Here we are. It’s Honey Lockdown Day Two. How did we get here? Allow me to share my global pandemic adventure.
Since my last post (a month ago, yikes!), I learned pandemics and global crises roast my creativity. I keep trying to write about sex, and it turns into “Hey you, it’s okay to be anxious. Try this coping skill…”
So, instead of writing it down, I started live-streaming as often as I can between Monday and Friday. Each day at noon. Offering smutting readings and coping skills. Giving back. Reaching out.
I can’t help myself. I used to be a social worker and a therapist.
Check me out live on Twitter Mon to Fri at noon (EST).
I’m immune suppressed, on purpose. Stupid lupus. I’m one of those vulnerable folks in need of protection. You know, the people Republican shit-lords want to offer up as a sacrifice on the altar of the economy.
I feel okay talking trash about these folks. I’m related to some of those shitlords. Christ, it’s embarrassing to think my brother-in-law is mad because he can’t go to a restaurant. And yet he still doesn’t give two fucks about whether his servers have health insurance, access to basic needs during quarantine, and are making a living wage.
Did I mention I was pissed off?
Don’t even get me started on the Mensa candidates storming state capitol buildings decked out in Walmart tactical gear. If you don’t see the white privilege inherent in those folks not getting killed or sent to jail, then I’ve got news for you: You’re part of the problem.
All this fun happening and then my honey started running a fever yesterday.
Well. Fuck. It looks like no one in the Stagg household is going to be feeling sexy for awhile. He’s now on Honey Lockdown in our bedroom.
I mean, we’re waiting for test results to see if he’s managed to contract the Coronavirus. Most folks wouldn’t call that lucky. But we’re lucky to have a doctor who fought for him to get tested (he has a mechanical heart valve, and I’m immune suppressed). The testing clinic wasn’t going to test him because his symptoms are JUST a fever and extreme fatigue. You know, no big deal.
Our fantastic family doctor went to bat for us. I’m grateful for her care. We both recognize the heaping piles of privilege involved. We have health insurance through his job and a house that has space to quarantine him safely. We have so much.
And I’m still a goddamn mess.
I know my feelings are reasonable. And I’m letting myself feel them. Still, what the fuck? If he has it, then he’s on lockdown for at least 14 days and needs to be fever-free for three days sans fever reducers before he can venture forth from the bedroom. If this is just your garden variety flu, then three days fever-free is the only benchmark.
Today, I managed to limit myself to one soul-crushing anxiety attack. Having a vivid imagination isn’t always a blessing. I do alright, providing I have something to distract me.
You know, laundry, cleaning, cooking, reading smutty, heartfelt fan fiction, writing rambling missives about non-sexy things, and watching Schitt’s Creek for the umpteenth time in the same two month period. If Archive of Our Own and Netflix were to disappear, I’d curl up into a ball and start screaming. Yup. But once my brain is free, I start thinking and catastrophizing.
It’s a skill at which I’m particularly adept. The catastrophizing.
If it were an Olympic event, I wouldn’t be able to compete. I’m a professional. There are so many awful outcomes to this current mess. It’s a gift to imagine them one after another, over and over again. (MCU Spoiler AHEAD) I feel like Dr. Strange at the end of Avengers: Infinity War. How many shitty ways can this all go south? Let me see.
So, that’s the story of how the Great Honey Lockdown of 2020 began. Stay tuned for updates. I have a feeling it’s going to be a hell of a ride.
Be well, be wonderful, and above all, be you.