After my last post about having a rough day, that day turned into a few days and I decided to be a hermit. I couldn’t figure out just why I was having such a hard time, but as it turns out, when a depression-induced bad day happens to collide with a hormone-induced bad day, I basically become a rolling dumpster fire of emotions. So, that’s been a fun ride. Generally, these things don’t happen often and I’m able to maintain a pretty functional life, even with my sometimes-not-very-functional brain. I’m pretty thankful for that. And I’m even more thankful that I have a bunch of lovely humans in my life to offer hugs and encouragement and love and chocolate and space-if-I-want-it and understanding and compassion.
At this point, I’ve missed a few days of my Thirty Day Challenge. I’m not super stoked about that but I’ll be adding those missed days at the end. So it’ll still be thirty posts. Just not in thirty consecutive days. Ah well. You can’t win ’em all.
I’m having all the anxiety today. All of it. I’m worried about work, and Trump, and America, and healthcare coverage for Americans, and my own health, and ohmygawd my knees hurt, and are they hurting more than usual?? and should I be concerned that my knees are hurting more than usual? and I should drink more water because it’s good for my joints and I’m probably destroying my joints by not drinking enough water, and SHIT! I need to check my email, and what if I can’t figure out what to write in my blog today, if I don’t post something today then I fail at my own writing challenge and I fail as a writer and GAHHH! Oy with the poodles already!
I’ve got nothing in the brain bank today. My body is sore. I’m tired. I’ve been staring at this screen for over an hour and I still have nothing to say. So, here’s eight and a half minutes of cats being assholes. Enjoy.
The world is getting me down a little bit. So I made a list of things that are making me smile.
Dark chocolate with sea salt.
White string lights.
Plants. All the plants.
Uncovering the many levels of my boyfriend’s nerdery.
Learning about weird medical stuff.
Phone chats with faraway friends.
Snuggling in bed.
Lodestar by Sarah Harmer.
The smell of used bookstores.
Peanut butter toast.
I’ve seen this image and others like it, all over the place. A fair few friends have attempted to send the message of “agree to disagree”. Normally, I would share in that sentiment – I can be a pretty diplomatic person and I understand that lots of folks have lots of different view points. I have friends and family at all different points on the political spectrum and we can generally all get along just fine. But, as it turns out, I have a line. And the line is Donald Trump.
I want to be clear: this line that I have is not about liberal vs conservative. It’s not about democrat vs republican. It’s not about left wing vs right wing. The line is about something much more human and personal for me. While I can agree to disagree on a number of topics, I simply can not when it comes to Trump. The second I hear someone supporting Trump, I no longer trust that person. And here’s why:
Trump has openly and publicly condoned and encouraged sexual assault and he has spread an awful lot of hate, racism, misogyny, homophobia, and general douche-baggery. It’s baffling to me that an intelligent individual can hear the things he has said and still think that he is a decent human being who is fit to run a country. If an individual can knowingly put their trust in someone so hateful, I can no longer put my trust in that individual. I can no longer trust that person’s judgement, or the decisions they make that affect other people, and I certainly can’t trust my relationship with that person.
To still support Trump tells me a lot about what you think is okay in the world. To still support a man who condones sexual assault tells me that you think sexual assault is okay. To still support a man who spreads hate tells me that you think hate is okay. To still support a man who is racist, misogynist, and homophobic tells me that you think racism, misogyny, and homophobia are okay. And they are anything but okay.
As an openly queer woman, as a victim of violence and sexual harassment, as a descendant of immigrants, I refuse to let these things slide. And as a human being, I’m offended that I’m expected to. So, no. No, I will not agree to disagree on this one.
This week, I learned how to change a toilet stack. So that was pretty cool.
This bedroom of mine is small. Tiny, even. Full with just a bed and table. I like it that way, like a cozy little nest. This sacred space of mine is soft and gentle, all neutral shades, but for the red woven into a beloved blanket. In this quiet place, I rest my body, I calm my mind, I hide away here when the world is too loud, too big, too much.
The bed is mine alone. I sleep in the middle, legs stretched out, endless blankets and pillows bunched around me. I’m happy, still, to share, to make room for my lover, gentle beast that he is. The smell of his hair lingers on my pillows, greeting me in the warmth of the sun as I unfurl from my cocoon. Light beams through the window above my head most mornings. It beckons me, “Arise! Stretch those limbs! It’s time for coffee!” I emerge from beneath the covers, my soft, protective shield falling away. Bones creaking and eyes bleary. I leave the nest, knowing that it will still be here when I need it.