that little voice

What day is it?

How would I know? I’ve been doing the same thing for the past 10 months, isolating, cocooning, watching the news incessantly, walking the dogs, attempting to be inventive about different routes so they have new bushes to leave their mark.

What differentiates Monday from Thursday? Wednesday from Saturday?

Why am I so perplexed about days of the week?

I read this quandary of mentally being lost in time is a result of stress, due to our isolation, the pandemic, the loss of jobs, no money, and being alone, if you don’t have a partner to share those hair-pulling days with. Or it could be a result of having a crazy man with his thumb on the big bomb prancing around social media exposing his madness.

I do recognize Sundays. It is the day of depression, not due to COVID-19. I’ve always found Sundays as a downer, even when my husband was alive. I don’t know whether it is because it is the end of the week and I’m sorry to mark a closing. Or, if I’m sad because I have to start a new seven days. Whatever the reason, I recognize Sundays, and am comforted by my daily dose of Zoloft.

Who would think stress could cause me to wander through life with no awareness of what I’ve done in the past 24 hours, or how to remember if I did anything.

The days are made up of don’ts:

I don’t get my hair cut.

I don’t get my nails done.

I don’t hug my friends

I don’t shower every day. I don’t care if I brush my teeth immediately after eating.

I don’t care if I brush my teeth immediately after eating. Heck, I don’t remember if I’ve even eaten.

Heck, I don’t remember if I’ve even eaten.

I wouldn’t remember to feed the doglets if Radar didn’t jump in my lap whining pathetically.

I am gratified experts blame my mental disconnects to pandemic stress. All this time I thought it was because I’m old.