I want to be somewhere else

I wanted to continue these revisions, but the entry below came first.

Heads-up: Bleak post but with strength at the end.

Ups and downs; perhaps that's what it's like living under a repressive regime. Not the most uplifting manner in which to begin a post, but at this moment in time it's how I feel. And being honest with oneself is imperative to keeping a grip on sanity, if reality is an effed up kettle of rotten fish.

Maybe I should have called my senators already. I could contact my rep, Jared Huffman, because aides do answer those calls. But I'm not steeled enough mentally or emotionally to delve into that arena. This day, I'm barely able to note my name.

How do repressed peoples manage during such bleak days? They've been doing it a long damn time, and if that's how my nation ends up, I'll be doing it too. Life goes on; sports and Valentine's Day and whatever else the Big Eastern Syndicate requires. Big Eastern Syndicate is not of my creation; it's a line from A Charlie Brown Christmas, when Linus speaks to Charlie Brown about something I probably used to remember, but now all that remains is the notion of Big Brother running your life from far away. Or it's far away for those of us on the West Coast, especially California's North Coast, a relatively peaceful enclave tucked amid massive Redwoods and the Pacific Ocean.

Yet even in this seemingly safe, wholly off the beaten path location I am...afraid. Not feeling brave. Feeling very compromised and uncertain. Feeling as though another powerful earthquake has shaken under my feet, knocked items from shelves, broken precious keepsakes. I feel as I did when I was thirteen years old as my biological mother told me I was a worthless piece of shite, making me question my validity as her daughter as well as a human being. My nation is currently under the thumb of one who acts as erratically as an unpredictable malicious alcoholic, with no concern to anything other than another vile short-lived fix to their destructive addiction.

Maybe this is what I need to tell my senators, who claim to be doing all they can, but I have to wonder. Of course I need to possess the necessary wherewithal first. Maybe later today, maybe.

The difference between being gaslit at thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen years old and now being fifty-eight is of course tremendous. The president isn't someone I trust in any shape or form, and I'm fully aware my self-esteem isn't tied into that MOFO A-hole. Yet the sense of betrayal remains, although why I should have expected such a turd to do a semblance of the right thing is ridiculous. Rarely do people do the right thing when the carrot of gold dangles in front of their faces. Blinded by power and money, that allure of the almighty pinnacle shields their minds and hearts from what truly matters, and that's that. That is happening not only here in America, but all over this planet, and I just want to be somewhere else.

I want to be hip-deep in writing a story. I want to be up to my armpits in fabric. I want to be far from all that is hurtful and wrong. Yet that isn't how the world works. This world we all inhabit is steeped in discord, and currently feels untouched by grace. Barely assuaged by love. Hardly calmed by those wishing to do the right thing, because there are so many fronts being attacked. That's the strategy. Hurl abuses so vigorously no one can catch their breath. We succumb, and then....

Jeez, this is a downer! Yet maybe to recapture hope, I need to purge all the darkness, all this MEH. All that seeks to destroy me must be allowed a brief acknowledgement. How did I cope as a young teen while the person I was supposed to trust most did all she could to bury me? You will either nod your head in understanding or shake it in disgust: I knew God wouldn't give me more than I could handle. Tears are falling as I write this, in part for the slight relief and in having to revisit such fear, disillusionment, anguish. It was terrifying to live under that tyranny, as my mother turned from someone I loved to someone I detested, meanwhile trying to maintain a sliver of why I mattered. Why was I there, what did my existence mean? I was looking after younger siblings, I was going to school, I was...living under a strange level of God's grace that I couldn't fathom other than it was enough to keep me going until I was out of that situation. I wouldn't be given more than I could handle.

It's been over forty years since I was under that woman's thumb. Forty-three years since being made to feel insignificant and utterly betrayed. My sense of self is on a completely different plane now, yet that notion of meaningless-ness is right at the surface, such a strange concept. I don't know how it will evolve, either empowering me to continue doing all I can do thwart what is occurring, or perhaps be buried by it. That is a possibility in my current level of hopelessness, because while I am no longer a young teen, I am fully aware how vile is the Big Eastern Syndicate. Where is my God in all this, although I am far from the first to shout that plea to the heavens. Where is my faith is the better query. If I relied upon God previously, why am I not feeling that peace now?

God is not dead. The God of Love, of Hope, of Justice. The God that saves not through gold and power and oppression. The God of small kindnesses and minor miracles that appear as afterthoughts to those who wield swords of brutality cloaked as righteousness. There is nothing new in this, yet it's startling that despite how advanced we believe we are, once again the world seems to be swept away by evil. Is the world being swept away? Maybe not. Does the arc of moral history bend toward justice, as Martin Luther King noted. I suppose it must, because we still limp along this odd planet, haven't destroyed ourselves completely. God has a plan, some plan, some reason for the way things are. God won't give me more than I can hanlde, I type with eyes closed and if this sentence conatains errprs, that is why. I can't open my eyes to set down these words , because tears ar e falling and I jhave to ltake these days the same. trusting in what I cannot see, cannot prove, cannot explain, but it'sd real, my fairth tells me so. My heart aches massively, my face hurts,  from cring, from recalling such pain. But i am here. 

I am here to love. Get over it, Big Eastern Syndicate. This world isn't all about you.