I couldn’t move for the longest time this morning. Like, my arms and legs refused to cooperate.
I stared at the wall with the green curtain and watched the minutes tick by on my phone. I didn’t bother opening the phone again. I saw the news.
It wasn’t like 2016. I didn’t stay up all night sobbing. I didn’t come to work with a swollen face.
But the despair? Of course, I can’t say for sure, but I am pretty fucking sure the despair is far worse this time.
Far worse.
Eventually, my brain won the argument with my arms and legs and we all got out of bed.
The thought of going to work was absurd. The house is on fire. What the fuck does work even mean? And about that. Seems like my plans for retirement are gone. I don’t even want to hope that I will be able to collect social security in a few years. I’ll be working until I fucking die.
Because worrying about my personal situation allowed me to move my arms and legs again.
The anguish for all those in peril was too much to process. The fear for my sisters and brothers in marginalized groups. The terror I feel for any human with a working uterus. The profound sadness at the understanding that tens of millions of people in this country don’t consider us completely human.
How can I process this? How can there be any joy? Fucking ever?
But here’s the thing. What will happen over the next few months and years is out of our control. Our control was our vote and that moment is over. But we are here. We are still here.
We are millions. We are here.
I will work at removing as much negativity in my life as I can. I will strive to bring positivity into the universe. Because I can. Does that mean a fucking thing? I don’t know. I don’t know if it helps, but I am goddamn sure it won’t hurt.
I deactivated my Twitter account this morning. It was fun for a few years, but that stopped in 2015. I have spent nearly a decade on that app reading every single awful thing that happened in our country. I knew about small political races in states I have never even been to. I hate to brag, but I made doom scrolling my bitch. I was tenacious. Like Robert Patrick in Terminator II, but instead of being a killing machine, I doom scrolled.
I can’t be there any more. How can I even begin to be more positive if I am bathing myself in sewage every single day?
I am not suggesting we stick our heads in the sand. We will never have that luxury. And if you are sticking your head in the sand? Cut that shit out. This is life and death. We always have to be informed. We always have to stay vigilant.
But we don’t have to eat it like junk food.
I have a suggestion for for. Maybe it is more a request.
Make art.
Make a lot of art.
Sing songs and dance. Unless your knees hurt a lot like mine, then maybe not a lot of dancing.
Write stories and jokes and plays and poems. Write a funny message on your bathroom mirror.
Act or tell jokes. Draw pictures. Glue sparkly things to something dull.
Make good food. Try new things. Decorate a cake. Paint a lamp. Deconstruct something unusable and turn it into something else.
Find the art of others. Appreciate their art. Support them and celebrate them.
There is infinite room for all art.
This belongs to us. We can make all the art we want. And if I have to end up writing words in the fucking dirt with a stick, then that is what I will do.
We need art. We need it so bad.
Tell people that you love that you love them.
I love you.