Oh no we didn't.

I am aware that I use my sense of humor as a coping mechanism when shit starts hitting the fan, but I never expected to literally find myself breaking down into hysterical fits of laughter last night while watching election results roll in. 

I have done my very best to avoid political discussion of any kind with anyone not living in my home, and I didn't really feel anxious about the whole thing until suddenly half the east coast was red. And at first I thought, well, the south is always red, just wait. But then there was just... more red. And more. And some more for good measure. So much red. All the red, everywhere. 

Today we are looking around in confusion, wondering what to tell our kids, and all manner of other ridiculously important things that have no right to even be questioned at this point, like deportation and walls and civil liberties and misogyny and sexual health. AGAIN. I don't understand how we got dragged back to this ugly, uncertain, hopeless place. 

This morning I read a post by a complete stranger that was one of the most naive, candy coated garbage sentiments I have read in a while. "Maybe it won't be as bad as everyone thinks! Maybe this is actually going to be good for us!" It produced yet another involuntary peel of laughter from deep within the place my heart used to lie, mostly unbroken. Then I cried. 

The thing is, though, I think that's also the moment I felt a tiny sliver of hope sneak in. Not because I have any hope that "maybe it won't be so bad." But because maybe this IS going to, eventually, be good for us. 

I say that because the issues here aren't just targeted at one group this time. It's not just about women's issues. It's not just about gay rights. It's not just about the black community. It's not just about immigration. It's about ALL of those things, together. We are all in this shit together. I hope we stand, united, and kick some ass. Or, maybe that's my own level of naivity peeking through. I don't know yet. It's all the hope I have to cling to right  this second, though.

The thing growing in the closet

So far, I've spent the first week of 2015 trying to clean out a giant mess of mold in my closet. I would like to think of this as a metaphor. I would like to, but, there is, or was, a giant mess of mold in my closet; the real deal stuff, that I am extremely allergic to. We sealed the windows to shut out the drafty cold in our old house, and in the process we gave the spores of decay a place to fester and thrive amongst the overflow of boxes of memories and junk we failed to unpack. We didn't notice right away until it was climbing the walls and carpeting the outsides of our boxes of memories, and the illness had already set in.

It's really the perfect metaphor, isn't it?

The truth is, I have a lot of mold in my metaphorical closet, as well, that I hope to finally clean out this year. I want to unpack those long forgotten boxes of memories, good and bad, toss out the ones that I don't want or need any longer, air the newly emptied space out until I feel healthy and whole again. I feel like I have become a hoarder of things that have been detrimental to my psyche, and I am ready to call in the cleaning crew. I don't want to be insulated from the rest of the life that I could be living.

I'm going to write one of my books this year, and find someone to publish it. That is the sum total, along with the above closet cleaning, of my new year resolution. It's a big one, but I believe I am going to do it.

I need to get a life.

I am the proud new owner, for the second time in my life, of the phrase "my therapist told me...." Actually, it's kind of the reverse; I sit in the chair and tell her everything for an hour every week. On the mornings of "therapy day," I wake up with a giant knot in the center of my stomach and an overwhelming urge to have a panic attack - the symptoms of a hardcore, long-term "do-it-yourselfer" that is coming to grips with the fact that I can no longer do-it-myself at this time. Someone who has awoken in the cold sweat nightmare of discovering that, despite my insightful and honest approach, I have become a victim of aimless existence rather than kicking ass and taking names. I have become accustomed to allowing things to happen instead of making them happen.

How did that happen?