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Meditations of a Quarantined Messy Bitch

Updated: Apr 30, 2021


I think I've discovered a new kink: forced isolation from sex during a global pandemic. That's a unique thing to discover.

Nothing like this situation to make you overly attached to any person you were even remotely connected to before.

My behaviour has become so erratic. This anxiety induced hysteria in me is coupled nicely with a complimentary depressive episode.


Today I just feel so much. So many things. This shift in lifestyle has provided something though. I know now that I am beginning to see myself. This is an opportunity for reflection. A time of introspection.

I choose to relish this. I choose not to lie in bed all day tomorrow. Let's see how that goes.


This feels so insufficient. How can I suppose to put you to paper? Is this my place? I'll settle for an attempted tribute.

I know you were so proud of your boys, who are such a perfect reflection of your infectious spirit. Your zest. Your zeal. You will be felt always, your presence, and the gap you leave.

How do I suppose to talk for any of them? I don't. But I know you are loved, that you are still strong, still a rock for all of us.


Togetherness and isolation. Different but the same, one informs the other. Surrounded, I feel so lonely.

How do I get closer to you? You are in front of me, but not there. You are both every second of my day, and nothing to me.

I love feeling a connection again. A closeness with someone. But I cannot bare it. Thinking about you, wondering about you, and knowing that you don't. I would never have met you and felt happier. The joy of you breaks my heart.


I don’t want these thoughts I am left with. Take them away. Strip me of my ugliness. I want to enjoy the feeling of vulnerability but it pricks away at me, stinging consistently.

Let me swim in your safe waves. I want to relax into your rhythm and you into mine. Tell me your secrets. Come to me, instead of turning from me.

Or let me go.

I'm sorry. That you've seen the raw, the nerve. You've seen what comes with all of this.


How vulnerable do I have to be to make good 'art'? Do you have to see the Queer, the Addict, the Anxious Depressive? It physically pains me to life that seal. The rawness, scars, the ones yet healed. Do I have to? Do I have to? Am I any worth, if I don't tell my truth?


Do I just like that I can't have you? That you are so literally inaccessible? How unavailable you are? So fucking predictable!

Needing compulsively, obsessively, it’s tiring for me too. Shame prevails, and self-loathing? She's here too.

I'm sort of going fucking insane. My thoughts and feelings, so painfully unoriginal, but painful all the same. My head is cracking open, my skull is bursting.


I am a pain addict.

I can't stop the pain I feel, so I switched what pain meant. Pain means pleasure now. It means control, comfort, familiarity. Therefore, its presence means 'this is right', 'this is good'.

I see pain and I go to it. I feel pain and I stay. I seek pain so I feel in control of it. So I can force happiness; bend it to my will.


I don't know if it is better or worse that we're all going through this. The narcissist in me wants to wallow. To experience this as me, and me alone.

How can I give myself permission to struggle while people around me and their loved ones are dying?

Author - Georgina Musgrave


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