Your bag is empty.
“Are you up?”
In the age of COVID-19, the reality of being alone is coming to the surface for all of us. Those missed connections that quickly faded into the recesses of our memories suddenly evoke warmer times. And we want warmer times. We want familiarity. We want to text that ex and forget about the disasters outside. Quarantine has brought about an era of “boomerang boos” on hyperdrive.
It’s one a.m. Thirty minutes have passed since I sent the above message to a man I’ve had an ongoing semi-casual romantic relationship with for nearly two years. Every time things nearly develop beyond that, something comes between us. It’s been a few weeks since we last spoke; as he’s done many times before, he said he wouldn’t speak to me again.
My heart sinks a bit when I look at my phone—staring, waiting for a reply. As my anxiety builds, I text again. We’ve been through this several times, but this time is different. It’s more pressing. He’s close and, well, he has cannabis.
“Hey, I know that you’re likely mad at me but.…”
He probably won’t answer. Deep down I sense it’s for the best, though it doesn’t feel that way right now. Maybe he hasn’t felt the crunch of corona yet or doesn’t know I’m now talking to someone else. Either way, if the world doesn’t end, history indicates I’ll likely hear from him again. He’s the ultimate boomerang boo anyway.
At three a.m. messages are still coming and going. There’s a lot of dust blowing around, some of it over a decade old.
As I scroll through the litany of Facebook posts, noting the news, I see a different ex from a long time past. This was an ex I nearly moved cross-country for, someone who called himself my “biggest fan.” He’d been wonderful before.
And right now “before” seems to be the focus. If there was a time before the world was upended, then there will have to be an after. But what if there’s not? What if this is all there is? What if this is all there could be?
Now that I’m on Facebook I see a message pop up. It’s a video call. This is with yet another ex—one whose exit was on better terms.
“How are you holding up over there?” he says. “I miss you.”
These messages have been arriving in waves. It’s remarkable. Some of them, like this last one, are tremendously welcome. Others are aggressive and outright nasty, but they almost all return to some strange nostalgia for our familiarity. It’s almost as if there’s an unspoken contract authorizing this behavior no matter the previous exit.
“I’m not sure why you called just now, but were you wanting me to hang out?” I ask.
“Of course I was,” he responds.
The possibility of the world ending seems to be bringing folks out of the woodwork more than usual. It’s the ghosts of my past. It’s heightening the urge to resurface old connections.
At three a.m. messages are still coming and going. Each one brings a rush of adrenaline. There’s a lot of dust blowing around, some of it over a decade old. It’s once again fresh, vibrant and exciting. But are any of these reignited flames real, or is this happening only because of the loneliness coronavirus has wrought?
My feeds confirm that I’m not the only one noticing this blast from the past. Several others are voicing similar sentiments. I’m not alone, though the social distance makes it seem that way.
I try making it into a game.
It’s tempting to get caught up in long-forgotten patterns as a form of distraction. Hope can be entrancing with its power to take hold and dominate the senses.
“I just had a videoconference playing an online game with two of my exes,” I tell my friends. “How many do you think I could get in one chat room before the virus is gone? Do you think this could be a new sport?”
It’s comical, after all, isn’t it?
Outside the public eye, I find myself looking at the calendar as the days drop off. I find myself aching for things I perhaps took for granted. I find myself missing the warmth and sentiment of a hug and the intoxicating tenderness of touch.
Desire is a drug, and I’m an addict without my fix. And that’s when the sexts start, sometimes to folks who perhaps shouldn’t receive them. A typical exchange:
“I just want my hair pulled and to be taken. I just want to feel desired and to be desired.”
The reply: “Why are you so far away right now? You should be right here on my dick.”
Me again: “Oh, how I want to be so much right now.”
But is any of this sexting healthy? I sit and wonder before, after and, sometimes, to my horror, during. I’m honestly not always sure. If a given relationship’s end was known to be unhealthy, I’m fully aware that the sexting isn’t healthy either. But no one wants to think about that; it’s much easier to pretend a global health crisis wipes the slate clean. It’s easier to be in this moment and feel anything other than the heat of our current hellscape.
Should we distance ourselves from our emotions to comply with the quarantine?
When you’re thinking about texting that boomerang boo, I encourage you not to do as I do but, dear loves, to take a deep breath and press pause. It’s tempting to get caught up in long-forgotten patterns as a form of distraction. Hope can be entrancing with its power to take hold and dominate the senses. It’s a phantom in the night. But perhaps it shouldn’t be.
The truth is, the dysfunction or incompatibility never actually went away, even if it seems distant now. There’s always a reason things died in the first place. The time we’re forced to spend alone can be an opportunity to meditate, reflect and maybe finally give a proper good-bye to the past that always creeps up when we’re at our most vulnerable.
There’s no need to be haunted by ghosts. The world is scary enough already.