A Day In The Life.

My eyes fluttered open and closed again. I fought off the heaviness of last night's sleep-hangover. Why is insomnia such a clingy b*tch?

I rolled over and buried my face into my third pillow. Embarassingly, it takes me five pillows to sleep these days; one body pillow and two regular. What could scream "intimacy issues" more than that? I let my body sink into my bedding, not wanting to face another agonizing day. Days, weeks, and months have become a mixture between the monotony of repetative denial and the relentless pressure to cling to any scraps of shredded hope. Quarantine is a my new b*tch.

Depression is my old b*itch, and anxiety is still my main b*tch, but there's always room for more these days. I remind myself that "good" feminists don't call themselves b*tches but can't help roll my eyes at myself, "B**tch, STFU." I half chuckle as I consider how much I've come to enjoy full-on conversations with myself lately and wonder if I am coming close to "mentally-disturbed b*tch".

I reach for my iPhone like a good drone. Scrolling until I feel satisfied that I have thoroughly checked in on all my social media accounts. I land on YouTube inevitebly. Usually consuming random topics and conspiracy theories, I mean news reports. Or I will put on an educational podcast while I stretch out in bed. Anything to let my over-active-anxiety-induced-mind wander off into a peaceful oblivion for a few glorious minutes.

I hear the crashing of garbage trucks outside commencing their morning rounds. It reminds me that no matter how bleek things can seem, the world keeps turning. Eventually the sting of my bladder and cravings for coffee pull me from my comfy fortress. I stumble to the bathroom, tripping over my only companion; my cat. We have a love-hate thing going on. Her and I have been through some hell these past few years, and I can just feel that she's over it too. She bumps my leg and begs for food she doesn't need. I tell her, "There's a pandemic, you don't need it!" She meows in defiance.

I shuffle my feet to the kitchen next, and put water onto boil for coffee. As that steams, I pull out my yoga mat and let the sunlight in through the windows. Morning stretches are a cruel reminder of how old and stiff I feel. I remind myself that being a yogi means sitting with disomfort. Then I proceed to gently abuse my muscles into submission, I mean Asana.

Eventually my body wakes up. I feel the blood flowing through my veins and muscles. As the stiffness subsides, so does my shit-ass attitude. This my friends is why I love yoga. It saved my mental health by discipling my overactive mind through movement. Brilliant really, thank you Yoga.

I ponder what I should fill my time with today as I pour my coffee. In these still small moments I quietly enjoy my little creative space where I can exist on my own terms. The real work is to push away the tendency to stress about the realities of my current employment crisis.

Reading wins. It's my oldest escape. I didn't imagine it would be so fun to re-explore old hobbies I had lost the time for pre-2020. Books have been a comforting and calming to my nerves. Reading is a guilt-free escape for me becasue it feels educational and productive. Or at the very least a decent mental exercise. I dive into the familiar characters and sip my Joe.

Cooking up culinary masterpieces has been another hobby of choice in lockdown. I feel my stomach grumble in anger as I think about what to whip myself up. I'll admit I am pretty lazy about breakfast. I usually opt for a quick smoothie, yogurt parfait, eggs n' toast, oatmeal, or choclate-chip vanilla pancakes. Might as well use my time to sharpen my skills and feed myself right on these food stamps.

Now that I am full and satisfied I realize it's noon and I haven't showered yet. Good thing I am alone with my filth and stench. I strategically hit the bong before I head to my shower (if you know, you know). Self care time has become my little daily "Happy Hour" in quarantine. Some times I do the most and include; candles, scents, herbs, plants, crystals, music, dim lighting, bubbles, bath-bombs, beauty masks, snacks, movies, journaling, the list really does go on and on.

Now that I feel more myself I throw on some comfy-cute clothes and run outside for a long walk in the brisk sunshine. I last only thirty minutes before my cold butt comes right back home. Happily reunited with my couch-potato status. I stuff my face with lunch and stream Netflix to avoid responsibility at all costs. Oh and facing reality and all that.

Hours later... I wake up from my TV coma dazed and hungry. My bladder screams at me. Time for dinner and more yoga. I pretend my mat time helps me digest my food. I check emails and put in applications. The lonliness sets in. I shrug it off and text a friend. Venting off the madness with humor and sarcasm.

I find myself snuggling on the couch with my cat. I'm not sure how I got here. I forget what time it is. What day it is. Time for bed.

I make myself a hot cup of tea to garnish off my sleepy mood and slip into comfi-er pajamas. I decide one last bong hit will help me sleep soundly. Becasue we all know I could use a full eight hours to feul my invigorating days alone at home with my thoughts. As I inhale deeply and let my body crash back into my comfy fortress. The smoke billows into the air off my lips and out into space. My mind quickly follows; closing out another beautiful day in my confines.