Quarantine was a bad time for everybody, so far be it from me to imply I had it worse than anybody else. But man.
I was 3 years into college…. and I could tell it wasn’t working. Grades were getting worse, assignments were late, internship opportunities were looking dire. I was all set to become a failure. I was gonna flunk out, and unless I found a job, my dad was eventually gonna kick me out onto the street. But I got lucky. Quarantine hit. The world went on pause. I had an excuse. I had time. I could find a solution, and work my ass off to push it through.
I started streaming full time almost immediately when quarantine went into effect. Mostly out of desperation. If I couldn’t make this work. If I couldn’t take advantage of the meager audience I’d amassed by spending my entire teen years shitposting… I didn’t have a plan C. So there I was, for four years. In that room. As much as I could, as much as my health would allow, I’d be streaming. That tiny room, not even 80 square feet, with a single, tiny window. That was my entire world for those four years.
After a year and a half, it felt like I’d made it. I was making money. I was saving money. Deciding to stick with streaming, I formally quit college, and started looking for my own place….. It took me almost two years find one. The housing market was in the shitter. There were few addresses available, and prices were high. And nobody was interested in renting an apartment to some nobody with no degree and almost no provable work history. The only thing I could do was keep trying. Keep working. My income was all there: I was registered with the chamber of commerce so I was legally a self-owned company. I had a stable income. I just needed more time to prove it. It had to go through the system. It had to look stable. I had to look reliable.
Those last two years, I felt so hopeless, all the time. I had no idea when I would finally get lucky and find a place to live. No idea when I’d finally be able to be someone. No idea when I would finally get away from my dad, who I was fighting with more and more. Every time I went to a place for an interview but didn’t hear back afterward, I felt crushed. Every time I would get depressed and become sick. As long as I was living with my dad, I didn’t have any future to look forward to. Four birthdays had passed since quarantine started. My body was growing older, but I wasn’t moving forward. It seemed endless.
That tiny room was all that existed. I had the feeling I would die there. It was my coffin.
It’s been six months now, since I moved out. I’m very happy with my apartment. It’s pretty large. At least five or six times larger than that room I spent those years in. I have a large bed. I have a large corner where I work. Work is going pretty well. I’m going out more. I’m trying to find out who I am. My therapist says I’m doing very well.
I never want to be in that room again.