On Being (A Shut-In)

Turning troupes into tally marks

Quinn McClurg

Hey! Want a tried-and-true guide on how to go from a Hero to a Zero™ fast? Yeah, that’s right, loser—I’m talking to you! First, take a look at my intense WEEKLY regimen: 

  • On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I got to class from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m.

  • On every day but Tuesdays and Thursdays (including weekends), I got to WORK. I wake up at 4:30 A.M., drive to my HOTEL, and make COFFEE for RICH PEOPLE.

  • Late on weekend nights……… I GO TO BED EARLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  • What else do I do in my free time? LISTEN TO DEPRESSING PODCASTS ABOUT THE NEWS!!!!!! *AIRHORNS* *EXPLOSIONS* *CONFETTI*

  • When was the last time I went out? I DON’T KNOW!!!!!!!!!!! *SICK GUITAR RIFFS* *MORE EXPLOSIONS* *EAGLES SCREECHING* *CROWD CHEERING* *NEON SIGN FLASHING “APPLAUSE”* *EVEN MORE EXPLOSIONS* *EAGLE NOISE EAGLE NOISE EAGLE NOISE*

Seriously though, how did I transition from skipping class for activism, going to multiple shows  every weekend, dating three people (polyamory), and pursuing four different hobbies at once to… doing jack shit? Well, I blame these past four years for catching up with me.

I’m not writing this article to warn you about burnout nor offer solutions. Rather, I want you to know that transitions—even to periods that are less exciting, productive, or meaningful—are OK. For better or worse, I currently live without several things that once defined me—things I actively lived for—things that literally saved my life. These changes were so terrifyingly gradual that I barely noticed the absences until months later. 

Initially, it’s hard to not feel like the whole world is moving on without you. So, you curse your white-knuckled grip for not being tight enough, and you curse your haphazard piles of unfinished projects; you curse yourself and your reflection for taking up space. But guess what, girly pop? The world is moving on without you, because that’s what the world does—it turns! Indifferently! You’re just noticing now because you’ve evened out your pace—you’re no longer sprinting to stay in the sunlight of unsustainable relevance. Soon, the dusk will catch up. Then, the night.

I’ll spare you the details of the resulting grief, alienation, and indifference. These “losses” aren’t missing and severed body parts,; if you really wanted them, you could reach into yourself and still find them. But you’re here because you haven’t or don’t want to—and that’s OK. There, too, are times that are important for sleep, for recuperation; for obscurity and forgetting; for moving on, for digging in. I’ve often asked myself if this is how phases turn into lifetimes, or months into decades, and if—before I know it—I’ll be staring from the two foggy windows of my death bed, wondering where the entirety of my life went.

Newsflash, idiot: there is always more life to live. Though you’ll likely be dissatisfied when you die anyway, it’s so incredibly difficult to not live a life of any kind of consequence. If my life were to be entirely what it is now (putting aside my aforementioned activities), it would be mostly comprised of small, meaningful actions: feeding my friends, donating what I no longer need to encampments, boycotting and spending money as ethically as I can, helping my high-school-age coworkers on their homework, making important small talk with passersby, reminding my partner how bad he smells constantly. I mean, sure, I’m in debt, I work three jobs, I’ve literally almost worked myself to death several times before, and I live in a country where my very ways of life are increasingly endangered, but like… this isn’t so bad. Well, for right now at least—I’ve endured far worse comparatively. For now, I’m doing what I can with what I have—I think I’ve earned it after doing so much with so little for so long. 

Yes, I’m constantly itching to do more (I’m learning how to not beat myself up over this more every day), but I’ve been reframing this slow “now” as a time to stockpile resources—to plan and gestate, to merely survive and ensure my own survival, to push back against any further bars pushing in. In this cramped little academic cell, I count down the semesters, months, days, and hours until I have more resources, until I’m able to breathe, until I’m able to break the padlocks myself. I count: One semester. Three months. 89 days. And 2,136 hours—now 2,135.

And when this issue finds itself in your hands, I will count again: One semester. 2 ½ months. 72 days. 1,728 hours—now 1,727. Soon to be 1,726.

Can’t you hear the wheels turning? Can’t you feel them vibrating up through the ground? Listen—listen.

Wake Mag