Quarantine Navel Gazing

I miss who I used to be.

Quarantine killed her.

Maybe “kill” is a strong word. Quarantine forced her into hiding. That’s closer to what I hope is true. I hope she comes back. I miss her.

I miss jumping out of bed before 5:30 every day, ready to exercise and set goals and plan the day. My planner that I love has empty days and blank pages. My graphs and charts so painstakingly created in January are not updated . . . and April 2020 Jenny can’t care. I feel more fragile and merely a shadow of what I was before. 

Before quarantine.

I miss wanting to eat the best food for my body and mind. I can’t find that motivation anywhere. When I turned 50, I was in the best shape (mentally and physically) I’ve been in in years. Now quarantine sags over my pants, tightens my bra, and softens my features and self-discipline. All the great habits I created in 2019 dissolved one by one . . . and I did nothing to stop it from happening.

I miss direction. I knew exactly where to take my thesis and had a plan prepared for life when I finished writing it in November. Now it all seems unimportant and peripheral.

I miss control. Knowing what was happening and when and where and managing my family’s task list centered me and gave me purpose. Now that I am solely responsible for school, exercise, chores, screen time, and mental health—I’m exhausted, and I want to stop being the manager. I want to quit but know that that is not the right choice for my (or my family’s) sanity and growth during this weird period in our lives.

Funny enough, I know what I’ve been doing to get through this period of self-isolation (eating all. the. things—and I mean ALL—sleeping late, postponing exercise and journaling until it’s too late in the day) does not make me happy, even temporarily. But there’s something in the quarantined air that fights against my goals and convinces me that none of that other stuff really matters.

I made a decision tonight. I’m going to find 2019 me—the me who plans and wakes up early and takes care of body and mind and revels in making and achieving even small goals. She’s somewhere under the murky sediment dumped from the great pandemic of 2020, a deep layer already solidifying and attempting to make itself permanently comfortable in my psyche. But guess what? I’m in control of where this goes and how. I control how I feel and how I react and how I move and how I fuel my mind and body. I control what I read and what I believe and how I react to the uncontrollable, ever-changing crazy that surrounds me.

I’m a fighter. I haven’t been for the last five weeks, but she’s making a comeback.

I know, Mufasa.

It’s time.