DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
Remember when “unprecedented times” became everyone’s favorite phrase? A true statement for the memories of most of the world’s inhabitants, but it still got on my nerves. I held my breath, waiting for someone to throw in the word surreal and say something like, “It’s so surreal, these are unprecedented times.” I swear, I would’ve walked away screaming as someone gently muttered, “Poor fella, everyone’s so overwhelmed.”
So—real talk: How did you adapt to the chaos Covid-19 dropped into our lives?
Did you start baking sourdough? Rethink your entire career? Form a codependent relationship with your couch? Go over your data plan because Netflix, RPGs, and Zoom somehow became a lifestyle?
Grow a beard that now has its own personality? (How’s that going, by the way?) Man, that time produced some truly unfortunate facial hair. Mine looked like a depressed squirrel had taken up residence on my face for a solid month. Eventually, it evened out—but the trauma lingers.
For me, my home became my fortress of solitude—equal parts sanctuary, bunker, and blanket fort. I was lucky: my stepmother, who lived through WWII, told me to stock up on essentials before the lockdown. And I listened.
The provisions—dry goods, paper products, all the basics you don’t think about until they vanish—were stacked neatly and inventoried like I was prepping for the end times. All of it sat on those hideous, industrial metal shelves that belong in basements or crime scenes, not in the middle of a living room.
But they got the job done. Ugly, but reliable. Kind of like the year itself.
I still can’t believe I actually listened, but it made all the difference. It was like the world we knew vanished before our eyes. People became mean and rude for what seemed like no reason.
But looking back, I think it was fear. Everyone just wanted something—anything—they could control. A place that felt safe.
While the world panicked under a double pandemic—Covid, that beast right there in your face that you had no idea which way it would attack, and Hysteria, the silent rogue creeping in from the shadows—I stayed still, battling my own fears.
Even though I was stocked, prepared, trained—it only provided the illusion of calm. A false sense of control.
I knew it. But I leaned on it anyway.
Because sometimes pretending you’re okay is the only way to survive long enough to actually be okay.
But I’ve been here before—in a different kind of war.
In battle, I was surrounded by people who didn’t just know how to survive. We knew what it took to live—no matter how damn hard it got.
That kind of clarity doesn’t leave you. It changes how you move through silence, how you handle fear, how you hold yourself when no one else is watching.
And because of the kind of isolation that comes with PTSD, I didn’t mind being cut off from people. If anything, it gave me space to finally look at my life without distraction.
I realized medication couldn’t fix everything. I had to put in the work. I had to face the demons—even when it felt like I was the demon.
It’s wild, the stories we tell ourselves about what happened to us. Over time, they twist. They shape how we react, instead of letting us respond.
I saw people pretend they were fine—but you could see the cracks.
You offer to help, because you know that darkness. You’ve walked alone in it. And you don’t want anyone else to be there if they’re not ready.
But the rub?
Sometimes, ready or not, you have to walk it anyway.
We’ve made strides in breaking the stigma around mental health. But no one wants to admit they need help—because no one wants to feel different. Or maybe the better word is broken.
But here’s the truth:
It’s okay to be broken. Everyone is. Some more, some less—but broken just the same.
And so we cope. We sip something, cry in the car, buy stuff we don’t need, gamble what we shouldn’t, scroll endlessly, smile when it’s easier than explaining.
All of it—just trying to hold the pieces together.
The world is big. So vast. And we are connected in so many different ways.
So I have to ask—why do we live it so small?
Speak your truth. As Uncle Walt said: sound your barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.
You never know when your words will reach someone at just the right moment—when they need it most—to begin to heal.
We are not alone.
Memoirs of Madness 