It is fun to go for walks, to see friends on outdoor benches, to stream movies, to make doughnuts; what is not fun is me. What was once “novel” and “spontaneous” is now an exercise in planning — what is an equidistant park, is there a bathroom, will it rain? — and the effort of Zoom game night is more than I can give. Instead of a release, fun is yet another obligation: You are so lucky, I keep thinking. Why don’t you want to go apple picking?
I blamed my depression on so many things last year it’s impossible to recount them all, but among them are my teeth, my left knee, going freelance, sugar, social media, Zoom, the space between the end of my bed and the wall—less than a foot!—Man Repeller, Mitch McConnell, Mark Zuckerberg, my failure to journal, my personality, my apartment, the DNC, decaf coffee, cops, my hair color, corporate activism, my credenza, the fact that I don’t own these specific Nikes.