As of this writing, I have been working remotely at my job for nearly twelve weeks due to the enactment of shelter-in-place orders to slow the spread of COVID-19; and I have been residing in Minnesota with my parents for nine of those weeks, after agreeing that currently remaining in New York was less safe. As have millions of people worldwide, I have had to adjust drastically to an existence that involves staying at home as much as possible and minimizing interactions with other humans.
To most individuals who thrive on social events and spending time in public spaces, these restrictions feel understandably hellish; but when they were first imposed, I actually felt joy. This situation perfectly suits my tendencies to prefer hours alone over going out to see people. I knew I would miss physical socializing with friends, but I looked forward to this period of utter solitude to center and refresh myself and dive more freely into the hobbies I do by myself, particularly my blossomed creative outlet of sewing—and with this rejuvenation, I presumably would eventually be ready to wholly embrace the outside world again once shutdowns were lifted.
But after many weeks of this isolation and now anticipating several months more, my feelings about the circumstances have become foggier, in more ways than one. First is the more expected realization: being suddenly forced to be more alone than ever before has tested my endurance as an introvert and put into focus my basic need for diverse human contact (besides with my parents). Overall, my matured perception and acceptance of my reserved nature has given me a greater internal sense of happiness and fulfillment; but I of course need to balance that conception with the necessary joy that comes from external connections and spending time with people I love, outside of video calls and texting. Even the idea of dating, which was something I had decided to entertain as a New Year’s resolution, has become much a more appealing prospect that I think I’ll want to try seriously once physical contact is unbarred.
On the other extreme, though, is a more complicated revelation: without being fully allowed to be my introverted self, I am perhaps not totally capable of being a proper or satisfactory social being that truly desires outside contact. When I finally traveled to the Twin Cities, I left almost all of my belongings and my whole personal space behind. I say this mostly in reference to my sewing equipment: I no longer have my familiar machine and particular collection of fabrics and supplies that allowed me to produce things I was excited about (and while my mother’s older machine somewhat alleviates this loss, it has major limitations). Making clothes has given me more inner contentment than probably any other activity—and without the full freedom to engage with it, I find myself dissatisfied and frustrated with my current state of confinement, so this inadequacy makes me want to be even more isolated when cities reopen. And writing that thought feels quite ridiculous and selfish and maddening: how could these stay-at-home restrictions have possibly inspired me to see people even less than usual?
As many sources have iterated, all of these confounding sentiments are normal and expected during this event: a worldwide pandemic is a type of traumatic experience, and the disappearance of normalcy throws everyone’s senses of their wants and fears and behaviors into disarray. I certainly feel the joy that comes from staying home much more routinely and having this very extended visit with my family—but I also feel slightly scared that even this greater amount of isolation may not be sufficient enough to make me excited to return to public society. And none of this is to say that I don’t value my interpersonal relationships; but the awful truth is that giving those the most of my time is not a priority in my mind.