I know I talk a big talk of having things generally figured out, of preaching from a soap box about how wonderful life is when you learn to love yourself… but I’m a cranky piece of shit this morning. And this does happen often, I just don’t tend to think to write about it.

I am crouched over my laptop in the spare bedroom (Ben’s mom’s room whenever she is here), in what I’m calling my Vermont house to all those who do not actually own the house. Ben is…existing in the living room, currently folded over himself and half-passed out on the couch, uttering loud moans every so often and expelling phlegm from his lungs in a sinister, abominable HchhhACKK that only a smoker with a horrible cold could summon forth.

Two nights ago, Ben was barely engaging with me after an already tough day (for me) (emotionally) (psychologically?!) (I’m very sensitive) as we were settling into bed; choosing instead to turn his back to me and give his undying attention to YouTube. No coddling, no thoughtful responses necessary there.

This was especially jarring to me following a week that was pretty much straight out of a Disney movie: cuddles(+) galore, mushy texts, planned meals, help with cooking said meals and doing the resulting dishes, big plans for an outing to the dump (!!) to finally get rid of the disgusting old couch currently sitting in the garage, covered in loose garbage bags just waiting to be pulled apart by raccoons. Swoon!

(We do seriously enjoy going to the dump together, which not only tells you I truly LOVE this person, but that he, a country boy through and through, hit the fucking JACKPOT in an online dating pool full of city girls who probably aren’t so keen on the idea of spending their Saturday morning at the dump, let alone calling it a “date”)

As I laid there, I decided I could do one of two things:

After weighing my options for a moment, I announced: “I’m going to sleep downstairs tonight.” I did so in as calm and mature of a voice as I could manage; and I think I did a splendid job, considering I was basically just acting as proxy for the sad little lonely kid that lives inside of me somewhere at the time. She gets activated every time anything even vaguely resembling abandonment occurs, even and especially if it is myself doing the abandoning.

At around 4am that night, Ben came downstairs to crash around in the kitchen that has only an implied separation from the bedroom where I was trying to sleep (who needs doors?); eventually sinking defeated in the broken over-sized chair that now sits smack in the middle of everything.

(The kitchen has become another furniture purgatory between the living room and the dump, though, we actually kindof like the chair here. It gives “that house full of messy drummers you spent all your time at in college because it was effortlessly cozy and unpretentious” vibes)

“What’s going on? Why are you up?” I say, kindof hoping he’ll say something like “I’m sorry baby, I can’t sleep without you next to me. Please come back.”

—shm*%&#ughhh.

“What?”

—ithinkimsick.

“Ohhh…What’s going on? What are you feeling?”

—Unnnghh. chest hurts.

“What kindof hurt?” (mind already jumping to lung cancer, heart attack, death)

—idunno.

“Please baby. That’s not very helpful…”

—Ughghmm. It’s deep. ithinkitsbronchitis…or covidorsomething.

“Okay. What are your other symptoms?”

—Mgghhhh&$&%^#$%. (clearly annoyed with my mere presence right now)

“I’m sorry! I’m just trying to understand, so I know how to help you…”

—Ughgghh. mreally hot. Ancold. anihaveaSplittingHeadache. Dizzy.

“Fuck…” (mind spinning, as it slowly dawns on me why he’d been kindof a twat that night…) “What can I get you? Water, advil, a heating pad?”

—HHhhnNNHjgggh.

“?”

—HHhhnNNHjgggh!!!

“What?!?”

—I don’t KNOW!! (briefly considering calling his mom, to ask for help deciphering this fucking man code and maybe also ever-so-subtly to seek validation on how frustrating her son is when he’s sick)

“I’m just trying to help! I can’t read your mind, I need you to tell me your symptoms, and what you need right now, so I can get it for you!” (mind still wondering if we should go to the ER, convinced he is downplaying his symptoms and is actually going to die in the middle of the night from some chronic illness caused by smoking and eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s every night)

—a covolldwaterclognhl

“a what?”

—a CovolvlWaterClognkl!!!

“a What??”

—A COLD WATER CLOTH!!!!!! *Labored Sigh that I take extremely personally*

And so on and so forth, for the next… ohmygod it’s only been 30 hours.

FYI, after driving 20 minutes to the drug store later that morning and BUYING this super gross and high-tech Covid test where you insert the used swab into a little cardboard pocket so tight, you can hear the oozing as the snott-saturated cotton folds in on itself to make room (also ew to paying for things that are free in Canada), we got a positive result. I say we, because it was I reading the intensely confusing instructions and handling the Covid-boogers.

He: just needing to rest and be left alone but also fed and watered and heated and cooled and mind-read and treated with kindness as he grunts indifferently at my offerings of orange juice and heated blankets and driving his 14-year old to basketball and pain meds and chicken soup made from scratch; as he huffs like an eighth-grade boy being asked to clean his room every time I ask him a question.

Me: just wanting him to clearly and precisely communicate what he’s feeling and what he needs at all times even when he feels like Total Dog Shit, while also listening attentively and responding appropriately to MY thoughts and emotional needs; who is able to read between the lines of my going to sleep downstairs—that I am feeling very alone, and would rather CHOOSE to be alone than lie next to someone who is currently emotionally unavailable; but would very much prefer to sleep next to him.

Miraculously, this is Ben’s first time with Covid, so it’s all new to him—but I’ve had it before. This morning, as I repeatedly yelled at the dogs to STOP BEING SO GODDAMN NEEDY; I had a flashback from my own experience with Covid in June 2022, and what I remember being the very first sign that something was off:

…Extreme Irritability.

I was in one of those never-ending full-day recording sessions at work, and somehow between 9am and 1pm, I devolved from a vague sense of disconnection, to overall exhaustion (still kindof within 8-hour recording session territory), to a very urgent EVERYBODYGETTHEFUCKAWAYFROMMENOW!! as a fever moved in on my body like wasps at a late-summer picnic. I went home at the lunch break, snarling at anybody who got in my way as I retreated to my blanket fort of solitude to lick my wounds and moan far-too-loudly in peace.

With this in mind, I re-play my interactions with Ben from the last few days, but from his perspective… and… I observe my own.. um… Extreme Irritability. Which happens to be coming into play around 40 hours after sharing a beer with him—the very person who would test positive for Covid 14 hours later—while watching a stand-up comedy show in a hardware store, as one does in rural Vermont.

Oh dear.

24 hours after writing the above, I slither into the living room to find Ben—lover of horror, intrigue, and all things macabre—watching “The Sound of Music.” The only logical explanation I’m able to come up with in the moment, is that he’s seeking even just a fragment of the unconditional-love-of-a-nun-slash-mother experience that is currently lacking in his life. He clearly wishes I could be more like Maria, twittering about selflessly, doting on his sick, prickly ass without once taking his snarls personally, singing him songs and making him new play-clothes out of curtains.

“…A flibbertijibbet! A will-o’-the-wisp! A clown!”

Anyway, I am now feeling simultaneously hot and cold and needy and distant and hungry and dizzy and achey; and I say, nay…I whine…now completely taken over by that sad little lonely kid inside me:

“mfmffhfhghhhgh.”

—How you feeling, baby?

“sickkkkkughh.”

—Damn 😦 What can I get you??

“%&$#*$.”

—??

“ChfeihD%*%&!”

—What??!

“…iDunnNOooAhh!!!!”

—Fin—

J/K, I was like “I will be needing some chicken soup, some Tylenol, a back rub and that electric blanket I bought for you,” BECAUSE I HAVE SPENT A GOOD PORTION OF MY LIFE LEARNING HOW TO LISTEN TO MY BODY AND EXPRESS MY NEEDS, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. But I’ll be the first to admit, this was all expressed in a very pathetic manner—and we may in fact all suck a little when we’re sick.

***

~Writing is the place I go when I’m feeling alone, because it’s where I can give myself the experience of having my thoughts and emotions witnessed (my definition of self-love), when nobody else is available. Have you been feeling alone in some way too, lately? It’s definitely that time of year…

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