The Covid Cell

J. J. Whelan ‘25

The door clicked shut on Day One.

Fourteen days. Fourteen long days in isolation.

The walls of the room hadn’t changed, but something inside him had. The silence was deafening. He was used to the adrenaline rush from work, the buzz of the city, and the distractions of routine. Now, there was only him, his thoughts, and his phone, which lit up with unkind voices.

He had music, books, and WiFi. On paper, that sounded like comfort. But in reality, it was a recipe for disaster. His wife ensured he was eating daily and taking his sertraline as prescribed. His sons entertained him with jokes, but he was suffering deeply.

By Day Three, paranoia crept in like damp. His mind played cruel tricks.

“They’re all talking about you. A selfish pisshead, pretending to be something you’re not. You’re a functioning drunk at best, and even that’s generous.”

He sat in the corner of the room, the blinds half-drawn, a bottle beside the bed. It wasn’t even top-shelf stuff, just enough to take the edge off. But the edge never dulled. It sharpened.

His hands trembled during the day, and his chest tightened at night. Panic attacks came in waves. He thought about calling someone, but who? Who would understand without judging? Who would see the man behind the mask and not the headline he feared: Alcoholic Loses the Plot in Quarantine?

By Day Six, he was running out of drink and out of excuses. He played old Alice Cooper tracks on repeat, read the same page of a book four times, and still didn’t comprehend what it meant. He scrolled through social media, watching people laugh, pose, and pretend.

And the worst part? He missed the pretending. He missed pretending he was okay.

On Day Nine, he hit the wall—literally. Fist to plaster. Blood. He stared at it as if it didn’t belong to him. That night, he didn’t drink—not out of strength, but fear.

He looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the man behind the eyes. Sunken, sweaty, unshaven. Scared. But human.

He opened a new tab on his phone and typed in “men’s mental health support” and “Alcoholics Anonymous.” He needed both. Groups popped up in his area. He didn’t join that night, but he bookmarked the links.

By Day Twelve, he attended an A.A. Zoom meeting. He didn’t say much—just listened. He heard stories that were worse than his, better than his, and the same as his. Real men, real talk. He cried when it ended—quietly. Safely.

Day Fourteen came. The door unlocked.

He didn’t run out; he walked. Slowly. Phone in pocket. Music off. He needed the sounds of the world again. But this time, he wasn’t afraid of being honest.

He contacted A.A. and was called by a kind gentleman who took him to his first meeting, which was daunting, to say the least. Surely, I’m in the wrong place? he thought. All these people looked great and were having a laugh—not his perception of an A.A. meeting.

He continued his journey and carries on his battle one day at a time, thanking his higher power for taking him this far in his quest to stay alcohol-free.