014 - The Descent of (Orange) Man
Welcome back to the timeline where not even the most prolific of writers could spin as a dystopian novel flashback. It’s not even a rumor that Trump is a diaper-dumping, senile lump of trash because he’s not even trying anymore. He spent an entire rally dancing horribly to music and walking around the stage like a sundowning geezer. I’m honestly convinced he could drop trou and take a shit on the stage and people would still worship him. And all that shit the Republicans (and a few Democrats) made of Biden’s declining mental state have seemingly gone out of the window. Even his fanbase are concerned for his mental health, which was never optimal, if the cocaine rumors are true.
I’m more afraid of his fanbase come election day. It is ludicrous that the polls are still this close. Is it possible that the Trump cult have permanently brain-damaged themselves? Did all that horse dewormer melt their logical-processing center or was it even developed in the first place? How did the hippies of the 60s and 70s become the Christian nationalist boomers of today? Was their LSD and weed laced with lead paint?
In other news, I need to get my fucking shit together. I feel like I have these moments every month and then I do nothing to change it. I feel like a life raft in the middle of an ocean. Directionless, meaningless, vulnerable. You hear feats of survival all the time, of people spending weeks stranded on boats during gales. I would never have that strength, not even an inkling of it. I’m fat and generally doom and gloom about the state of the world. I stay afloat because my death would aggrieve people, even if I don’t believe it. You can be afraid of dying but not of death.
If I could do a little bit each day to improve my life, it would help. I’m never good with those commitments though. I don’t know what my mental health is going to be like month to month. The littlest chores seem insurmountable to me. I’ve left homework to the last minute and doomed myself with a mountain of essays to write. I may have a passion for writing, but not about FedRAMP and the implementation of Cloud Service Providers. I need to accept that no one is coming to magick me away into a life of prosperity.
I wasted too many years thinking a deity was going to show me the way. I remember being the evangelical Christian school, being told that my future was contained and determined by my gender. Becoming housewives and mothers was valued above women earning a paycheck. Even back then, I couldn’t imagine it as a happy existence. I was under the controlling thumb of my father who demanded too much, who used me as a therapist. I spent my days then dissociating away in fantasies of grandeur. It was how I entertained myself because the curriculum was bereft of joy and educationally bankrupt. I was continually told the characteristics I should strive for: happiness, diligence, honesty, obedience. God, I hated the word obedience. Dad used it often to malign any attempt of mine to gain back autonomy. He viewed me as a fat, spoiled teenager, conveniently forgetting that many of my binge eating habits I learned from him.
Of course, his efforts backfired. Forcing me to exercise, to walk on a treadmill in front of him like a gerbil on a fucking wheel, had made me hate the practice, even the word. I associated the phrase “working out” with his abuse, so I didn’t do it. I felt like doing so would kowtowing into his demands and that was the very opposite of what I wanted. I ate more junk food out of spite, even knowing it was bad for me. I still do that to this day. I felt like I had no control over anything but my eating. I also cut myself, hoping it would end the numbness. My blood was mine, after all. I could spill it when I desired.
I wonder if I’ll ever feel light again, not burdened by childhood trauma. Signing off.