It's been a shit week, friends. Truly. And I know I'm not alone in thinking so.
Anyone paying more than a modicum of attention knows that America's soul is currently at stake, and I don't feel I'm being melodramatic in saying that. We are, at this very moment, ripping children out of the arms of mothers and facing the very real reality that women are on the knifes edge of statutorily losing their right to bodily autonomy.
Things have not been bright in our country in a long time, but the sheer amount of despair I felt rippling through every one of my communities following the announcement that Justice Kennedy is retiring was, for the first time in a long time, enough to overwhelm.
It did overwhelm.
Admitting weakness takes strength, and this week broke me, friends. I am at the convergence of several different avenues of privilege, and so while my rights might not be as immediately under siege of those of women of color, members of my queer family who aren't so easily straight passing, and the disabled community at large, I am also a queer woman operating in a country where those two markers alone are enough to be deeply dangerous. History has outlined for us the descent into fascism before, and we are checking off boxes with faster and faster speed.
It's hard to write like this. I have lived my entire life as a deeply optimistic person, often to the point of naivety and poor emotional energy management. I am not alone in feeling feckless, and in having that feeling amplified over each new day. This week, I have donated to every place I can, ever dollar that I can, and still it does not feel like enough. Because it isn't enough, and most likely won't be until those in power no longer have to have the basics of humanity outlined to them on an hourly basis.
They don't care.
I care. Many, many of those closest to me care more deeply than words can put scope to. But there is a relentless exhaustion that, admittedly, I am lucky to have not previously encountered.
My complaints are not new, nor are they to be indulged. I try to fill my Twitter with those who have been here before, who have roots in organization and action and a legacy of hope in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. Lately, even they have been tired. And so it is hard, but my hard is nothing in comparison to the hard of so many others.
What's the point here? Navel gazing, mostly, and a general off-loading of the rage and anxious energy that has filled me for weeks with so little other output. I started this post with a picture from Hannah Gadsby's Nanette because I found watching it to be one of the most deeply cathartic things I've seen, at a time when catharsis was needed so incredibly needed.
Because Hannah is fucking furious.
And so am I.