Can I Really Stop Caring?

No, I can't. But where do I fit now? What could I possibly say or do?

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This election was devastating, I don’t have to tell you. It is almost more than I can bear. My brain can’t sort through what just happened, and I’m reliving the fear and dread I felt in November, 2016, when Trump was given the presidency, even though he lost the popular vote.

This is a hundred times worse. We know what Trump is capable of now. We know the levels of corruption he’ll employ to get what he thinks should be his as the most powerful person in America. He has the rich and powerful on his side and they are as corrupt as he is. Congress and the courts will help him without question. And his followers, those millions, aren’t going away.

I’m still in the kind of shock I’m in when someone I care about dies suddenly, without warning. In this case, it’s our entire way of life. I see the light that was America dimming and dying and I can’t stop it.

I don’t know what to feel yet. I won’t be doing a postmortem. I have no real idea why this happened. I now have to decide whether I have the heart or the will to keep on fighting. I don’t know. It feels like mourning now, and that saps all of my energy.

Yes, I’ve cried. I’ve wondered over and over again why and how this happened. I already miss my country’s old days. I long for some semblance of sanity, of comfort. This is personal. I know the days ahead will be hard enough without me spending my precious time futilely railing against the horrors that will come.

What will happen to young women now? What will happen to people of color, poor people, sick people, old people, children? Immigrants? LGBTQ? How will we protect them when all systems of protection have been corrupted? I have no answers. None.

I’m wondering why, at age 87, I should even bother trying to solve the problems that will still be lingering long after I’m gone.

Can I leave it to the young? It’s their lives that will be most affected. I was that young once, and I accepted that challenge. I saw every threat to the people as a personal threat, whether or not I, as a young white woman, fit the profile. I cared. And part of that caring came about because I knew I’d most likely have a long future ahead in a country I loved enough to fight for.

I still love my country. I’m glad I was born here, I’m glad I’ve spent my long life here, I’m glad for the people in my life, for the life I’ve been given, for the comfort I feel at the moment. But the days ahead may now have to be someone else’s problem.

I'll still care. I’ll still be in 'protective mom' mode. But the activism might have to come from someone else. Can I go without begging in public, without trying to explain why it would be bad to give in to a prideful, lying monster who gets his jollies by insulting and threatening people who have done nothing to him? I don’t know. Everything is visceral. Nothing makes sense. I have no words of any kind, let alone of wisdom.

Right now I don't want to see him or hear him. I don't want any more pundits wasting my time giving advice, placing blame, or trying to come up with a logical explanation.

This feels like mourning, and I've done enough of that.

I don’t know where I’ll be as a writer days or even weeks from now. I honestly don’t. I look to those who are still energized, who are keeping on, who say the things we’ll need to hear, and I don’t see myself among them. I have nothing to add. I wish I did.

I'll be looking for those things that gladden my heart, and I hope I’ll be able to write lightly again. I have to, at least some of the time, though I'm not feeling it now.

There has to be more than this.

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