The COVID Diaries: Existential Burnout

Dear Darling Ones,

For one night only I’m bringing back the COVID Diaries. I wish with my whole entire heart that was true, but my existential burnout coupled with my frustration has me predicting I’ll be writing about the Upsilon variant sometime in April.


The other day I told a client I have existential burnout and she said it was a perfect way to describe how she was feeling too. I’m having a hard time rallying myself to work, even though I have paid projects and deadlines looming. All I want to do is read books and nap.* Occasionally, I like to break that monotony my re-watching all the episodes of Bob’s Burgers while crocheting granny squares for a sweater my niece requested.

It’s all so much, and no matter how careful you are it doesn’t matter. I know a lot of people who have been struck down by the COVID. BFK had to close down her restaurant for a week because her head cook came down with it and exposed the entire staff. Four people I had at Supergenius HQ over the holidays tested positive. I have not and I think I’m safe. I haven’t seen anyone all year!

However, someone should tell that to all my psychosomatic symptoms. My throat is intermittently sore on an hour-by-hour basis. My sinuses can fuck right off into the sun with their hijinks. Is it Omicron? Is it January in MN where it’s 3ยบ and dry as a bone? Is it insanity? Yes. No. I don’t know.

All this isn’t really what’s bringing me down. It’s the unending cruelty of our government and systems that is bringing me down. It’s so hard to take. It’s been a long, long time since I believed the government was for the good of the people, but the utter lack of concern for people is bananas. The bold way the government displays its allegiances to capitalism and not to humans is stunning. All our systems and structures are tainted by this and so many are still out here thinking they can bootstrap their way out of a pandemic.

It’s madness, exhausting madness. I’m hopeful the anger and spite will be enough to get me motivated at some point. I feel so bleak and it bums me out, but pretending to be otherwise more energy than I currently have.


* I’m warning you know I read a really good novel called Carry the Dog by Stephanie Gangi. It featured a 59-year-old female narrator who thought about sex, still. I’m all hopped up to write about aging and sex and fearing sexlessness, but I don’t have the mental capacity for it right now. Soon though, because the thoughts keep rattling around in my brain.

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