Greetings from my bed.
It’s not my normal bed, in so many ways. It’s the bed in the guest room, to start. I no longer share a bed with my (soon-to-be-ex-but-really-are-we-talking-about-paperwork-now? NOW?) husband. However, we are isolating together, which is as an apt descriptor of our marriage as one’s going to get. There are days when it’s fine. There are days when it’s nice. And there are days when it’s lonely (for both of us, I’m certain.)
Kindness is the keyword to our operating systems right now. But so is put on your own oxygen mask before helping others. The dance gets less awkward with practice. (But it’s still awkward.)
The world changed since I’ve written last. The world has changed since yesterday. My world has changed so drastically in the last year that I had forgotten not everyone was surfing this tidal wave of anxiety with a glass of wine in their hand. (The WHO would like to remind you that alcohol is not a great coping mechanism. They are probably right. But masturbation is!)
This bed, the one here in the guest room with the fitted sheet that never fits quite over the mattress but only pulls up on the side where I sleep no matter which order I fit each corner, this is my work bed. A labyrinth of cables connected to a USB powerstrip snakes through my bedside table — for my phone, for my iPad, for my speakers, for my vibrator (see above). But each cable has its own, specific assignment. The cell phone cable and the vibrator cable never plug into each other’s ports. Don’t cross the streams. Who knows what the other has seen. (I know.)
Every single work from home listicle I’ve read — which is many, the Internet is full of them these days — lacks mention of a work bed. They do mention things like “take breaks” and “keep normal hours” and “eat meals” as I type this at 4:23am on a laptop as I try to remember the last time I ate (8:39pm, fistful of turkey pepperoni.) The only vestige of these tips I always commit to is get dressed, and by get dressed, I mean wear a bra. (Not underwear. Underwear is superfluous in a pandemic world. Wear ‘em for thirst traps but save yourself the laundry.)
I don’t take breaks because my ADHD, even with medication, is worse these days. It’s Pandemic Brain and if I don’t commit to the work then the day is lost. I write like I’m about to be dragged off and shot, feverishly vomiting out words until I have nothing left. Because I am one of the lucky assholes to have a job right now. I’m trying to spread some of that luck around. I swear.
I’ve offered to speak to classes of kids (and groups of adults) about writing because I thought it would take some of the pressure off of teachers, and it would be schoolwork without having to be work. (I have so few things to offer in this ridiculous new world but this is one of them.)
But like the rest of my life, the rules are different for you than they are for me. You shouldn’t put any pressure on yourself to create right now.
Your Operating System: Be Kind.
Be good. I love you.
Oh, I’m on substack now. I’m currently not doing paid subscriptions but at some point I might? I don’t know how any of it works but we’ll figure it out together. xo
I love you and I don't know what a substack is.
So good to hear your voice again.