How to cope if coronavirus is sapping your motivation to play.
Tell me if this sounds familiar: As winter begins and COVID cases ramp up, you're even more cooped up than before, but somehow your love of guitar is anything but diminished. Yet, more and more, rather than pick one up, you find yourself lounging on your favorite couch/recliner/giant dog, endlessly scrolling through listings of guitars, pedals, amps, microphones, etc. as the TV drones on in the background.
As your equally cabin-fevered cohabitants veg in similar fashion (within remote-control's throw or off in another room where they're less tempted to engage homicidal tendencies), you want to go play your favorite 6-sting. Or at least theoretically you do. On and off, you grapple with feeling either guilty for not making the effort or stupid for not taking advantage of the guitar's rejuvenating powers. More often than not, you remain ensconced in that comfy chair, softer in body and mind but firmer friends with 2020's most overstayed guests, the Malaises.
If this rings a bell, about the only advice my guilty ass can offer is this: screw guilt. New studies show we're suffering anxiety, depression, and/or trauma- or stress-related disorders at three or four times the nonpandemic rate. So guess what, baby? It's survival time. As long as you're being there for your loved ones and not bankrupting yourself with impulse buys, give yourself a break. The muse will hit when it hits. If you're the type to worry about your “chops," fear not. They'll come back.
We're living in unprecedented times. We're not used to having to think this way. But what really matters right now, whether you're a (formerly) touring pro or a bedroom warrior, is taking care of yourself—body and mind. The most important things we can do during the pandemic—wearing a mask and isolating as much as possible so we can get rid of this goddamn virus sooner rather than later—are pretty straightforward and simple. The mask bit couldn't be easier. Isolation is the bitch.
Prior to the outbreak, we'd long been used to modern life making us hyper aware of our physical health—eat right, exercise, get adequate sleep, get a flu shot and regular checkups. Yet, for some dumbass reason, we're pretty blasé about mental health. Sure, we're getting better at keeping it in the public conversation. But for all our focus (and money spent) on killer abs, Peloton bullshit, and air-fried quinoa casseroles, the scant thought, time, and effort we put into emotional wellbeing implies we still kind of look at it as just some nebulous, silly, or embarrassing thing that magically takes care of itself. That if you just do your yoga, lay on your thousand-dollar amethyst-crystal mat, or take the testosterone supplements hocked by some muscle-headed YouTube charlatan, you'll feel like a million bucks, body, mind, and soul—and somehow also be rich, famous, and killer in the sack, too.
I'm here to tell you A) if you're struggling more than normal under the weight of 2020's shit pile, you can and should get professional help. It is foolhardy to think that our physiology's one remaining mysterious frontier—the mind—needs less attention than the human-body bits we actually understand. And B) you'll get a hell of a lot more joy out of a new stomp or a $500 guitar bought during a 3 a.m. anxiety-scroll than you will from quack cures. Even if your new guitar toys just sit there on your board or hang there on your wall, looking neat till you can muster the inspiration to peel yourself off the couch and give 'em a go.
Screw guilt and be well, friends. Big hugs till next time.
Eight months/a decade into COVID-19, are we self-aware enough for our own good?
Has it really been eight months since I wrote “A Toast to Celine & a Middle Finger to COVID-19”? It feels like yesterday … and also a decade ago. Compared to last March, when I wrote that sappy piece of garbage, things feel a lot more normal now despite not nearly being out of the woods. Except for head-up-the-arse deniers, the world knows a lot more about the virus and seems to be taking more responsible measures to mitigate it. We’ve mostly accepted that masks and social distancing are the two most effective means of minimizing the spread and because of that, wisely or not, much of the U.S. has reopened shops, schools, and workplaces—although we’ve also largely left it to individuals to decide whether to abide by medical experts’ guidelines. All of which makes it easier to fall into the trap of thinking things are now kind of A-OK.
But even if, medically speaking, the situation were now better, we still wouldn’t be A-OK. Let’s face it: We’re basically all either suffering from (or on the verge of suffering from) something akin to PTSD. Whether we realize it or not, this year’s bizarre turn of events has put us in a collective mental/emotional state that’s both unprecedented and untenable. Life was already enough of a pain in the ass before people started dying or having lifelong COVID-caused health problems … before the pandemic put the economy in the crapper … before millions lost jobs and couldn’t afford rent, insurance, etc. … before all of the above domino’d into relationship stressors. It’s A-OK to admit we’re not A-OK, though. In fact, if we can’t admit it—if we’re in denial of how much 2020 has piled on to mortality’s everyday rigors—we’re bound to make a lot of very dumb, possibly dangerous decisions while under the delusion we’re of perfectly sound mind.
Even though I’m super fortunate—I’m great with my wife and kids … we’re all healthy … I’ve still got my job and my house—I can’t deny that the pileup of this year’s shit on top of last year’s shit continues to be a slog. All things considered, I’m one of the lucky ones, so I’d hate to see how I’d handle what some of you are going through. The thing is, even more than in “regular life,” we have no clue whether worse pandemic mayhem is just around the corner, societally or individually. Which is why—even when things feel relatively stable—it’s hard to not kinda freak a bit, isn’t it?
I’m just glad I’ve got my damn guitars. In a world that feels robbed of a lot of its former wonder, they are untouchable magic. In a world with no cure, they are miraculous salve. In an existence where it seems there’s no escaping much further than the bounds of our neighborhood, they are still a means of spirit-renewing adventure. I say all this like a sappy wannabe beatnik, but that doesn’t make it less true. More than I like to admit, there are times when I feel inexplicable ennui, defeat, pessimism, sadness. Who knew what a toll not hanging out with friends, not going out to eat, and not going on vacation could take? First-world problems are a bitch!
Like I said, relative to what many are suffering, I’m extremely lucky. Even so, sometimes the only thing that drags me out of the doldrums is an hour or two of thrashing my Tele or bashing one of my baritones. At unnecessarily loud volumes through my favorite pedals and amps, is best, but I’ll take whisper quiet through a Vibro Champ in the middle of the night now and then, too.
To outsiders, the remedy’s simplicity must seem ridiculous. But I can’t help feeling sorry for anyone without something equally transcendent to turn to, even if it is just fleeting respite before heading back into the unknown.