Surprisingly, I’m Doing Okay

Kyle Keller - Multimedia Co-Editor & Evolution Radio Host

Lately, I’ve been keeping a careful measure of how and when my day goes sour. It happens randomly — I’ll be plodding along, chipping away small pieces from big projects, picking up the guitar and losing myself for an hour, reading, doodling, YouTubing, when my mood, invisibly and imperceivably, tanks. Whatever I’d been doing before feels like a chore I’ll be stuck doing until the end of time. And then, other days, a simple act will feel like rain speckling the ground for the first time after a long drought. Holes-style. You know the feeling.

The weirdest thing? The rate at which I ascend and descend in moods has been completely un-impacted by the coronavirus pandemic. In a big way, nothing’s changed; some days in school, I’d be dragging my feet through Animation and then, a PB&J later, feel like conquering the world. Both are entirely disconnected from reality. I have as many swings when I can’t leave the house as when I can.

This realization, among others, has brought me to an unexpected conclusion: as much as things have changed, the landscape inside my head is exactly the same. Sure, a lot of it is due to my unique circumstances — I am supported by my parents, one of whom has a recession-proof job; I don’t have a mental illness or condition to worry about, not even a minor one; I do well in long periods of relative social isolation; I always have plenty to do; and I live in a place with access to trails, parks, and beaches — but, all the same, it’s a surprise. Considering that I’ve lost graduation, senior prom, Grad Night, the surety of going to college in the fall (even thinking about Santa Cruz fills me with a weird “hope-hopelessness” milkshake), and the ability to say goodbye to people I know and love and will probably never see again, I’m happy. I’m OK.

I’m still doing wacky things with my friends. A couple of days ago, two local pals and I rode our bikes down to Aliso Canyon at nightfall, snuck through a golf course, and sat by the ocean for an hour or two. It was a journey that never would’ve been possible without the coronavirus — in the golf course’s active state, we would’ve been caught immediately, since we were very much trespassing — and that was made all the better by the bioluminescent algae that shot a neon blue glow through the crashing waves. As we slunk across the fairway through near-complete darkness, shone on by a full moon that we’d initially mistaken for a too-bright porchlight, I could almost fool myself into believing that the coronavirus didn’t exist.

I’m still making art. On May 5th, I released an album of original songs, something I’ve wanted to do for about a year now. I recorded every single one of them in my 2003 Toyota Camry — some in the library parking lot, where I had to deal with annoying kids on bikes and a cop who wanted to make sure I wasn’t doing drugs; but most in my garage, pulling late nights beneath the buzz of a broken LED. Releasing it would’ve felt like throwing something into the Great Void of the Internet if not for congratulatory texts from my friends and people who’d liked the album. It feels good to put something out in the world. Different than it would be if I could have social contact… but still good and very much OK.

And, the clincher — I’m still looking forward to the future. UC Santa Cruz surely awaits me, whether in the fall or a little later. I can hardly wait to live in a trashed-out dorm room, start a psych rock band, do crazy stuff in the adventure-rich territory around Highway 1, join the local punk scene, and fall dangerously and unwisely in love with someone. Beyond that is a big, beautiful life that I’ve got too many ideas on how to fill. This little ol’ global pandemic just needs to peter out, and I’ll be more OK than ever.

But things aren’t OK. The world is falling apart in more ways than one. Do I have a weird kind of survivor’s guilt? Absolutely! Is this news? No. I’m constantly aware of the suffering going on around me and know that, despite the movements I involve myself in and the mindsets I try to impart to others, I can’t do anything other than be the absolute best person that I can be.

Does it stop me from being happy? Maybe it should, but it doesn’t. I’m still utterly in love with life and the prospect of living more of it. No sudden mood swing, prom cancellation, or period of self-quarantine can tarnish that.