by an excitement that had dwindled a long time ago. And there’s no doubt about it— it seized my attention.
I couldn’t help but wonder and fantasize. It sparked the question: is there something I left behind? Admittedly, I became somewhat consumed. I see so much of myself in these people. Would I fit back into this crowd? I questioned the things I’d told myself for many years. They seem happy. What am I missing out on? As time went on, I began feeling anger and betrayal. Who even are the people I’ve been calling my friends? How much time did I lose? Then depression.
In seclusion, whatever outlets you once relied on to preserve a sense of normalcy are either warped or out altogether. For some, you only have one place to go: inside your own head. Living there for months on end will twist any mind into a form of grindhouse horror that only a lobotomy will subdue. For those
of us who were short circuiting even prior to Covid, our best bet was to retreat to some other planet. And that’s what I did.
I maintained my usual checks and balances for a while. You’re emotionally imbalanced. Did you take your medication? What time of this month is it? But it wasn’t long before my neatly groomed thought processes started to unravel. My dreams were theatrical mysteries that pleaded with me to be solved. My weekly therapy sessions were unrecognizable. Am I still in love with my ex? A month dedicated to asking questions that my shrink couldn’t answer. Nobody will understand. My thoughts bounced from one extreme to another, none of them sound or logical. Each passing week was spent desperately trying to unearth anything that made sense.
There are no secrets with my therapist. I think I’m still in love with someone from my past. I was on a deluded odyssey of epic proportions. I’m going to reach out to him. Please don’t try to talk me out of it. She didn’t.
There are no secrets with my husband. I don’t expect you to understand because I myself don’t. He, in fact, did not understand, but trusted me in my exploration.
The messages were brief. It was both surprising and not to hear many familiar things from him. He thinks no one will love me like he did. Is that supposed to make me feel good? The abuse I had endured came flooding back to me. How could I have forgotten? It became abundantly clear that he was not the person I was looking for.
You cannot simply shake the amount of self loathing that dropped into my lap. Any hope I had for a resolution to my gut wrenching confusion now stared back at me with a look of disgust. I don’t know how I can move forward. How did it get to this point? All that remained was the unanswered question: if he wasn’t what I left behind, who or what is?
Attending therapy the following week felt like moving a mountain. I was wrong, although I didn’t have to use those exact words. I’ve been vulnerable before, I can do it again. I saw an opportunity to peer into
A chapter that had been closed, burned, and forgotten. Human nature told me to turn back, but there was a voice inside me that said take the ticket. So I did.
I have seldom shared with others the gory details of the cesspool that was my bottom. Narrating those details was like experiencing them all over again, which is the kind of thing that will make a drug addict recall their dealer’s number as if on speed dial. Word by word, I uttered the shame, lack of control, and fear, all of which painted the bleak image that was my life. I don’t even remember hiding these memories away. Somewhere within my story was also an image of a young woman who loved excitement and taboo. Where did she go?
Our conversations moved to a retelling of my first year sober. I was a new mom. There was no room for risk or excitement. I took into great consideration what others said was best for me, and it usually included cutting ‘people, places, and things’ right out. I had to abandon so much from my past, including some of who I was.
In only a handful of words, I had uttered the exact phrase I needed to hear myself say: I had abandoned myself. It was as if, for the first time, the soil had been wiped away so I could reach in to exhume parts of myself that had been buried. I could pull them out, bring them to the surface, and embrace them once more.
I may have discovered an important missing piece, but the puzzle is far from assembled. I don’t plan to stop growing because I’m no longer content with subpar progress. As for right now, “On This Day” in March of 2021, I am a little more whole and a lot more accustomed to the pandemic life.
