The Existential Dread of Working from Home

My delightful red desk, warped after too many pools of condensation, no longer entices me. The bulletin board and stacks of neatly organized files no longer spark inspiration. My pens gather dust as my notebook patiently waits for me to open it and become productive again.

I cannot. All I can do is stare out the window, brain fried and unable to disengage from thoughts of my bed. My chore wheel bleeds into my task list even though I try to keep them separate. There is no longer any wall between my home life and my work. And I am a passionate individual who enjoys her job.

And so the inevitable has occurred:

All I do is work.

And I’ve realized that it defines my entire life.

A Bit of Stage Fright

I started working from home months ago, before it became a necessity. Being able to govern my work life was a revelation: I was much more productive, limitless even. I’d leave my house for only errands and fun, and that was the perfect balance for me.

Now that I’m trapped at home, it feels oppressive and suffocating. The warped red desk where I have spent hours immersed in the bliss of writing now feels like a torture device. It makes me wonder who I am and how dare I sit here working while so many…