I’ve been sick with stomach flu for three days. Few things make your single status shine sharper than a good bout of illness.

I was not entirely abandoned. My sister offered to bring me anything I needed. I declined because I was contagious and I could fend for myself (my son was away for most of the weekend). I was only lying still and sipping water, punctuated with reassuringly regular trips to the bathroom. Anyone else would only have been a voyeur of my whinging and nausea.

The point being: you wouldn’t invite anyone into the situation who didn’t need to be there. What you need is someone who’s already trapped in the bubble, someone who can’t choose to leave, someone who is already stuck in quarantine with you. That’s what I need.

This was one of the thoughts that galloped through my mind like so many rabid squirrels, in the dark, sleepless sweat lodge that my bedroom became. Anxiety creates an abyss below my bed and a little virus is all it takes to pitch me into the chasm.

Choosing to interact more with others has been illuminating – people who reach out with compassion and understanding, even though many have much greater difficulties, much more real sadnesses than the ones that my anxiety make big. That irrational self robs me of perspective.

So in those small hours, I sought to purge the little tantrums from my head, scrolling through options and outcomes. I can’t share my conclusions now. Perhaps because I want to be certain that these decisions are not delirium, perhaps because I still want to be wrong about some things.

That’s all I have today. I have a sick note.