It's already December next week. Can you believe? Me neither. I've been thinking a lot about how I've been home this entire quarantine / lockdown period. I haven't left the house since March. Literally. The only "outside" exposure I've had was when I had a product shoot for a client in our garage. So technically, that's still inside. I'm not even going to try to explain how this year felt like so much was going on while nothing was going on. The Jeremy Bearimy timeline is indeed such a weird space to be in.
The last time I spent this much time inside the house, in my room, was the first year after an accident that made me a forever wheelchair user, 14 years ago. When I got discharged from the hospital, my friends visited me every Friday after school. We would all hang out in my small room while they told me about how their weeks went. I looked forward to it every week and I loved hearing about the every day school life I'd missed so much. I loved catching up on the latest drama of cheering practices, new couples, couples who broke up, couples got back together again, and why was Person A wearing Person B's jacket when person A had another Person?! The drama! I lived for all of it. High school was fun like that. And I loved my friends so much for trying to make me feel like I was a part of it.
But even with the weekly visits, I spent that year (and the next few) depressed and alone and lost without any sense of direction. It often felt like there was no way out. It was quite literally a life reset. A blank slate. A 'what now?' pivotal life moment. I was suddenly given what seemed like an unlimited amount of time that I didn't know what to do with and no one to process it with. While everyone else continued on with their lives, I felt stuck in a space with no one but me, myself, and I. It was a lot. 14-year old Aia really had to process so many traumas on her own — a literal life-changing accident, the guilt of being a burden to her family and friends, the shame of being a disabled person living in an able-bodied world, the loss of a life I didn't even get to live. There were so many things to unpack and so many questions to answer.
What kind of life comes after this?
Where do we go from here?
What kind of person will we be if and when we get out of this?
Now, more than a decade later, I've found myself back in my room, in the same space yet again. Well, same but different. I am once again stuck here just when life was on the brink of a new beginning. Once again, I am forced to stay still and be all by myself for the next year (maybe even more). But if there's one thing I learned from being in this space years and years ago, it's this: Sometimes silver linings don't always shine so brightly. If you don't pay attention, you might miss it.
Last week BTS released a new album, BE, which to me is the epitome of what a quarantine soundtrack sounds like. It's the comfort I never knew I needed. The real kind.
"People say the world has changed, but thankfully between you and me nothing has changed." — Life Goes On
"This is the safest place. Somehow there's no joy, no sadness, no emotion. It's just me here. Sometimes this room becomes an emotional trash can. It hugs me." — Fly To My Room
"Don't say it's okay, 'cause it's not okay. [...] I just want to be happier." — Blue & Grey
"Every time during the same day, I feel happiest when I meet you. [...] Even though we're far away now, our hearts are still the same." — Telepathy
All of these songs were something I wish I had back then while I was alone in my room, physically and emotionally paralyzed to move in any sort of direction. And I'm glad 14-year old Aia got to hear it this time around. That it's okay not to be okay. That even through everything that's happening, our friends are still here and they're not going anywhere. That after all these years, this room that once felt like an empty emotional trash can has become our safest and most favorite space. It hugs us with all the memories we've created in it. It's now filled with books that saved us, traces of late night life conversations, our quiet hopes and dreams, and all the things that gives us joy. It's taken almost half of my life to be at perfect peace in this space and it's something that I hold onto for dear life.
Going through this experience again, the main difference is that I'm not alone anymore. This time we are all alone together. We are all different kinds of stuck, but at least we have each other.
The questions from years ago still remain.
What kind of life comes after this?
Where do we go from here?
What kind of person will we be if and when we get out of this?
There's a lot of new things to unpack and I'm not sure if I have answers just yet. The learning and unlearning is constant, and it's so difficult to think about what life will be like a year from now. It will probably never be the same again (and it shouldn't), but I will always look back on the good and the best things that will come out of this like I did years and years ago.
I always carry 14-year old Aia with me. She is the bravest and strongest version of myself. She has taught me that in the darkest of times, there is always some light to hold on to. And now I realize that the things that I've been holding on to these days are the same things that kept me sane all those years ago — writing letters, sending care packages, intentionally keeping in touch with friends, clinging on to tv shows, making online friends, weekly late night chats, setting up a small business from something I love, starting an online journal, asking big questions I don't know how to answer just yet...
Life goes on like this again. I remember. And I always will.
Yours from afar,
14 and 28-year old Aia