March 29, 2020
My cousin, a psychologist in Madison, Wisconsin, told me I needed to start journaling. She told me that, without an analyst, it may be wise to start recording my thoughts for future evaluation. So on a crisp, sunny day in Ashtabula, Ohio, hunkered down and social-distancing in a townhouse—graciously lent by my girlfriend's aunt and uncle—I'll begin. Last night I woke up to a crash of thunder. With blinds closed, the soundtrack of the storm banged away like bacchanalian orchestral drums, and I was wide awake. I instinctively reached for my phone, which has become a crutch as of recent. I opened my New York Times app and read through the front-page article, an expose of the horrors of Covid-19. I read about an EMS worker who, though having called off work to take care of his sick wife, was needed to help with the deluge of 911 calls. He went to work, transporting virus-stricken New Yorkers to the hospital, risking his own life—but when he returned, his wife was dead. The ...