My privileged pity party

How bad am I allowed to feel for myself during Covid?

My therapy sessions are often uninterrupted tidal waves of grievances and anxieties. I am frustrated about my professional situation; I am enraged about coronavirus restrictions; and most of all, I feel lonely.

Can somebody send over the small violin?

One of the biggest lies told at the onset of the pandemic was that we were all in this together. “The virus is the great equalizer,” they solemnly said on cable news. It didn’t matter if you were Tom Hanks or a professional basketball player: you were susceptible to Covid-19.

We now understand those banalities are a bunch of garbage. Many of us are surviving Covid just fine, and those with full-time jobs are pocketing more money than ever. With so much actual suffering out there, can we still feel bad for ourselves?

Covid has disproportionally ravaged Black and Brown communities. In Massachusetts, the towns with the highest positive test rates are economically depressed areas with essential workers and multi-generational housing. For example, the percent positivity rate in Wellesley is 0.98, whereas in Fall River, it is 13.49. Framingham has a percent positivity rate of 7.37. My hometown of Natick, which is right next door, has a percent positivity rate of 2.36.

One explanation for the lack of national empathy surrounding more than 310,000 Covid deaths is that few people in power know anybody who’s died. This is a virus that’s primarily killing the elderly in nursing homes and poor people, who are likelier to have pre-existing medical conditions than rich people — making them even more vulnerable to Covid.

Lack of exposure to the suffering is definitely the reason why Covid relief remains stalled in Congress — and the grand bipartisan compromise includes measly $600 direct payments and curtailed unemployment benefits. The CARES Act was passed instantly, because we didn’t know what to expect. While it was unquestionably flawed, the unprecedented support kept small businesses afloat and prevented people from falling into poverty. Since expanded benefits started lapsing in June, nearly 8 million Americans have become impoverished.

And they’re allowed to descend into poverty, because this is the most unequal recession in history. I see it anecdotally. In my social network of college-educated and (mostly) white gays, I can think of maybe one or two people who have been hurt financially. Practically everyone on my Instagram feed spent their fall weekends jetting off to cozy New England abodes, holding onesie parties in tastefully decorated cabins.

That brings me back to my therapy kvetching sessions. As a freelancer, I feel hampered by the pandemic, and thus, a right to self-pity. The perpetually dying journalism industry seems like it’s really on its deathbed now, with legacy brands such as the NYT and WaPo emerging as the only games left in town.

When somebody with a good full-time job complains about their lockdown misery, I can’t help but grow tense. “What the fuck are they depressed about?,” I scream to myself. “They have a regular paycheck!”

In particular moments of delusion, I work myself into a frenzy thinking some fully employed people actually like the Covid restrictions. They enjoy saving the money, and most of all, enjoy the moral superiority.

I know first-hand a good job does not automatically spur happiness. But in my lockdown-rattled mind, I instinctively withhold sympathy from those in higher tax brackets.

It is something most of us do. We divvy up our sympathy. I assume some (many?) people are rolling their eyes at me, writing a sad tale from the comfort of my Boston-area condo. As I’ve written before, I have an amazing support system. On Saturday night, I got into a bad car accident. A friend quickly came down to the scene, and the next morning, my devoted parents helped me navigate the unwieldy insurance claims process.

My people were with me every step of the way. And yet, I’ve broken down in tears and cried dozens of times this week.

I am not hungry; I am not homeless; I have great family and friends. Given the devastation across the world, it seems petty for me to stew about calling insurance agents, or missing out on Club Cafe Fridays.

But is it? As gay men, we’ve already lost years of our social development. My high school and college days were largely dull and sexless. I feel like it’s OK for me to be angry over missing an entire year of galavanting in my 20s. Those experiences have exposed me to unique people and situations. In some respects, I feel like I’ve been temporarily robbed of my evolution.

Understandably, that is a relatively minor complaint. I am ultimately grateful — how could I not be? I will walk out of this pandemic intact, and my privilege is largely to thank for that.

But just so you know, I am also granting myself permission to throw a pity party. Just don’t tell me about yours, especially if you came back from a weekend at the White Mountains.