Twelve days ago I decided to go dark. By the time I got here, I was already over it, six ways to Sunday. The stress, the anger, the division, the constant fear-bombing. I woke up early on November 5^th, eager to cast my vote once and for all, to seal the coffin of my anxiety. Todd and I were 6^th and 7^th in line.

I stayed up late in bed with the tv on, waiting for my husband to return from his post two counties away where Maryland officials were keeping an eye on things and bracing for violence. He finally walked in the door around 11:30 p.m. and I just started to cry.

I went to work the next day, stopping at the local grocery to pick up some creamer for my coffee. As I crossed the parking lot back to my car, I passed a man talking loudly on his cell phone. A huge weight has been lifted.

Sure it has. A huge weight for every white man in red country who really believed their world would collapse in a Democrat’s hands. Every white man who will never have to worry about …. Anything, ever again. Our incoming president has promised so.

A silver lining, as if there could ever be one, I told myself at least there won’t be any violence today. No repeat of January 6^th. No constant, screaming headlines about election fraud and cheating and “illegals” voting. Isn’t it amazing how there was no fraud this year??

I’m fortunate I am not immediately associated with any folks gloating over the election, though I’ve heard that others are sick of hearing about politics and it is affecting their ability to function in work environments. I will say, though, that I fail to understand why the signs are still up nearly two weeks after the election. It’s over. Your candidate won. We know who you voted for. Congratulations. But – I see you. I see who you are, so thank you for that. And, also, I hope you get everythingyou voted for.

In the immediate days after November 5^th, I noticed a surreal sense of calm. It’s difficult to put into words, really. The energy feels different. Not like I’d expected. Maybe it’s me.

That was before I deactivated my Facebook account. Before I canceled my NYT subscription. Twenty-four hours after the election, I was sick of the “Breaking News” emails from the Times, and sick of Facebook for all the fucking ads, and pages I don’t even follow, being all I ever see anymore. Facebook used to be fun. Connecting with old friends, making new ones through common causes or interests. THAT was fun.

Until 2020. That was the year I started sifting through my friends list and deleting those who were pounding their fists about things I vehemently disagreed with. People who showed me who they really were. Four years later, there are still some left and I am torn between being the kind person who can accept differences of opinion and purging them because they have voted against the very things that sustain a democracy.

I have dear friends who are deeply hurting. Worried. Angry. I’ve taken this time to “go dark” as we say. To stop the noise. All of it. Make no mistake – this is NOT me sticking my head in the sand. But I need time right now. Refocusing my efforts.

I am focusing on things I’ve long put aside – what seems like simple, everyday things people do. I’ve put down my cell phone and taken control of the things I can. I had all these things I projected I’d do during the pandemic in 2020 – all of which are STILL sitting on the proverbial shelf. I’ve turned toward those things and directed my energy to my family. I’m starting to get things done. Most of all, I am healing. Concentrating the energy I will need in the days to come.

I don’t want to be angry and hateful toward people. It’s not who I am. YET, I simply cannot synthesize how to accept them for what they voted for. Are they really that close-minded and racist, or are they just stupid? The family up the street that put up a Trump sign – they’ve taken it down since the election. Whatever their reasons for voting for him, at least they’re not flying the loony flag. But I see them now. I know who they are and I won’t forget.

I’m 750 words in and I’m still talking about it, aren’t I? Well then, before we move on, I just wanted to add to that above train of thought, that I am conflicted about cutting people off because I know that is the way “they” control us all. Keep us fighting with one another and forever divided, means we’ll never be cohesive enough to fight back against “them.”

I want to refocus my energies on writing, but even that has fallen dreadfully short. I can’t get purchase on the slippery surface of the blank page and my keyboard. I started a Patreon page three years ago that has only one post. I’ve considered returning to that because, as a paid platform, it would force me to produce. I also realized that I share my Word Press posts via my personal Facebook, which I cannot do if I’m not using FB. Those who subscribe via email won’t miss posts, but I don’t know that many people actually do. Hell, my own husband doesn’t subscribe.

I was happy to abandon FB and don’t really feel the loss other than it occurred to me that I can’t list stuff for sale or free without that access. Eh. I don’t know.

I’m focusing on survival skills now. Todd and I have joked about moving out to the middle of nowhere and away from all this chaos, answering the unexpected knock on the door with a shotgun. Growing a garden and keeping chickens and farm animals, like Flat Broke with Two Goats.

Maybe I will finally write a novel that will be worth something. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll just exist. Maybe we’ll just stay here in little boxes made of ticky tacky. Go to work. Go home. Pay our bills. Buy groceries that Trump will make affordable again. Hope never to grow old enough to need social security, or Medicare. Pray for an early death.

Thanksgiving is coming and as is our custom, we are hosting. I love cooking all the food and having everyone come and eat at our table. I’m grateful that our holidays have been wonderful and warm and inclusive – at least since Todd and I have been together. Not so in my life before, so the annual revelation of just how good life is, is not lost on me.

The years without my children have been heartache for me, their absence at our holiday table is ever present but I keep it locked away because I’m a survivor.  Veruca has come back tentatively via phone and texts and for that I am grateful. My son turned 24 recently and I sent him a heartfelt message for the first time in two years. He said thank you, Mom. I’ll take it. God is good.

With that in mind, this year was the first in 13 years where I thought, perhaps I don’t want to host anyone. The looming threat of conflict has me considering the nuclear option. I’m sick to death of all the bullshit that seems to percolate in the universe. We live a happy life. And, also, I am very very good at biting my tongue for the sake of avoiding conflict that will cause more harm. However…. I’m just not feelin’ it these days.

I’m 55 years old and I’m sick of everyone’s shit. Okay so I know this sounds like I’m not refocusing my energies on positive things and healing but hear me out. I’m 55 years old and I. Don’t. Need. To. Put. Up. With. Anything. Not especially IN MY HOME. I’m also fiercely protective of my people. (Recent case in point: some asshole came for my mom in one of her posts so I asked him “nicely” about it and he BLOCKED ME after suggesting I was an angry woman who needs therapy.) Nevertheless, suffice it to say that I’m considering shutting everyone and everything down that isn’t good for me.

Healing means accepting what I am and acknowledging my boundaries out loud. Just like in December 2010, not everybody is going to like it. Difference today? I don’t GAF. Because nothing ever really changes. In the spirit of “nothing really changes,” I think nuclear is an option worth pursuing.

Veruca had a “severe low” (blood sugar) a couple of weeks ago and she called and texted to let me know. I missed her call. I called her immediately when I read the text, my heart racing and tears burning the backs of eyes. Her dad answered her phone and I was so caught off guard I grabbed at the first response I could pull from the file room of my brain – I’m calling to talk to V.

And that fast, we slid into our old roles – him accusing me of getting an attitude and “I don’t want to fight with you” and “it was my idea for her to call you,” and my immediate retort that “I don’t have an attitude.” In an instant, I was confronting the “defending myself” position while all the minions in the file room were running around pulling documents out of the cabinets trying to find words that won’t compromise all the work I’ve done.

V has never had a low so severe that she was unresponsive, and paramedics were called. She was in the bathroom when I called her back, which is why he says he answered. Truth – he could have let it go and told her she missed a call. But then he would have missed the opportunity to lure me in like an emotional hostage, which he knows is effective with me, while he tearfully told me what it was like to turn onto her street and see flashing lights and police cars and an ambulance in front of her residence hall. This is a reckoning I have needed some additional work and support on.

Like I said, some things never change. But I have. It’s a work in progress. I am a work in progress. But one thing I know unequivocally….

I’m not going back.

Miscellaneous:

Flat Broke with Two Goats, by Jennifer McGaha according to GoodReads: is “Told with bold wit, unflinching honesty, and a firm foot in the traditions of Appalachia, Flat Broke with Two Goats blends stories of homesteading with the journey of two people rediscovering the true meaning of home.”

Please consider subscribing by email if you haven’t already, if you want to keep reading my posts. I’m returning to FB to share for now and to get some shit gone from my house, but I really don’t want to be.

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According to Merriam-Webster, going nuclear has two distinct senses. Literally, “to acquire or to utilize nuclear weapons or nuclear power.” Figuratively, it can mean “to behave in an unrestrained manner.. used much like the informal phrase go wild;” it “can also mean ‘to become furious; to resort to drastic measures in an attempt to undermine an opponent.'”