This is what isolation mostly looks like for me now: I pray to Dieu every single day that she removes my urges to control my body and food. I wake up with anxiety. I’ve made barely any money in nine months and I don’t know if I ever will again. I torture my cellmate (ie: boyfriend) for the crime of loving me, sometimes before my first wee. I masochistically ruminate over my mom dying twice as often as I vacuum, which is constantly. A few weeks ago a great actor I love in New York died from the virus. I spent four hours in child’s pose, crying, putting my hands on my heart, and taking deep breaths. That’s the difference between living and dying for me: feeling this instead of using my body to disassociate from it, wrapping my arms around my torso instead of forcing it to subsist on a diet of its own organs or cramming it with crunchy Skippy. I have absolutely no idea what the future of my industry is, but I don’t do three work-out videos to release that fear — instead I release primal screams in my parking lot that yesterday prompted the neighbors to tell me to “shut the fuck up forever.”— I inhale gratitude that I don’t have a three year old who needs parenting so that I can do things like write long essays about myself.