Self Reflection COVID19

“You won’t be going back,” Ms. Sandy confirms the very much anticipated news from the passenger’s seat of her Ford F150. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. The multiplying death toll, scribbled across the whiteboard in my 4th period science class had always been the first to greet me as soon as I’d walk through the door, but my attention had always been directed elsewhere — whether it be the blaring of the tardy bell, or the cooing of my best friend’s voice.

The way thousands of deaths were listed so casually in thick, black Expo markers everyday should have panicked me more than my next Algebra test, but they were just numbers then. The seriousness of this situation had only begun to catch up to me at the moment Ms. Sandy spoke those five, simple words, all while we were refueling at a Shell Gas Station one last time, dreading the eight hour car ride from Alyeska to Eielson. “You won’t be going back,” The sentence tasted like a million bucks to both me, and my best friend, Ashley. She had been my partner in crime for 4 years, and was someone I considered a “temporary best friend”. (Being a military child has clearly done a lot for my commitment issues). I turned to face the blonde, her green eyes wide with elation after hearing her mom break the news. We wouldn’t have to go back to school after Spring Break, and that was all I could care to think about. What never entered my ignorant, pea-sized brain was, “The entire world is on lockdown,” or “People are dying by the thousands,” or “Hand sanitizer and toilet paper are being stock-piled like it’s the zombie apocalypse. It’s selling out everywhere.” There had always been that flicker of hope burning with the flames of hell in the part of my soul that hoped, prayed, that school would be cancelled. My sinful “wishes” were granted, and once I returned home, I desperately wanted to take it all back.

Countless hours spent soaking up rays of blue light, pouring from the screen that used to bring me comfort, grew unbearable to the point where I was willing to do the mile run in gym class, 3 times, if it meant I’d get to see my friends in person again. Somehow, it felt like teachers were emailing assignments out faster than Costco employees supplied shoppers with free samples, well, before the social distancing and controversial mask-wearing put even that to a stop. I was tethered to the computer screen, and no matter how much I yearned to hear from Ashley, and my other school friends, the idea of spending any extra time in front of a screen felt like a nightmare. So not only was I physically staying apart from the people I used to harmlessly joke everyday at school with, (for the past few years that I have been around to witness other people come and go), but I felt myself emotionally drifting away as well. I felt caged, and my patience grew thin, occupying myself by counting up until the day I was set to move to Eagle River.

Months passed from March to July, and it was only when the stacks upon stacks of cardboard boxes were finished being crammed into the back of our all-too-familiar U-Haul rental, that I remembered that I used to have a social life. I let myself lose contact with everyone I knew, even Ashley, and although I knew I could call and they’d answer, I had never been one to initiate such a gesture. Negativity flooded through my brain like the Coronavirus had spread across the entire planet, and all I could think about was the toxic baggage school came with. I no longer desired to go back. Four months was a long enough time to adjust to this new lifestyle, and the more time I spent in my head, the more I told myself that I didn’t have as many friends as I thought. My mind flooded with thoughts like, “She made no effort to reach out either, maybe she doesn’t care,” “I’m doing okay without them” and “I’m moving anyways, it’s for the best,”. Thinking back, it was not a good mindset, and maybe I could have made an effort to say goodbye before I left, but the immature side of me chooses to pass on confrontation.

I woke up to the sight of my new home, as the car I spent 7 hours straight sleeping in, rolled to a stop in the driveway. After cracking my stiffened neck as easily as I had cracked the former bonds I had with everyone back at Eielson, I eagerly pushed forward, letting the golden glow of the midnight sun guide the way. I stepped past the threshold of the great, oak door with purpose. I felt renewed, and thought, “this is my new life”. I could start from scratch like I had done my whole life, leaving behind everything that was now “the past”. Nobody knew me here, and just like how some would be tempted to start a new book, leaving the other unfinished, I gave in, and let my new life sweep me off my feet. I felt okay, like I was letting go, and only the guilt I felt from neglecting the ones I loved, was pleading at me to turn back and apologize. But the voice was merely a whisper, and I moved right past it, and straight into my new room, high on the addicting feeling of comfort.

But like a drug, the feeling doesn’t last forever. Guilt was ebbing away at me, yet no part of me moved to make any effort to fix that. There was no gaping hole in my chest that hearing their voices again would have filled, but the lack of interaction in my life inevitably left me feeling loneliness. Destiny became something to believe in, when the ding of a notification sent my thumbs in a frenzy, swiftly tapping out heartfelt compliments and supportive messages to a certain girl who was just looking for love and hope, in the comments of some Instagram post about mental health. Little did I know at the time this girl, named Diana, would be part of the first chapter, in the 3rd volume, of the story of my life. I spent day after day just learning the little things about her, (and her with me): her favorite color is baby blue, she has the best taste in romance novels, and her favorite number is 28. I felt great, and like I could finally put the book about my life back at Eielson up high on the shelf, even if I had to leave it unfinished.

The guilt still lives within me, but I’m choosing to live with it for now. Maybe I used “moving” as an excuse to run away from solving my problems, and maybe all it’d take for me to finally move on is to pick up my phone and maturely talk it out, but I’m not ready, and that’s okay for now. I’m choosing to add more pages to my book with Diana, and if the time comes, I’ll sit down with my phone in hand, and rewrite that last chapter of my story with a happier ending.