Photo by Ian Schneider on Unsplash
Solace could only be found in solitude until silence became sadness. And once that began, there was nothing but sadness, for there was nowhere to turn to for noise. The cell phone, the computer, both inhuman versions of human words and voices, for what is human without presence, without touch, without connection?
I sit on the couch, there is a noticeable dent which formed when I was pregnant, deepened further with breastfeeding, even further with my soon-to-be ex-husband’s addiction to Netflix, and now, with endless hours of nurture feels like it may give in, throw me onto the floor surrounded by the torn yet washable material that we paid dearly for, a faded black, shattered by all its endured.
It’s hours before the daily tally is out, the numbers that either give us hope of going outside or sink us further into hopeless depression stemming from that never happening. I stare at the little Bonsai tree across from me that I struggle to keep alive. One of the many apps I downloaded in the past year recognizes flora just by showing it a photo tells me it’s a fig tree. But my son bought it as a Bonsai, it made him feel connected to daddy’s house, there’s a Bonsai there by the fireplace, so I call this little tree a Bonsai for what does it matter what it really is?
The weather disagrees with Donald Trump, it’s spring in the middle of January. A northern European would call it a heatwave. I raise myself out of the dent, stuff two towels, a warm hat, my UGGS and a thermal vest into a bag that’s not meant to fit it all, too lazy to look for the bigger one, too afraid that this sudden urge to leave the house for something other than groceries will not last, and head to the beach. It’s been almost 10 months that all citizens are to report their reason for movement in form of a text message to the authorities. Doctor, groceries, exercise, helping a person in need, essential public service, and funeral or religious services. Strangely, childcare of separated parents falls into the category of funerals and religious services. A visit to the beach falls into none. It’s January in Europe. Who’d want to go for a swim? A random Russian winter swimmer would already live right by the sea. But I want to go for a swim. Even if it is January. Just like I wanted to get divorced in the middle of a pandemic. I risk the fine for my juvenile behaviour and speed down the highway towards the coast like a lonesome unity of Thelma and Louise.
The sight of the water fills me with life. It moves rhythmically, caresses the sand with its arms, the sand knows that it’ll return just as it retracts, and it comes back, comes back, comes back. How a comfort it must be, to know that the feeling of pleasure and love is just a second away, forever. How soothing. The breeze, sobers me, reminding me that I’m not like the sand, I can move on my own, I can morph on my own, I can be patient, I can find control, even if the control is only within. It’s enough. I fight the gentle gusts to lay my towel a footstep from where water touches land. Its deep shade of fuchsia seems out of place in the winter sun. I remove my clothes and step into the cold water. I don’t enter gracefully, conscious of my bright white skin, hanging post-partum tummy that’s been with me for eight years and counting, fearful of what is invisible on the seafloor turned murky by the unsettled sea, I stumble on a rock and find myself swimming, unsure how, since I cannot feel my body, I only know that my limbs are still attached, still pushing me through. I’m high for the remainder of the day.
At night the apartment feels crowded and empty. Everywhere I look, a memory takes away an inch of the numbness that holds my body together. The high slowly subsides. I’m alone, the absence of my child leaves yet another night of possibilities that I so craved for. The freedom to take a bath, to read more than a chapter of a book, to watch a movie that neither of them would ever want to see. But I’d done all that. Lockdowns gave me the gift of time. The time to read all the articles in the At Home section of The New York Times. The time to fall in love with Yoga with Adriene. To shave my legs once a week, to find random long hairs on my chin, to read a book a day, to start a new novel. I fall back into my dent and use Netflix’s new ‘play something’ feature. It’s completely ridiculous.
The lockdown is eased but I still see no one but my ex-husband and child. That’s our bubble. There’s nobody else who qualifies according to the rules. Schools reopen, our respective bubbles grow. But everything else remains. The pandemic. The solitude, its magic and its torment. The feeling that everything is unknown. Retail opens. I run to the stores breathless in my mask and buy two jackets and sneaker liners with the passion of an alcoholic suddenly being free to indulge in a bottle chilled rose without consequence. Sneakers are all I wear and outerwear is all anyone beyond my bubble ever sees me in.
The school parking lot becomes a daily social hotspot. We stand one point five metres apart and exchange feelings of frustration. We learn who drives what car, and park accordingly if it’s too cold to step outside while we wait for the final bell to ring. Windows roll down and parents lean over seats to engage in conversation. The kids walk in an orderly line behind their teacher who marks off each name as they run towards us, throw their bags into the boot, pull their masks off like seniors throwing their caps in the air at graduation. The promise of freedom brings such joy.
Somewhere between lockdown two and three, I adopt a puppy. Because my son is afraid of dogs and I assume that this is a good time to change that. I think a pet will help of the trauma of divorce. But I forget, that I should first begin to heal. Her presence almost violently imposes on my space. My comfort zone is completely compromised, my child feels my discomfort. I don’t want her here. Neither does he. I use his feelings as an excuse to justify my own. I want my silence back, but I already cannot part with her. She’s like a new room I didn’t mean to build, a new chapter I didn’t mean to write, a new couch that I bought, beautiful but uncomfortable. Her chew toy, a red squeaky bone, lies in the middle of the now carpet-less living room floor, as her teething preferences lie with the legs of the expensive dining room chairs and the bricks around the fireplace. Against my nature, I let her nibble them, as if hoping that her teeth will make the past disappear.
Nothing helps, nothing changes, yet everything is rapidly altering, I have no control over today, tomorrow, myself, my future, my past. A self-help book tells me that I shouldn’t forget that others are experiencing the same thing. That we’re never alone. I was already aware of that, and find no reason for why that should give any of us any comfort. I schedule a Zoom with my best friend. Her face is stuck in some mirror of illusions kind of way, somewhere between The Scream and the bubble gum my kid left stuck to the floor and the puppy stepped on. Her voice is still going, and if I didn’t know her for so long, I wouldn’t be able to fill in the syllables that the overloaded internet is swallowing. America gets a female vice president and we wrap pearls around our necks in her honour and watch the inauguration. It almost feels like things will be normal again. We’re actually happy, staring at the TV, twirling our strands, not minding the bad connection. The next day the government closes the stores back down. I begin to panic, thinking I didn’t have time to buy something I need, but I have everything I need.
After I fall in love with the puppy, I make my beach visits a routine. She’d stopped my life for a moment and I resented her for that, as much as I resent the virus, the lockdown, the divorce amidst a pandemic. It gave no possibility to heal. This alone time, this bubble, this immobility takes some people forward, others back, me it just left standing in place. I realize it’s not only divorce. It’s any breakup, any marriage, any roommate, any friend. The time we spend dwelling on all of our closest relationships—the only relationships that we are now allowed to have—puts them under an incredible strain of a massive looking glass. The more we look through it, the more we’re all morphed into some exaggerated version of The Scream. The more I listen to those outside my bubble the more I hear it.
A toddler runs along the beach picking up every piece of garbage she can find and sticks it in her mouth. I catch myself smiling like a woman in some corny movie about parenthood, longing for that tiny twinkle in time when a child is that small and that cute. The masked mother comes chasing her, snatching the plastic cups and straws out of her hand, the little girl cries, the mother yells at the child to stop crying, and I remember how much I suffered during toddlerhood. Why do so many things that are in the past acquire an air of romance in our memory, I wonder.
I get off my towel and walk into the water. Three hours till school pick up time. I go home and feed my puppy, roll out the yoga mat, she snuggles into my crossed legs. I pause Adriene and sit there mindfully absorbing the annoyance, the warmth, the fear, the hope, the insecurity, the strength, the everything.
Maria Kostaki a writer, editor and the author of Pieces and When Clouds Embrace. She is currently based in Athens, Greece and is hard at work on her new novel while eagerly waiting for the pandemic to be over so she can travel again. You can find out more on www.mariakostaki.com