I'M OKAY, BUT HOW ABOUT YOU?

I’m rarely Miss Sunshine, but let me give it a try. Online and when I’m out and about, armed with a mask for possible close encounters, I come across a common sentiment that everyone wants the year 2020 to be over. It’s dragged on, people say. A month feels like a year. Every tragedy is evidence that this year is cursed. I don’t fault people for this line of thinking. It makes for easy connections on social media. Misery loves company, as they say. If you raise a middle finger to 2020 in a tweet, you’re bound to get a lot of likes. That’s what it’s all about, right?

Personally, I’ve had worse years. I only have to go back to...let’s see...last year. I spent one-fourth of 2019 in a hospital and a group home in attempt to overcome my eating disorder. Didn’t work at all. I was hospitalized for being suicidal in both 2017 and 2014. Also not good years. (Same for the years in between.) Prior to that, I spent seven years in an abusive relationship. I could go on...

Truth is, I’m fine with 2020. As I’ve noted in prior posts, it dashed an extended European trip, first with a month taking Swedish language immersion classes in Stockholm and then on to Estonia, Helsinki, Prague, the Algarve in Portugal and a full exploration around Iceland’s Ring Road. The only way I could ever afford such an extensive trip was through perfect timing, selling my condo and putting my things in storage, thus going without rent or mortgage payments while abroad. It was all part of a grander scheme to press the reset button on my life, following Europe with a move to Toronto. The entire plan imploded, thanks to the coronavirus.

Fine. Nothing personal. The gods weren’t targeting me. Life happens. And so, we’ve learned, do pandemics.

I’ve come to realize that, with all my diagnosed quirks, I may be one of the people best equipped to weather coronavirus measures. Being an introvert, I take the steady stream of canceled events and social restrictions in stride. I have close friendships that go back four decades, but these people don’t live anywhere near me. We rarely text, Facetime or send emails and yet I know that, whenever we see each other after years apart, it’s just like old times. I’m nourished and so are they. It’s enough. This imposed time away from one another is tolerable.

Having an eating disorder, eating out can be highly problematic. If someone comments about the portion size of my order, the experience is ruined. Never mind that I’ve adjusted my meals and exercise leading up to going out for dinner. I feel under scrutiny. I want to crumble. The restaurant is unsafe. I just want to get the server to box up my food or chuck it. Get me out of there. Forgoing eating out hasn’t been much of a sacrifice; it may even be a blessing.

My social anxiety is more in check these days too. No events, no panic. No backing out at the last minute after a restless night, worrying about all the ways I’ll botch a conversation. No planning preemptive maneuvers to avoid people who make me feel ill-at-ease. It’s amazing how social anxiety fades away when social time isn’t an option.

Of course, there are new opportunities for social angst. Why isn’t that person wearing a mask? Did she just cough or is that how she clears her throat? Why is the person behind me in line creeping up on me instead of standing on the designated circle on the ground? If I turn around and glare, will I become part of a video that goes viral? (My god, if someone can randomly punch out Rick Moranis, aren’t we all vulnerable?!)

For the most part, these awkward moments in public aren’t uniquely mine. My worries are common instead of part of a special diagnosis. With all my mental health issues, it’s reassuring to feel that, at this time, the things that make me anxious are...normal. Whew!

Bike rides have gotten tougher because the lanes and paths are more crowded. I fret as I try to decide on the least popular routes. Sometimes I can’t calm myself and I opt for a different form of exercise. It’s okay, I tell myself. If and when things return to some shade of normal, people will let their bikes go back to collecting dust in the garage and return to yoga classes. I’ll feel freer on my bike again.

Perhaps most astonishing is the fact that I haven’t even had any agonizing episodes of depression. There have been blips, moments when I know my mood can quickly crash. In the past, the freefall was almost inevitable and the only question was, How long this time? For now, blips are blips. Nothing more. Misery does indeed love company. In the midst of all this talk about social distancing, locking down and isolating, I feel so much less alone.

It’s a relief to shove aside the nagging question, What’s wrong with me? I don’t have to berate myself when I can’t Snap out of it. Like the generations who had to weather the Great Depression or live through a world war, this is our collective challenge.

So I’m okay, but are you okay?

I know that many people who generally fare better in non-pandemic times are struggling now. There’s unemployment and underemployment. Some jobs have become more stressful due to heavier workloads or new ways of operating. Extroverts may be feeling isolated, connections online failing to fill the void from loss of in-person interactions. Families have struggled with prolonged separation. Older people and persons with compromised immune systems feel more vulnerable each time they step beyond home. Mental health issues like depression and anxiety and feelings of doom and helplessness can be debilitating.

If I can share anything constructive based on my own struggles, it’s that it is best to share one’s thoughts and feelings. Even though this is a global problem, it affects each person differently. Gone are the days of “sucking it up” and “going it alone.” It helps to talk things out. It eases some of the pressure that builds inside when negativity swirls and stagnates.

Know that people won’t always be good listeners. Many people get uncomfortable hearing about another person’s discomfort. They jump in too soon with advice that’s often simplistic and off the mark. Sometimes it’s best to just nod and move on to trying to talk with another person, but I’ve found that all people do better with a little coaching. Tell them what you need.

Stop. I just want you to listen. (You may have to say this many times. People always want to jump in. In addition to thinking they have quick-fix, cure-all advice, they are bursting with anecdotes to share. Listening is a skill that requires practice.)

I’m not looking for advice. I don’t expect you to solve things.

It just helps if I feel heard. I need to get this off my chest.

There are professional options as well. Before my first hospitalization, I called a grief hotline and I phoned the number for my employer’s employee assistance program. One call helped, one didn’t. You can expect some hits and some many misses. One “well that was useless” experience shouldn’t be the end of reaching out. (I know, I know...it’s hard to persevere when you feel at your weakest. Take a break. Regroup. It’s worth it once you finally find some relief, however small.) If you contact your family doctor or go to the hospital, write out anything you can to describe how you are struggling. Refer to your notes. Don’t skip half of your points. It’s too easy to feel dismissed or to suddenly minimize your own challenges when a professional phone call or environment makes us feel like we’re taking up valuable time. (That old “suck it up” notion creeps back in.)

Mental health has a long way to go in terms of funding and understanding. One positive to come from the coronavirus is that the spike in mental health problems in the “regular” population has meant that professionals are having to brush up on their knowledge of mental health symptoms, diagnoses, resources and approaches. Make them listen, too.

Know that you are not taking away from professionals’ time in dealing with the coronavirus. Obviously, there are physical health matters that must be addressed, but the mental health matters should be just as obvious. If that doesn’t seem apparent as you reach out, let me reiterate: make it apparent or reach out to someone capable of listening.

Take care of yourself.

IN A TIME MACHINE, I JUST MIGHT CHOOSE THE YEAR 2020

Read an article last week about breaking up during the pandemic. I’d provide a link, but when I Googled the subject, there were too many matches. Maybe the pandemic shattered more relationships, all that claustrophobic time together and all. Or maybe breaking up is just such a common thing, no matter the time. Does that help people?

It’s not you, it’s a slew of folks.

Anyway, the article talked about how the isolating nature of this coronavirus interlude prevented the writer from receiving comforting hugs from friends, from going out to dinner or a club just to take her mind off the dumping and from getting back to it again and seeing who else is out there. The regular post-breakup channels were not in service. True enough.

It’s been six or seven weeks since I ended things with Daniel and I’m welcoming the COVID-19 barriers to normal recovery. Granted, as I’ve noted before, being single again doesn’t necessarily feel as painful to the person who calls things off. I wasn’t the one who was blindsided. Ostensibly, I’d thought about the repercussions of being single again before I ever had The Talk. Even if there were no pandemic, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be soliciting hugs or crying into shared Nachos Supreme plates as a friend tries to artfully dance around pained queries of “What’s wrong with me?” and, cue Linda Ronstadt, “When will I be loved?” I’m not much of a hugger or a sharer (including oversized appies).

I will admit that, while I’m not missing Daniel—it was the right decision—I’ve had to play a few rounds of the Whack-a-Mole game as nagging questions of self-doubt and self-criticism pop up:

Why isn’t it ever enough?

Is this about being too picky?

What makes me think I deserve better?

You know Ryan Reynolds is straight, right? And married...

Should I just settle?

Is this the end of dating?

Am I too old to fall in love again?

For me, a coronavirus gift—a dating consolation prize, if you will—is that I can stay in a state of inaction. I can just be.

That’s always been a challenge for me. Many years ago, a close friend of mine said, “You can’t ever just sit, can you? You’re always doing something.” He didn’t mean that I had ADHD; rather, I always had a To Do list, every day, every hour.

It startled me because I’d thought of myself as a laid back. Not quite as chill as a surfer dude (and that’s not just a stereotype; I had a surfer roomie for eight months when I lived in Malibu), but something chill-adjacent at least. But then I started monitoring myself...my evenings, my weekends, my vacations. Damn, I was intense. And if the task at hand wasn’t too taxing, I was multitasking. If I allowed myself to watch an episode of “Seinfeld,” I had an article in my lap or a crossword at the ready for commercial breaks. Even downtime had to be productive.

Normally, my approach to dating is just like my quest for getting a novel or essay published. When an editor or agent rejects my writing, I let my shoulders slump momentarily, whisper a profane word or two and then start preparing my next query, newly fired up, believing this editor/agent is even better. The perfect fit! Similarly, when a coffee date goes bust or a relationship ends, I log back into dating sites, I search and search, trying to find a profile I somehow overlooked and I send a new message, sure to impress with my use of full words, complete sentences and proper punctuation. (That’s what gay men are looking for, isn’t it?)

But this time around, I’m in a prolonged state of pause. The dating sites that I made inactive at the beginning of the year remain so. I haven’t once been tempted to log in again. It’s pointless. Even if there were a right guy, it would still be the wrong time.

I know people are getting back out there, returning to schools and offices, dining in restaurants, leaving their colorful rainbow masks on the kitchen counter. Heck, my octogenarian parents in Texas just hosted an indoor dinner party for friends in their complex, no one donning masks. “We get lonely,” my mom said. “We miss our friends too much.” It’s yet another example of how this apple fell oh so far from the tree. I’m pretty sure I’m an altogether different fruit.

Five months in and I’m still loving my solitary time. I feel no urgency to get back in the saddle again to see if I can rustle up a new boyfriend. It’s not like I’m spending an inordinate amount of time reflecting on why I suck at relationships...or at least why they always seem to be with neither Mr. Right nor Mr. Clearly Wrong but more like Mr. Woefully Askew. I know my dating strengths and weaknesses and, during this latest go-round, I made great gains in clear communication which had been the downfall of a prior relationship.

This time of not looking, of not even considering, has been so freeing. The coronavirus seems to be what I’ve needed to give myself permission to shelve thoughts of future dating (and fretting about not dating). While I’ve seen, heard and read about how others have resisted The Grand Pause, it’s been a great relief to me. Some greater force tapped me on the shoulder and calmly, yet decisively said, “Not now.”

Why, thank you!

It’s reminded me that being single ain’t so bad. I know that when I lived ten years on my own in a rural area, it almost destroyed me, but that was before I was ever handed my nifty portfolio of mental health diagnoses and it was during a time when my self-hate was savage and unrelenting. I still have to watch for mood dips—and there have been some this year—but generally the pandemic has lifted me. Weird, I know. This greater force has allowed me to be unapologetically, guilt-free me. I love my Me time. There is invariably a moment that comes when I’m out with a boyfriend or a friend and, no matter how nice the experience may be, my mind says, I’m done. Enough socializing. I need to be alone. ASAP.

That’s why writing suits me so well. No one questions all my time in solitary, developing stories that may never find an audience. You’re so disciplined, people say when I talk about my strict writing routine. I’m just doing what I love and it seems to come off as more palatable than the guy who spends equal amounts of time on video games.

While I hear people saying they just want 2020 to be over with, I’m savoring these days. (Let’s be clear though: I want the cases and the deaths to stop. Bring on the vaccine!) I write. I read. I work on my French and my Swedish. Depending on the day, I head out to hike or cycle or run. Days can go by without me contacting anyone else. I can feel like such an outlier in normal times but, thanks to a pandemic, I’m now a model citizen.

Single and satisfied.

ON AN ISLAND, NOT FAR ENOUGH AWAY

I saw the pics of party boys crowded together on Fire Island over the Fourth of July weekend, face masks ditched along with most other accessories and articles of clothing. My first thought was a combination of horror and shame. I’ve always gotten defensive when a gay person or a group of gays does something that makes it easy for haters to cite while claiming we are a deplorable lot. It’s as if gays have to always be on their best behavior. No gay man can be a COVIDIOT. It’s a doubly damning when a gay group comes off as hypersexual and vacuous.

I suppose my defensiveness comes from growing up in an era when homosexuals were regularly labeled as perverts and recklessly lumped in with pedophiles and other societal pariahs. With so few openly gay men forty years ago, the public actions of one was easily deemed the actions of all. It’s why I resented and despised the only gay organization I ever read about in media: NAMBLA (the North American Man/Boy Love Association). It perpetuated the notion that gays were pedophiles and, lo and behold, there wasn’t a throng of “regular” gay men coming forward to state otherwise.

Despite all the gains the LGBTQ community has made, I remain wary that acceptance is far from universal and there are intolerant factions emboldened by the occupant of the White House who look for fodder to fuel their campaign to return to a reign of straight white men.

Maybe I should just chill and tell myself that the “good ol’ days” won’t come back just because a group of gym-primed gays lets loose after months of lockdown, drinking and doing party drugs while cramming together like sardines at some party venue. There have been plenty of photos of predominately straight people flocking to beaches and bars, face masks and social distancing recommendations be damned. There’s a contingency of humans that flocks to It places—crowded spaces—eager to see and be seen, excited to post that they were part of The Happening on social media. Look at me, bitches! I’ll bet you wish you were me!

Actually, no. But then I’m an extreme introvert whose daily life didn’t change a whole lot as the planet shut down on account of the coronavirus. Still, I get that many people have felt like they’ve been cooped up for too long. Lockdown fatigue has led to many episodes of shortsighted, selfish behavior.

As I pass septuagenarians and octogenarians, I take wider detours to give them space and I hope for their continued wellness. I would be shattered if I somehow passed the virus on to them through my action or inaction. I wish more people would remain cognizant of the people most vulnerable to this epidemic.

I truly hope that the Fire Islanders do not contract the virus. I have my doubts though, considering how badly New York was hit. I worry the attendees will return to households, workplaces and communities, unknowingly spreading the coronavirus to elderly and immune-compromised people they come across. It takes a little reminder, but I know their actions do not represent most gay men. Stupid people come in every race, gender, social class and sexual orientation. It’s just when they are COVIDIOTs, the stakes are so much higher.

Be sensible, people. And stay healthy.

IS THERE REALLY A “REALISATION” TO COME FROM THIS?

Exceptional times. Lockdowns. Isolation. No haircuts, for god’s sake.

Playgrounds that can’t be played on. Tennis courts without nets. Parking lots by parks blocked off. Empty sports arenas. Weight racks at normally crowded gyms gathering dust.

Streets without cars lined up at lights that continue to change from green to yellow to red, a reminder of the congestion that once was. Masked men daring to venture out, alone, with suddenly shaven heads. Whoa, dude. Others letting their locks grow out as an homage to the big hair of the ’80s. Whoa, dude!

Starbucks closed. Major shopping areas boarded up.

Buses on the busiest routes passing by at the end of the work day with three, maybe four passengers on board. A plane spotting is as rare as a California condor.

Everybody (but me) takes to Zoom.

The daily highlight becomes standing on porches and balconies at 7 p.m., clanging cowbells, clapping hands, banging pots and pans, a behavior we’d last tried when we were five-year-olds as exasperated mothers coaxed the wooden spoon and whisk from our hands.

People dying alone, bringing some of us eerie flashbacks to the AIDS crisis, only families staying away now is an order, not a choice.

Murky canals in Europe and the skies in Los Angeles becoming clearer. The Himalayas are visible from 125 miles away. Flour, toilet paper and disinfectant appear at the top of people’s wish lists. A talking schnauzer named Pluto goes viral. So does Leslie Jordan.

In North America, the era of hunkering down nears the two-month mark, but there are signs everywhere—We Are Open—that things are returning to “normal”. On April 1^st, I moved into the condo that I’m temporarily renting after my plans for extended travel and a major relocation got sidelined. At the time, my downtown neighborhood felt quietly suburban. Now as I write, there is a constant whir of vehicles on the street forty yards away. Two days ago, when I last ventured out, I stepped off the sidewalk as a group of three people—three, for god’s sake!—passed by, each carrying a heretofore ominous Starbucks paper cup tucked into its questionably necessary cardboard sleeve. I played tennis on Saturday. It may even be permissible for me to get a professional haircut before the end of the month (not that I have high hopes of snagging a coveted appointment slot).

Altogether, everyone, repeat after me: “Whew!”

We made it. Most of us, that is. Along the way, we went from suddenly loving banana bread to just as suddenly hating it. We filled our jigsaw puzzle quota for the next five decades. We allowed bicep and shoulder strains to recover.

Let’s get on with it, shall we?

But wait…

Wasn’t all that time cooped up supposed to count for something? Where’s that silver lining thing? Didn’t we spend a few poignant moments reflecting in between binges of “Tiger King” and old seasons of “Drag Race”? I’m wired to believe, or at least to hope, that something good will come of all this. Beyond a new appreciation for hairstylists. In addition to gym goers making a more conscientious effort to bring towels and wipe down benches.

Have we grown at all?

Sure, there have been some lovely video clips that circulated on social media—the neighborhood car parades wishing youngsters “Happy birthday”; the young woman holding her left hand up to the window of the nursing home to announce to her grandfather she was engaged; celebrities singing John Lennon’s “Imagine”. (Okay, I know people threw a lot of hate on that last example, but I think the intentions were good.) In Vancouver, I’ve appreciated all the murals that have popped up on those sheets of plywood covering storefronts. Everywhere, doctors, nurses, orderlies, custodians, grocery store employees and the minimum wage workers helping coordinate pizza takeout and delivery have had encounters with kinder, more thankful citizens (with some glaring exceptions).

Still, I’m hoping for something exceptional to bloom from this exceptional blip in our lives. Millions of us have seen that video, “The Great Realisation”. When I first saw it, I cheered. At last! Here it is...that moment when everything changes and you can never go back to what was before. Like when The New York Times published sexual abuse allegations against Harvey Weinstein and Alyssa Milano posted a “Me Too” tweet.

We won’t go back. We’ll go forward. This lifting of restrictions during the epidemic must be about more that getting our McDonald’s fries back. As “The Great Realisation” pronounces, let this moment be the dawning of something better...hindsight 2020.

I shared the video on Twitter and in texts. I noticed that many Facebook friends did their own sharing. This would be the beginning of the movement. But, alas, more than ten days after the video caught people’s attention, it doesn’t seem to have legs. Social media has drifted back to what it knows best: attacking people, canceling them, blocking them and occasionally throwing in a shirtless selfie or a cute Labradoodle pic.

Inside of this having Me Too momentum, I fear this may be another epic miss...like Sandy Hook in Newton, Connecticut or Pulse Orlando. Like “We Are the World” after famine fatigue set in.

Really, we can be better. Alas, my mind doesn’t know how. A few days after seeing the video for the first time, I took to Twitter, asking my 7,000+ followers what they were planning to do differently and, yes, better after all this. Crickets. Not a like, not a comment, not a retweet.

I don’t have the capacity to lead this. But I will follow and I’m sure many more will do the same. This is when I want the true leaders to step up. Be bold.

How can we change, long-term, in caring for and respecting the elderly? Could we make something new of the 7 p.m. bell ringing, perhaps transforming it into an hour of personal connection when we set aside our phones and other devices? How do we extend some of the thus-far temporary environmental improvements? How do we continue the conversation about the plight of the homeless, many of whom are plagued by unabated drug addiction and under-treated mental health issues? How do we continue to appreciate all workers? What can we do to make travel and tourism more sustainable? How do we address the gaps in health care and the racial inequities that were further exposed during the pandemic? 

Anything, people. The time is now.

It is expected that the global death toll for COVID-19 will soon pass 300,000. It would be nice if one outcome from this is that more men will finally start washing their hands with soap and water before exiting public restrooms, but this is an opportunity to dream bigger, to switch from spreading a virus to spreading positivity, to make a difference in people’s lives.

What do you think? What’s your dream? Pipe up with a comment, a tweet, a link. How can you—we—set it in motion?