Jed Wolf

Among the myriad of lessons from Covid, Boredom in 20/20 has presented unique challenges with attendant revelations. Its direct link to childhood depression, addiction and creativity is as stark as these last few frigid Christmas days here in sunny Florida.
I can’t endure any more television yet can no longer sit outside watching wildlife without freezing so without gardening or work to keep me busy, I walk and wonder why idleness drives me crazy.
My parents in the late 50’s had no natural child-rearing instincts. There were no hugs that I recall but plenty of spankings. Eight horrendous years bullied in boys school set the stage for lifelong reenactments.
As a kid, avoiding danger kept me safe, alone and bored. I honed some skills which had the mixed blessing of drawing attention, but being sexualized early on left me skeptical of anyone’s interest. By age 15, I disinterestedly drew and rejected attention like a seasoned actor.
This cold Covid Christmas in the sub-tropics has forced me to face my ennui head on. When I try to “just be,” do nothing, resist busy work or taking too many long, hot burning baths, the urge to eat or drink is often overwhelming.
My hair-trigger temper victimizes me and occasionally my husband so I isolate in and out of bed or pace around my yard talking on the phone. Passing others on daily walks, I do my best to smile and say quixotic things but secretly I’m not relating – merely compensating.
I place my hand on my heart but not in a bereft or empathic way. I’m just excruciatingly bored and trying something new ‘till I notice how hard it’s beating. Shouldn’t it be bored too?
My beating heart worries me like it always has. I ask myself what I want. “Permission,” I hear so I allow myself to fully feel the depth of my futility while waving at a neighbor and suddenly I’m staring out a window on a single digit birthday unwilling to leave my bedroom.
Swinging from being stuck, longing, uninterested and blasé in boarding school to peak experiences on psychedelic drugs set a stage for lifelong promises nothing could keep.
Moving to FloridaI was a response to bleak winter rooms. Covid’s hermitage made little difference ’till now, but this weather has ignited my lifelong fear of my treacherous idle mind. This season here has proved, In a split second I can turn happy-go-lucky Florida residents into liberal-hating whack jobs. Not leaving my yard equals not leaving my room.
Dave made apple pie. I’m also greatful for kitties, friends, turtles, winter raptors, steering clear of Covid thus far and 70’s temps returning soon but nothing can or should assuage my 20/20 year-end, in-depth investigation of loathsome boredom.