As I was driving home from Trader Joe’s, my roommate sent me the text: I think I’m going home for a week or two. As I spied my phone lighting up, I quickly peeled my eyes away from the road. Disordered, my stomach solidified and plummeted into my abdomen knowing what had happened when she left early for winter break.
Expelling a deep breath, I pulled into a street parking space right under the glowing 7/11 sign. Needing a quick walk, I parked and grabbed my black mask that I have situated on my steering wheel. As I stepped outside, the Michigan wind pinched my cheeks. Pulling my coat tighter across my chest, I let out a slow exhale and felt the breath fill my mask with a clammy warmth. Feeling the panic crawl up my spine, I began to convince and unconvince myself that I was going to be okay if Maya left for two weeks.
I did have a little bubble—me, Bryn, and Anders. Bryn and Anders live together and they don’t see anyone. Every once in a while, Bryn’s boyfriend will come and hangout—after a COVID test and 2 days of isolation. We have a good time each weekend—playing Catan or Euchre or Quiplash, laughing, and drinking Moscow mules. But I really only see them on the weekends.
Maya is who I see every day. Whether it’s complaining about MCAT content review or how she cracked eleven eggs and was too scared to eat the twelfth. She’s who I went to tell about how I lost my sock in the laundry room and my new favorite candle scents. Maybe it isn’t always like this in college. But when you don’t see another human body for five days besides your roommate, you become codependent, whether you want to or not.
I let out a long breath imagining me doing most things by myself for the next two weeks. As I began to make my way down the middle of State Street, I inspected the reflection of the State theater. Mesmerized by orangey-yellow hues sparkling on the wet concrete, I traced each line with my eyes, taking my time as I wound the idea of Maya leaving again for two weeks in my head. Like a winding ball of yarn, I didn’t realize how quickly my thoughts were growing.
I argued against my own thoughts until I didn’t know which I actually believed. I was going to be okay with just seeing Bryn and Anders on the weekend. I wasn’t going to be okay during the weeks without Maya. Flip flopping my thoughts and possible outcomes for the weeks ahead—my mind darting from one topic to the next.
This was a trait I think I cultivated when I was four or five. With two attorneys as parents, who would sometimes forget the kitchen table wasn’t a courtroom, my arguments had to be air tight. I always had to have a plan for the worst case scenarios, whether they were realistic or not.
My parents love to relive these fastidious arguments from when I was younger. My sense of self feels rooted in these nostalgic moments: extended family circled around my grandma’s dark oak dining room table, laughing at the retellings of stories. Some of them from so long ago, but have been told so many times I feel like I can remember it—tiny one act plays stitched together, dancing through my mind.
Sept 13, 2005
One in particular, I can picture in a dreamlike haze, when my mom was helping me get dressed for preschool. She had my perfect outfit lined up for me, and I sat there, refusing any of her help. As a pink overall dress laid on top of a white turtleneck, I stared down my mom.
“I can do it all by myself.” I shouted with crossed arms.
My mom frowned, knowing it would take me twice as long without her help. But knowing my stubborn independence wouldn’t let up anytime soon, she threw her arms up and let me get dressed—all by myself.
It was in these small moments where personality seems to be constructed: masterfully built one brick at a time.
Dec 07, 2020
I went to turn off the Christmas tree lights. Standing over the two-foot-tall tree, I felt the warmth radiate from the tiny bulbs onto the front of my calves. Yanking out the extension cord, the darkness enveloped me. Only one week until I’m home, I rehearsed, 168 hours left.
I texted my mom, “Can’t wait to come home!”
Our two-bedroom apartment is cozy, which I think is just a word people use to say when something is small but still feels homey. My roommate left two days ago, to get home and tested before she saw her grandparents for their early Hanukkah celebration.
I’m introverted, but after two days of not seeing another human soul, you begin to question what personality psychologists were even thinking. I guess personality psychologists termed introversion in a time before pandemics, socially distancing, and country-wide quarantining—when everyone became kinda extroverted and constantly pined for their next encounter with another person.
As I looked around, I noticed how vast my apartment seemed. The space between the dining room table and the couch—which before seemed congested—now seemed too extensive to make any functional sense. The living room, which usually had piles of workout equipment, or blankets strewn across the couches, was as barren as grocery stores in late March 2020.
The apartment looked almost too clean. It gave the feeling of when you walk into a hospital, looking for any trace of chaos—knowing something traumatic should be happening or has happened here—but all you can see is sparkling white floors and perfectly creased gurney beds. Searching for any sign of disarray, but falling short every time.
I faltered to my bedroom, usually a four second walk but seemed to take twice as much time. A place that was usually my safe haven, now appeared daunting. The streetlight glowed through the window, illuminating the taupe colored walls. My posters full of brightly colored fruits, now looked dull—each fruit drained of its uniqueness, now sporting the same monotonous grey. My usually warm and inviting bed just looked sloppy. I followed each wrinkle up and down my mattress, each lump creating a mountainous terrain. The comforter’s usual floral pattern was just shades of grey curling over each other.
Quickly putting on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, I headed back to the living room, knowing I would eventually have to venture back to my room to go to sleep. I plopped myself down on the black leather couch. Pulling my arms tightly, I tugged my blanket around me. After turning on Netflix, I let the voices from the TV fill up the empty space. The loneliness hung in the air like the mugginess of summer nights—clinging to my limbs.
I thought to myself, I’m ok. I’m not really alone.
Opening my text messages, I click on Anders and type: hey whatre u doin rn. Knowing he isn’t doing anything, knowing if I asked he would tell me to come over or drive over here himself, I delete the text and throw my phone to the other side of the couch. Knowing what would happen, I was still unable to force myself to ask.
I think of my four-year-old independent self, full of fortitudinous spite, complicating the processing of getting dressed: even though my mom was standing by, waiting to help if my head tried to bull its way through one of the arm holes. But it was me who told her to stop helping, it was me who pushed away the succor. It was me who wanted to do it all by myself—and it was me, alone.
As I sat on my couch, I bathed in this loneliness. Letting it saturate my body until my stomach began to clench and my eyes filled with salty tears. I curled my knees up to my chest and held myself together. I tucked my head and sturdied myself, my knees soaking up tiny sobs.
I’m ok. I repeated until it didn’t sound like words anymore. It was like when you’re five years old, playing with a set of toy bricks and you decide to stack every single blue block on top of each other, until they tower over you and your four-foot stature. You have a hard time believing it yourself, so you call for your Mom.
“Mom! Mom! Mom!” you scream. “Momomomomomomomomomomomomom.” You string every lone mom together until it voids itself of all meaning and you’re left screaming nonsense next to a pile of red and green toy bricks, alone.
I-a-mm-ok-ay. I sound out in my head until it starts to lose its meaning, too. Until it became nonsense, and I felt alone.
Jan 13, 2021
As I continued my stroll, I avoided the chairs and tables of Sava’s outdoor dining. I laughed, trying to imagine a time before a global pandemic where any Michigan restaurant would have outdoor dining in the middle of January. Standing outside of Sava’s I looked up into the yellow streetlight. Gradually, cotton balls of snow began to float down from the sky. Each flake, dancing down, glittered in the light.
I took my time walking along State Street, letting each breath fill up the entirety of my lungs. Strolling past CVS, I looked at the colorful array of stuffed animals on display. Each rounding, probably overpriced, figure smushed together in a wire bin. I drew in a deep breath, and relaxed my clenched shoulders. I reached out to grab my phone and clicked Anders’ name.
“You busy rn?” Without really thinking, I clicked send.
As the snow disintegrated into my hair, I felt tiny pricks of cold droplets fall onto my scalp. At first, each icy droplet made me flinch as if it made an indentation into my skull. But within seconds, the droplet thawed even more and created a soft warmth against my head. Soaking in the warmth, I decided to head back to my car.
Once I made my way back to my car, I jiggled open the front door and relaxed into my leather seat. Gingerly taking off my mask, I allowed my breath to create puffs of clouds in my car, while I waited for the heat system to intensify. Pulling the clutch into drive, I drove back to my apartment.
Jan 20, 2021
Hopping out of Anders’ navy-blue Jeep, my sneakers splashed the dirty grey slush, and I carefully waded out of the puddle. As we made our way into Target, Bryn trekked to grab us a cart as Anders and I darted to the dollar section just to the left of the entrance.
“Looooooook,” Anders taunted excitedly, holding up a Paw Patrol coloring book.
Bryn and I double over laughing, wondering if we would still think the three-page coloring book with Paw Patrol characters, that we don’t even know the names of, would be as funny as it is if our weekly outing was anything besides Target—you know, the regular college kids’ weekly outings: classes, basketball games, bars, etc.?
We strolled past the colorful Hallmark card section—making jokes about what cards we would give to each other. After about ten or fifteen minutes of sniffing jars of candles through our masks, the smells of balsam fir and cranberry orange start to fuse together. We make our way past the book and electronics section, careful to avoid the AT&T salesman.
Once we make our way to the grocery aisles of Target, we fervently argue about what to make for dinner. Bryn jabs for bruschetta, while Anders claims we make that every week. He’s right, but we will likely make it again.
As we made our way to the checkout counter, a painting caught my eye. It was a picture of a woman draped on what looked like the side of a couch. She was proudly arched and sported lavish blue pants with little rainbows scattered across them. Her shirt was an orange blouse that hung from her chest perfectly.
Although everything behind her in the room was colored in shades of grey—the walls, couch, tables, even the plants—she held her head back in laughter, donning a toothy smile. Although she was amidst the greyness, she didn’t have to be grey.
Lyndsay White | Jan 13, 2021 | Ann Arbor, MI