Alone.

My last hug — like an arms-wrapped-around-each-other real hug with another human — was exactly two months ago. Sixty-two days, if I’m counting, because of course I am. My friend Nico was picking up some things she left behind after recently pet sitting. We laughed nervously as we decided if it was ok to hug goodbye, as the social distancing guidelines had only just started to feel real. “Oh, it’s probably fine,” we said as we embraced.

I live on the ground floor of a brownstone, so Baxter is the keeper of the view. Directly across the street is a small playground that has been chained shut for the duration of this quarantine.

I’ve lived alone for 13 years, a decade of it in Brooklyn. This isn’t counting my cat or dog, of course, although I’m sure they’d prefer to be counted. Typically I love being alone, even making a point to take solo vacations each year. But before the pandemic hit the U.S. in earnest, I spent the first six weeks of 2020 in my home, recovering from reconstructive ankle surgery. I just realized I’ve spent more than 80 percent of this year thus far, isolated in this apartment. Being alone now just feels entirely different.

I’m one of those lucky bastards who happens to have and pay handsomely for private outdoor space in NYC. This is The Lanai and I don’t know how I’d do this isolation without it. This is not the first time I’ve written about how much I love this space.

My boyfriend and I both require our solo time, it’s one of the great reasons why we don’t live together, even after four years together. But it’s been unexpectedly tough to be separated through this. He spent the first few weeks of the crisis overseas with his family, and while he managed to return to the U.S., his roommate is a nurse caring for COVID-19 patients. He’s adamant he doesn’t want to expose me to this virus, even if it’s a risk I’m willing to take. I understand it’s because he loves me, that he won’t come close to me. But it’s deeply difficult to feel loved when your person can’t touch you. I’m wearing him down though, at the end of our last “social distancing” date, he figured out a way to sort of lightly spoon me from behind before he left, all while I tried not to cry. I failed miserably. Any intimate touch has become completely overwhelming.

This is Molly, she’s a goofy-eyed chihuahua mix and despite her gaseous nature and clingy tendencies, she’s pure joy. Right behind her is my favorite vintage chair that once belonged to my grandmother.

Over the years I’ve managed my anxiety disorder with varying degrees of success, but I definitely wasn’t prepared for the persistent bouts of insomnia and depression that’s come with extended isolation. The feelings of hopelessness, that this won’t end, that I will be here in this apartment forever and no one would mind or notice if I just…disappeared. I want to live, but sometimes, on those darker days when I’m literally counting the days since my last hug, I think maybe it wouldn’t matter if I existed. But I’ll be alright. I’m incredibly privileged. I have a supportive family, partner, friends, and, for now, a full time job with health benefits that allows me to continue with weekly therapy and daily medication for my anxiety and depression.

So some days I barely crawl out from under my weighted blanket. But there are brighter days, ones where I watch 80s action movies on Zoom with my friends, ones where I make elaborate meals for myself, ones where I remember what it was like to happily pay good money to be completely alone.

It’s odd how obsessed I’ve become preparing elaborate meals-for-one, but more ludicrous is the amount of time I’ll spend on plating the damn thing. This is grilled sesame chicken breast, charred green beans, and jasmine rice.

(Inspired by the New York Times’ recent compilation of stories of folks living alone through the pandemic.)