I know everything is not about me, but this is my blog, so it kind of is.
With everything happening to me as of late: hurricanes, fires, pandemics, earthquakes, sharknados, I have but one regret. I’m disappointed in myself because I’ve been writing so sporadically. My excuse is that I struggle with anxiety; lately, it’s off the charts. I hope I don’t piss HIPPA off by revealing that, but it’s true.
*I understand the HIPPA thing. Please don’t comment about that, twas a joke. Fair warning: if you didn’t grasp that attempt at humor perhaps you should move along to another post.
Do you ever feel like your life is a perfect storm? I often feel that way. I know my life isn’t bad, your situation is probably worse. I am just not coping well with my situation. I’m still in the middle of a life event, which I will discuss soon when I’m on the other side. For now, just follow my warped stream of consciousness and try not to judge me.
I live in an old house, I’ve been here for almost two decades. The house was once filled with sounds of bad sax, (not sex, the saxophone,) viola, violin, guitar, a wooden frog with a stick, recorders, an electric keyboard, harmonicas, questionable singing, etc. These sounds were not always pleasant or soothing the way music should be, but I loved every honk and ping. There was also the molto fortissississimo bark of giant dogs, the caprichio elegy of a loudmouth cat, and the vivance oratorio of bickering children. Think geese mating, breaking glass, Jurassic Park, and wind chimes. This house was loud. The sounds were so chaotic that visitors, including my parents, never stayed long, but that was fine with me. The sounds made me happy. It was music to my ears, after all, music is in the ear of the belistener. (yay, new word)
Now it’s so quiet I can literally hear a mouse (I hope it’s a single mouse) scurrying behind the wall of my kitchen. I’d rather endure the chaos and remain oblivious of the rodent’s domicile. Sigh…
As I sit on my well-worn sofa, drinking my delicious cup of Nescafe, surrounded by the sound of near-silence, punctuated by the occasional snort of one of my tiny rescue dogs, (I’ve downsized and they rescued me right back,) I scroll through the news, my anxiety increasing, wondering what the point is of writing about politics when I know most people have surpassed their limit of tolerance.
There are 47 days left to vote. It feels like nearing the end of an ironman race, not that I know what that feels like. I can almost see the finish line, not that I would recognise it. I personally can not believe we’ve survived Voldetrump this long, but we haven’t really, have we? We are an unrecognizable divided nation. I have come to hate my republican neighbors, the ones who have signs on their lawns. It shocks me to see them. At the same time, I must say that I love the democratic ones. When this is all behind us most of us will be horrified by what is uncovered. The Hague comes to mind.
Let me just say, when I lost my uterus in that fishing accident almost fifteen years ago, I wasn’t sorry to see it go. Okay, it wasn’t really an accident and I wasn’t fishing. It was a surgical procedure that I submitted to, after having used it the perfect number of times. If you’re wondering, the human uterus weighs 2.8 oz, so having it removed wasn’t a weight-loss strategy. Hippa laws forbid me from expounding on the lost uterus and said uterus coerced me into signing a non-disclosure agreement. I can say it was a consensual separation. I kept the kids and my uterus took the ovaries.
My juvenile attempts at humor are a coping mechanism and are by no means meant to diminish the gravity of the following news regarding ICE.
A whistleblower has come forward with a horrifying revelation and once again the story has been neglected by the media. Reporters can’t really be blamed because in these dystopian days there is always another story equally shocking, but in this case less macabre. A doctor at the southern border has been dubbed the “uterus collector,” because he has been performing a large number of experimental unnecessary hysterectomies on immigrants.
Again, that is not an attempt at humor. Where is the pro-life sect now? Do they condone forced hysterectomies? This is beyond the bounds of morality and right out of Josef Mengele’s playbook. We should all be ashamed at the atrocities we have ignored. I am.
I bought this clay sun in Guadalajara 25 years ago. It hung by a leather string on my kitchen wall since the day I moved in. Not too long ago I heard a crash in the kitchen. The leather string had deteriorated and crumbled under the weight. I called my daughter who told me about a Japanese tradition of using gold to repair broken pottery. I googled it, and this is the sloppy mess I created. This sun is a metaphor for my life. It’s also how I see the US right now. We are broken. if we try really hard we can be repaired. We may end up a shittier version of what we once were, but it will be so much better than what we are today.