Open Space: Isolation has taken on a life of its own

It’s been almost a year since we first heard about COVID-19, but it’s only been since March that everything has shut down. It’s only been eight months. Considering that it feels like it’s been eight lifetimes, I’m amazed at how little I’ve actually gotten done. The air feels thick, like I’m constantly swimming through some sort of transparent fog, and it seems to fill my nostrils, my eye sockets; it seems to swirl inside my brain. When I think about it, I picture myself and everyone I know floating around as if there isn’t any gravity, although that would undoubtedly be a lot more fun.

What am I talking about? I’m talking about the COVID-19 brain fog, this lonely space that I’m occupying right now. And I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one.

Since the shutdown happened, I’ve watched a new definition of “isolation” creep into my life. At first, I couldn’t fathom having to stay at home all the time—in fact, I thought it must be a joke. I at least had no idea it was going to be as serious as it is. Doing classes online? No more movies? No more coffee? I missed campus dreadfully, and I also felt bitterness when I heard the words “We stand together by staying apart.” What the hell did that even mean?

But when I think about that slogan now, it’s true. These past eight months have been not been even remotely about being together. People suit up, zip up, listen to the news, snap on their masks, check their fear, sanitize their hands, do their best not to interact as they buy their groceries, sanitize their hands, and get home. Then sanitize their hands again. They give each other dirty looks if they go the wrong way in a grocery aisle or if they get too close over the two-metre mark. It used to be that someone wearing a surgical mask around town must be really sick or really allergic. Now it’s the norm, and it’s even becoming a fashionable accessory.

The only beef I have with wearing masks is you can’t tell if someone is smiling or not. Although the discomfort of wearing one, I know, beats the hell out of being ill. I even felt slightly giddy when I was able to find one with Star Wars fabric. Our faces match the bleakness of the news.

As far as online classes go, I have adapted well enough, although that’s where I notice the social isolation of the students. Most of the students I know have cameras on their computers, however, when asked by the prof if anyone wishes to join in, most of them won’t. Most would also rather type than share audio. It’s a far cry from the animated class discussions that used to echo through Camosun’s hallways.

I remember once being confronted in person about something I had written in Nexus. I never thought I’d say this, but I miss that.

It feels like people have accepted this isolation to the point that they are choosing to retreat further into themselves. I find that I am no longer yearning to leave the house, and that even going for those groceries feels a bit like swimming against the current. The mornings are heavy against the skull; it is difficult to get up, especially with nowhere to go. It’s true: isolation has taken on a life of its own. I am going to try and prevail, though.

As far as this isolation that has overtaken our lives goes, I’m trying to fight it. I’m still smiling widely at people under the damn mask, and I’m also encouraging students to turn on their cameras when asked (even if you’re still in your pajamas and it’s 2 pm; no one is judging at this point). This won’t last forever and we’ll have some good stories to tell when we finally, blissfully, get to be together on campus again.