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The Languishing

A therapist first used the word “languish” in one of my sessions, to describe what many have experienced since COVID’s rampage began. The dictionary app on my phone lists a number of definitions. 1) To become weak or feeble; droop; fade. This has definitely happened to me. I’m out of shape. I can barely climb my stairs without pausing for breath. My joints protest when I get up from the couch, so I typically just stay put and let the next Netflix episode start automatically. Parts of me that used to be muscular and taut now droop as if I’m slowly melting. 2) To undergo neglect or experience prolonged inactivity. It could be said that this is voluntary inactivity or perhaps only Netflix-induced hypnosis. 4) To pine with desire or longing. Missing specific people was a familiar feeling, but missing people in general was something I never thought would happen to an introvert like me. Even the people working drive-through windows felt like long-lost friends when they displayed their customer service smiles and handed me some extra ketchup.

I guess I’ve been languishing for a long time. Just when I feel like it’s starting to wane, there’s a new variant that sends me back behind my door to comb through news articles for a shred of optimism. It’s a subtle psychological torture that we’ve been experiencing, living with constant uncertainty from an unseen enemy, filling us with doubt that life will ever be like it was before. When you’re trapped inside, it’s only natural to look for comfort in the familiar, in mind-numbing entertainment. They complement each other a little too well, like chocolate chip cookies and TV.

Clover, the bestest girl

Heartbreak

I lost my best friend this year. Clover was my constant companion for nearly 14 years. The latter of these, she spent in a third floor apartment with me, never more than a few feet away. For a guy who often prefers to stay home, having a dog is such a blessing. Having a dog like Clover was more like a miracle at times, especially during the isolation that COVID demanded. When she started to show signs of age, I began to help her adapt: steps to climb up to the bed, shorter walks with more frequent breaks, dietary supplements, more cuddle time. I’m afraid to say her last day was especially hard on her, after many good days and no indication the end was upon her. It felt like I didn’t breath for the last few hours of her life. The trip to the vet was a blur. The decision to grant her mercy was excruciating and full of doubt, examining my heart for traces of selfishness that she didn’t deserve. I clung to her like if I held her tightly enough, her pain would leave and she would remain. Eventually I realized that if I didn’t let go, I might still be sobbing on the office’s linoleum the next morning. For the first couple of weeks without her, I looked for her underfoot whenever I dropped a bit of food in the kitchen. I reached for her after turning off my lamp before sleep. I swear, I could feel her there next to me on the bed. I thought maybe my grief was keeping her there with me, that she couldn’t move on to the paradise she deserved until I told her I would be ok. It might sound silly, but I believe this happened, that I freed her from pain and sent her off to chase squirrels in Heaven. Her absence has been so hard on me, that I refused to clean her nose prints from my car window for three months after her death. I’d be lying if I didn’t confess how difficult it is to write this nearly six months after I forced myself to leave her body at the emergency vet’s office. Every night, I thank God for the years I had with her and beg Him to bring us together again one day.

Brain Cloud

Did you ever see the movie, Joe vs. the Volcano? The main character is diagnosed with a brain cloud, a mysterious illness that’s the cause of his own languishing. I haven’t been diagnosed with any such thing, but I frequently attribute my lackluster attempts at writing to COVID’s social impacts. I certainly had plenty of time in isolation to complete some stories or editing of my novel. I could’ve written a blog entry every day, if nothing but an exercise to keep my writing muscles fit. Instead they have atrophied like the rest of me. My imagination and desire to write were never things I thought could be stifled by anything, yet here I am with only two pages of one new story written over the last two years. My novel collects virtual dust on my hard drive, as does a non-fiction book about living alone. I was literally doing this! It could have written itself! My blog has been inactive, with a stray reader visiting here or there, but it’s likely most of you have given me up for dead. I can’t blame you. Writers write. I did not. For something I professed to love and aspire to do professionally, this has left me with a bunch of unanswered questions concerning the future of my writing goals and dreams. Spoiler alert for a movie that came out 30 years ago, brain clouds aren’t real. The diagnosis was fake, both in the movie and in my health chart. For me, it’s just my most creative excuse ever not to write. It’s mostly a mix of self-doubt, poor time management, too much TV, and too many cookies. Eventually I will work out some way to get back to it. The laws of time will bend to my will! Or I’ll just watch less TV.

Guess what? 2021 hasn’t been all bad for me. I hope it’s been at least tolerable for you. Leave me a comment and let me know your favorite languishing activities (or inactivities). Also please check out my next entry, coming soon, that describes some awesome things from my 2021.