By Sophia Yakumithis

Quarantine is finally getting the best of me and I think I lost my marbles. 

“But you can’t lose what you didn’t have!” Well, if I’ve learned anything from social distancing and staying confined to a 1,000 square-foot house with three other adults for the past two months, it’s that I very much had at least SOME marbles going into this situation. And I want them back.

There comes a point where any level of sameness, whether it be in company or in routine, really takes its toll on you and you begin to feel a little unhinged. That’s pretty much where I’m at. 

I’m thankful that classes end next week because I don’t know how much more B.S.-ing I can handle. I also don’t know how much more sluggish my body is going to become, since it feels like no amount of exercise makes me feel like I’m doing “enough.” I don’t know how many more times I can roam around my neighborhood, taking the same route every single day because my OCD has been switched onto autopilot.

Pause: my neighbors probably think I’m a serial killer at this point given how repetitive that walking routine is, and I feel like they have some credibility in feeling that way. After all, there’s a good chance we’ll all watch at least one episode of “Making a Murderer” on Netflix with all the time on our hands, and repetition is a total serial killer behavior. But then again, I don’t think Ted Bundy was necessarily a compulsive bread baker (or maybe he was… he seems like the focaccia type). 

It’s just getting increasingly difficult to feel good. I knew all the sorry excuses for self-care tips and online resources for depressed people would grow stale fairly quickly. I mean, I’m just sitting here rambling about gloom and doom through a blog that I think only my mom will read. That’s pretty sad.

I’m especially sad today because I realized my denial about finding light in the darkness of a pandemic has officially been declared dead; the cynic in me has skillfully executed a successful coup d’etat and put a new, sad and insecure regime in place. 

But don’t send me uplifting messages, please. Reminding me that I could feel happy if I tried is just tantalizing; I physically don’t have the energy to feel better and I don’t really care to hear that you think I should try. I’m well aware that means of distraction are available in abundance, but my brain doesn’t have the capacity right now to access them. Until I’m allowed to step outside in my clout goggles or participate in a gathering of more than a few people, I think letting myself feel sad is the way to go.

Reading it back, I realize how depressing this piece sounds. And I also sound like a huge hypocrite given just a few weeks ago I was preaching that things could be worse. They very well could be, but today, I feel like s— and am not pretending that I don’t. 

Sorry I didn’t have anything funny to report. Poop. Boobs. There you go. Laugh. Ha ha.