Stopping

This year has kicked the shit out of me. I’m embarrassed to say so, more embarrassed to tell you why. If I actually try to list all the contributing factors, it sounds like whining, like a list of major and minor incidents that could occur in anybody’s life: My mom had spinal surgery in the spring, and has been recovering all year. My estranged dad died in July. My 900-year-old dog also picked July to die. Trump ran against a woman — traditionally not good news for the Doyle household. Trump won.

You, yourself, have lived through those past two events, and may be having heavy feelings about them. The litany of minor inconveniences — I had minor chest pains, so the urgent care nurses made me go to the ER, so I stayed all night in the ER, so I am currently writing this post from bed, covered in fifteen layers of blanket, because I and everyone in my immediate family have contracted some sort of stomach flu from being in an ER waiting room — feels incredibly petty, when I stop to consider what’s going on in the world. 

Stop is a key term, though, because for whatever reason, all these small problems have added up to one big full-system shut down. My body has decided that moving and engaging with the world only brings trouble, and so we’re just not going to move any more until circumstances improve. 

I wish I could really milk this. There are all sorts of 19^th-century eccentrics I have in mind: Proust, composing his entire life story from his bedroom, which was lined with cork to prevent dust particles from getting in and triggering his asthma, or Emily Dickinson’s mother, Emily Norcross Dickinson, who simply had a bad day, climbed into bed, and did not get out. (Please note: I learned about this mostly from watching the Jane Krakowski version.) 

However, all those 19^th and early-20^th century eccentrics had (a) family money and (b) a life without the Internet. They could retire from the world without going broke or getting a bunch of worried notifications on Facebook. This must have been a tremendous blessing: If Proust had social media, he’d never have written anything in his life. He’d just hole up in his room and post 2,500 times a day about how no-one ever wore a damn mask. Retreat from the world is a gratifying fantasy, but it only works if the world can’t follow you home.