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Editor's Note: Jack Gray is supervising producer of "Anderson Cooper 360" on CNN and author of "Pigeon in a Crosswalk: Tales of Anxiety and Accidental Glamor." The opinions expressed in this comment are yours. See more opinion at CNNe.com/opinion
(CNN) - 2020 was not supposed to be like this. It would be, I told myself, the year I would restart my life. Less stress and a clearer mind, a better attitude and bigger dreams. Back - shuddering - to dating. This would finally be the year, as Dolly Levi would say, when I would rejoin the human race.
All of this is now on hold, as it should be in a responsible world. Okay, except when I think about it too much, which is daily. And while I am well aware that wallowing in one's existential detours is a luxury afforded to the lucky ones, those whose paychecks and good health remain intact, the distancing still eludes me.
Independent and distant and days piling up and alone, very alone. In the almost 20 years since I was diagnosed with depression, I have become an expert at detecting dark waves. But these slipped through me.
Zoom, FaceTime, they help a little, of course. But it's not the same as someone with you on the couch. You text your old friends, you email great aunts, you think about adopting a cat, but you decide not to because this is New York and you never bothered to have windows with protection and the last thing you want to deal with right now it's a dead cat seven floors below.
Eventually, you run out of things to say and people to call and the awkward clarity roars again: there is no one in my apartment, no one to hug, no one to whisper that everything will be fine.
It's easy these days to slide down a spiral, easier still for those with pre-existing mental health issues. If there was ever a time to stay in touch with therapists and stay up-to-date on medications, now is the time. I try to maintain a routine, something that is close to normal, a concept that means less with each passing day.
My wardrobe is full of antidepressants and pasta, staple foods that make pandemic life bearable, though bloated. It would probably be helpful if I had twice as many showers and listened to half of Billie Eilish's ballads.
There's the occasional irony: the only in-person interaction I've had this month has been with the pharmacist who dispensed my anti-anxiety prescription behind plastic sheets, hanging from floor to ceiling in the pharmacy. I accept the reminder that the stress of loneliness is nothing compared to the risks faced by healthcare workers.
The prospect, however, comes and goes. The hours are full of the temptation to project all my complaints with life on the coronavirus. Paths not taken, hopes deferred, the one that ran away, have nothing to do with the pandemic, but the crisis has underlined them ten times. I twist and turn as they dominate my internal quarantine.
Loneliness is a Petri dish for depression; It is when I need a friend the most: someone to date, someone to get me out of the abyss, someone to share dreams and plans, no matter how uncertain the calendar may seem.
Always reach out, always. Tell a loved one that you are not doing well, tell them you are in a dark place. It interrupts your day, wake it up at night.
A couple of miles from where I live, Broadway theaters will be closed at least until June. One of the shows that has faded is a revival of Stephen Sondheim's celebrated musical “Company,” a story about drifting in New York.
In the penultimate number, "Being Alive", the main character sings "... he is alone, not alive." It is a painfully beautiful song, one of life's great theatrical hymns. But "Company" is not set at the time of the coronavirus. We are alive right now despite the loneliness. We are alone, but not alone. And you can always get a cat.
For those facing emotional stress caused by the coronavirus, the free and confidential National Disaster Distress Hotline is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. Call 1-800-985-5990 or text TalkWithUs to 66746 to contact a trained crisis counselor.
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