“The Wall”

There is a wall in the back right corner of my room detailed with thoughts. Worn pages from children's picture books, my favorite poem stanzas hastily scrawled on tanned paper, and the paintings from the impressionist masters that hover above the mass of inked words and drawings. I spilled my mind like a stain and let my frustration wipe across the wall. I hated that room. I hated the feeling of isolation that contaminated it. I wanted my anger to be seen and understood. 

I had experienced Covid the previous year after picking it up from the grocery store I had worked at. My immune system is about as strong as a mouse and will gladly catch any sickness thrown its way. As such, I was not surprised to have tested positive within two days of being back in my dorm hall, surrounded by sniffles and sneezes. The University's email sent out to students had even stated that getting Omicron was inevitable, but I still felt polluted. I had tried so hard to avoid the stigma of irresponsibility that came with Coronavirus. 

The first day passed in a calm acceptance. I kept busy with homework and job applications, but my mind kept dragging me back to the place I had been in last December. At that time, I had lost all connection with myself. My confidence was dependent on how well I could please others. I spent most of my days in a dissociated haze trying to manage Covid-hybrid school and find a path to my life. There was a parallel between my two isolations that I couldn't face: I had to learn to be alone with myself. 

This was a skill I thought I had mastered. Those two weeks had been a nightmare for me. From streaking tears staining letters that I scribbled in anger to the blissful silence and growth that came after those storms. I believed that I had won my own company through this fight. Yet, as I sat staring at my dorm wall, all the feelings of loneliness came bubbling up through the guilt and shame hanging around me. 

I plucked them from the air and plastered them to the wall, letting the aching blue pain in my chest leak out. I ferociously cut and pasted while I watched through my window as people, as my friends, started their semester without me. Raging with FOMO, I resolved to harness the stir-crazy energy for creation. I tore out Alfonsina Storni's "Tu Me Quieres Blanca" and Charles Bukowski's "Trapped" from my notebooks and used them as my building blocks. A small population of song lyrics began to form alongside ink drawings of personified hearts holding handbags: literal emotional baggage. Paintings and notes from my friends hang as proof that I am not alone, so I can't convince myself otherwise when the sadness gets handsy. 

A yellowed panel of Aesop's The Lion and the Mouse that's cracked with age is tapped near the center. In it, the little mouse stares defiantly at the lion, who is begging to be set free from the net that has captured him. I began each quarantine as the lion, becoming tangled in my anxieties and fears. I needed to choose to be the mouse. I had to choose to free myself from those doubts. As I touched the peeling illustration and stepped back to look at what I had created, the nervous energy began to settle. 

Life wasn't ending. I wasn't alone. Even if I was, it was only for four more days. And out of anyone on the planet to be stuck with for those four days, I didn't consider myself the worst company. This time was different. The letters, tears, and loneliness forced me to find consolation within myself. Looking at my collage, I was proud of the person I was with, and I loved her quite a bit. I had deep passions and manic creativity. I wasn't afraid of it anymore. Quarantine gave me time to admire and cultivate these traits within myself, free from the pressure of anyone else's opinions. I didn't have to worry about losing myself, and I didn't have to worry about losing my friends because I had the virus. They would be standing right next to me soon, and I could show them what I had accomplished.