Going nuts. Home for a week getting over an illness. Reacting to one medicine, I got worse before I got better. Confinement is driving me crazy. My friend Sandra would tell me, “That’s not a very long trip.”
It’s not a matter of four walls closing in on me. We have lots of walls in our house. I’ve had time to count them. I began to think about Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
In our suburban home, we have diversions for just such times. We have computers. We own books and multiple television sets. Daytime TV will anesthetize the mind. Radio is worse. Whether you choose to listen to a sports talk show or, heaven help us all, a political pundit, here is all the vocabulary you will need:
- worst ever,
- never and
On the sports talk shows, there were also a few awesomes and incredibles thrown in for the heroes of the home team.
Normally, I think I do pretty well alone, hanging out, enjoying time with myself. I read. I write. I give myself permission to take naps. I eat. I read. I write. I take naps. I eat.
During my imposed captivity, my body wasn’t up to walking. I watched TV in the evening, but not in the daytime. Ten minutes of radio was my limit. I lingered over the comic strips I usually ignore. I went through all the magazines that had been piling up. I live with an unsympathetic woman. I whine a lot when I’m not feeling well. I sorted through old photos. I opened the closet with the thought of cleaning it. I closed the closet door.
I’ve begun to think I will never leave my home.
Because I am a writer, I also insist the experience is ludicrous.
My thesaurus tells me it is possibly even preposterous, absurd and derisory.
Dear Lord, get me out of here.