Journal Entry: Vidya as a Cope

This blows.

My journal entries are like letters to nobody: I mean, they’re on the internet, though, so who knows; somebody might end up reading this nonsense. I’d like to think that reading this might be relieving for somebody– the mere fact that somebody else is also experiencing purely emotional suffering and strife with no sense of denial about it. I mean, who ever admits they’re sad on a public platform? I mean, I’m fine, really, but I think we all get terribly sad sometimes, right? Life would be good, I just wish the outside wasn’t so cold and that I had someplace to go.

Given the fact that people don’t really go to work anymore, college isn’t really college anymore, and going out isn’t really going out anymore, our copes are all we have. I mean, I don’t know what it’s like where you are, but I’m in New York City, and essentially, we’re under full lockdown again. Just as a brief reminder, the WHO admits that lockdowns cause “profound negative impact on individuals, communities, and societies by bringing social and economic life to a near stop. Such measures disproportionately affect disadvantaged groups, including people in poverty, migrants, internally displaced people and refugees, who most often live in overcrowded and under resourced settings, and depend on daily labour for subsistence.” But I digress.

I’ve got a final on Wednesday. I sure as hell am not studying for that. I should, though. I probably will, eventually. I’m tired. I just play a lot of video games nowadays. Like, a lot. But I’m playing on my Mac and with a rather tight budget, so my options are limited. I’ve gotten really into Borderlands 2 because it works pretty well on my computer, I get to blow things up, and some of the missions are really entertaining. I also enjoy the multiplayer co-op on occasion. I don’t really like battle royale games because I mostly just suck at those. I think I just don’t have that masculine sense of competition. I mean, that’s one excuse I’ve got. I’ve got lots of excuses, but it probably mostly boils down to that: I suck. I like the escapism that video games provide and I like hiding from all of my real life problems— like my finals for the semester. I like living in a different world with different priorities with a different persona with something resembling real goals in mind. I like helping NPCs, whether they be real or fiction. I still feel like I’m in college for a career I don’t really want, though.

I’m conventionally pretty, so I guess it’s a little ironic that I wish I was somebody else. I won the genetic lottery, didn’t I? I don’t have any social media, though, so my beauty means little to me. Especially now that nobody’s outside, I can’t even go on a walk and have people stare. Today at family dinner, I completely spaced out. I glance at my dad, and he’s staring at me. I glance at my mom, and she’s staring at me. And I’m like, “What?”. My pops said something about observing my appearance. I’m still in my PJs, my hair is greasy because I haven’t washed it in more than a week, and my lips are chapped and bloody because I keep chewing on them from the anxiety and the dry wintry air. But I guess I’m still pretty. Even right now with my bloodshot eyes and tearstained cheeks. Lucky me.

I hate quarantine and I hate the news and I hate being alive and I’m just absolutely miserable. A man asked me, “How are you so depressed at 20?”. Well, I think most 20 year olds are depressed, especially girls. Most of them are just receiving a constant flow of social approval directly into their brains via social media platforms that manipulate and indirectly control their moods, thoughts, and behaviors, which then temporarily medicate the fundamental sadness in their souls. I mean, admittedly, that sadness is further sedated on occasion via eating disorders, nicotine, and meaningless sex. I’m also on my fucking period so that doesn’t help. Fucking fantastic. I feel the mood swings approaching, and I could tell the resulting feelings are not going to be fully rational, but I can’t help but cave into them— the experience is vaguely therapeutic. At least I’ve got my writing to help me tuck away the strife.