Mean people suck - a rant with gloves off

If feels as though Democrats, politicians especially, have to be perfect.  If they dare make a mistake, Republicans tear them (us) apart.  No matter how corrupt, ignorant, and narcissistic is the President the Republican's supports, any misstep by a Democrat leads to a gleeful, malicious feeding frenzy.  Imagine if Obama had been caught on tape talking about grabbing women by the pussy; his political would have gone down in the flames of Hell.  Trump was allowed to dismiss that statement as locker room talk. The Republican party has become mean, mean in its spirit, mean in its bones, mean at the very heart,  headed by a man many of them secretly despise, as revealed by how they spoke of him before making him king.

They have, or had, as their weapons people like Sean Hannity, Bill O'Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, men who are paid huge amounts of money specifically to be mean, to tear people down and stir up rage.  These are the true trolls of the world.  They honor no motive but winning Republican victories and planting doubt and ferocity in the minds of their viewers.

People like this know that no matter how openly they flaunt their hypocrisy, no matter how acidly they sneer, how cruel they are,  how many lies they tell, the Dems simply haven't got it in us to retaliate in kind.  History is going to have to shame these people.  We don't seem to be able to.

This is not a call to arms from me to the Dems.  Not at all.  I'm proud of us and what we have accomplished.  The fight for the soul, for the integrity, of this country won't be won by men and women who sink to the lowest level, but by those who rise above it.  History will judge us, too.

COVID and addiction

Don't lock up an addict with 24 hour access to what she is addicted to.

I tried to stay away, I really did.  But the stress of this era, whether that stress is right out in the open or more underground, has been working on me, as it has on all of us.  I am a weak woman and, one of those days when I woke up feeling empty and hollow and sad, I turned again to Candy Crush, my old nemesis.

I have a history with Candy Crush.  Sweet Hubby discovered it first and introduced me to it (damn him!).  When he realized he was becoming addicted, he simply gave it up.  He has that kind of spine.  No fuss, no withdrawal (that I was aware of).  He just stopped.  By that time, I was into it, and enjoying it tremendously.  The colors.  The challenge of progression through ever more difficult levels.  The ease with which hours could pass without me having to make the slightest effort or think the slightest thought.

I've never had a problem with addiction.  I used to smoke, but would give it up the moment I had a boyfriend.  I've never been a drinker.  I like my food, but not overly.  I like to puff, but I can also go for days without, and pot has never been a gateway to anything harder for me. But Candy Crush really got its hooks into me.  I would play and play and play, and when I ran out of lives and had to wait, I often felt as though I were just marking time until I could play again.

This is all very embarrassing to admit.

I knew I was addicted when I started to realize all the things I could have been doing instead, such as writing, exercising, being with friends, being out in nature, reading, taking care of the house - well, pretty much everything else.  I really knew I was addicted when I began to be ashamed of playing.  I really really knew I was addicted when I started telling Sweet Hubby that I was going to stop and then didn't and lied about it.  He and I don't lie to one another.  That's just not part of our marriage, ever.  I kept making promises to myself, and kept breaking them.  So finally, when I couldn't stand myself any more, I finally made a sacred promise to SH, and for a while reported to him every day that I hadn't played that day.

I guess an addiction to a video game isn't really comparable to an addiction to drugs or alcohol or whatever else, but this sure gave me an insider's look at what it is to have something outside yourself driving and swallowing your life.  And I also realized that two ferociously strong factors keep one addicted.  One, of course, is avoidance of withdrawal.  For me, it only lasted about a week, and by the end of that week, I wasn't really thinking about CC any more, no longer wishing I could play it, no longer sneaking off in my imagination for a few covert games.  The second factor, even more insidious, is that the addict loves what she is addicted to.  Loves it.  Adores it and the feelings it inspires or, more to the point, the feelings it allows her - me - not to experience.  Playing CC for me was a lot about not having to listen to those demon voices which tell me I should be writing and then tell me I'm no good at it when I do; not having to feel the loss of my Mom and then my Dad; not having to feel all the acid and upset and outrage about Trump.  I could disappear into a tiny, colorful, cheerful world of digital candy and not think or feel anything else.

I did stayed away from CC for quite a while, but on one of those recent days when I woke up with that hollow feeling, that sense of purposelessness, of entrapment, I turned once again to Candy Crush.  And loved it again, and got addicted again.  And once again, the promises I made to myself were worthless.  I give myself back doors almost at the moment I'm promising.  So I had to swallow my shame and admit to SH that I was addicted again, and that promise has kept me true.  Fortunately I caught myself pretty early this time, so the withdrawal hasn't been bad.  And I'm so very lucky that SH has not once made me feel judged or diminished, but just asks if there's anything I need him to do to help me keep my promise.  There isn't; I just need to make my confession out loud, straight to his face.

When those empty, depressed days come along, I do my best to stay in action, whether it's pulling weeds, or chipping away at my writing, or cleaning out the refrigerator, or going for a walk, or reading.  The available activities are limited these days, but come on, Granny Owl.  Use your imagination.  Keep moving.  This is life right now, not a waiting period, but actual life, to be lived and savored and filled.

I miss Candy Crush, though.  So, like a good addict, I go one day at a time.

Dear Daddy

Two nights ago I woke up with a migraine.  When that happens, which is frequently, I have to be careful to move as little as possible, so I nudged Sweet Hubby out of his sound sleep and asked him to get me one of my pills.  Which he did, immediately and unbegrudgingly.  I am so grateful to be married to the nicest, most good natured man I have ever known (even though he can be a grump from time to time).

My daddy was a good man, honest and  hard working.  But he was not a nice man.  He could be friendly.  He could be funny.  He could be wise.  But he was not basically a nice man, not the way I think of that description.  I don’t know how Mom could have stayed married to him.  She was the nicest, kindest, most caring person it is possible to imagine.  Dad was very lucky that he met her, and very, very lucky that she said yes.  She was one of the few women who could have made a happy life with him.

And I believe she was happy.  It was her basic nature.  Dad was her Sweet Hubby, and she loved him, even though she must have recognized his flaws, even though he couldn’t give her the warmth and affection she deserved.  Dad never talked about feelings, his own or anyone else’s, but, to his credit, he was very good at appreciation.  He knew he had a good thing in Mom, and from time to time he would find a way to express that.

My relationship with Dad was complex.  I was afraid of him, curious about him, resentful toward him, longing to find ways to connect with him.  I knew he loved me and my siblings, and he gave us everything we needed to thrive – except warmth and affection and ease.  Naturally I am much more like him than like our cheerful, squishy, unabashedly affectionate Mom.  Sometimes when Sweet Hubby and I are arguing and I’m being especially bristly, I will catch myself and say “Sorry, honey, you married my dad’s daughter.”  I hate it when I am hard on SH, withdrawn, passive aggressive, just plain mean.  When I see that in myself, and feel my own loathing for the way I’m acting, I imagine that perhaps Dad could also see how he was behaving, how it scared and alienated his children, and hated it in himself.

It should be noted, of course, that my siblings had their own experience of our parents, which were some ways is different from mine.

Mostly, I wish I could have known Dad better.  His sister, our aunt, was terribly dysfunctional, completely self-absorbed, stubbornly un-self-aware.  Her children weren’t speaking to her by the time she died.  Perhaps Dad was a miracle of survival in whatever atmosphere contributed to Auntie’s stunted growth.  I wish he could have articulated his inner thoughts, his demons, his struggles, his sadness.  I wish I could have been closer to him.  I tried, and for all I know, he did, too.  I’m sure he did his best.

The Fear Factor

Our big boy kitty Flow knows his home very well, it's sounds and smells and shapes.  He is comfortable and at ease here.  The only times he is afraid is when there is something new, something different.

We humans, too, are programmed by Nature to be afraid of what is new; it's a natural instinct.  Think about our lives in this modern age.  How many new brands and their advertising, new ideas, new people, new information we are subjected to every moment of our days.  How many different situations and people we are told to pay attention to and be afraid of.  Our leaders change regularly.  We change jobs and where we live.  Our technology is constantly updated, whether we want it to be or not, so we have to adjust to new keystrokes, new icons, new apps.

We are assaulted by change at every turn.  Change in itself it not bad nor dangerous, except there is that instinct in us, not always recognized, to be afraid.  And so, in the face of our changing, shifting world, we become defensive or even offensive, turn to tribalism, or bury ourselves in avoidance behaviors: video games, drugs, celebrity worship, binge watching TV, social media, overeating.

This explains a lot. 

What I've Learned During Lockdown

I'm not particularly a jazz fan nor a baseball fan, but because someone lent me Ken Burns' magnificent documentary series on both those subjects and because there is All This Time, I have - well, not so much learned as been reminded that any story on any subject can be made interesting by how it's told.  I have been fascinated by every moment of those series, and have learned a great deal about both those subjects.

I've learned that it is just as important, albeit somewhat stickier, to clear out one's no-longer-friends as it is to clear out one's closet.

I've learned, or am learning, to chew more slowly and savor my food more.  Sweet Hubby suggested that a few weeks ago, so now one of us reminds the other at every meal.  And what a difference.  I wasn't aware how quickly and thoughtlessly I wolfed down food, always having the next bite on my fork while I barely chewed the one in my mouth, until I began to become conscious as I ate, to be present, to truly taste what I was eating.  It's going to be a while before this new habit overtakes the old, but in a way, it's almost like a spiritual practice, making mealtime more significant, calmer, more enjoyable.

I've learned that I love to have a puff, put on music, and dance my ass off.  I wish I'd known this a long time ago.  It's like the perfect antidote to almost all demonic problems.

Thanks to Zoom, I now know what I look like when I talk.  It's really tough not to be shatteringly self-conscious.  It helps to remember that everyone who knows me is already used to this face, as I am to theirs, and so far no one has turned away in disgust, so I do my best to put my attention on listening to whomever I'm talking with instead of going down the dark internal tunnel of "Oh my god, when did I get jowls?  Why didn't I inherit my mother's generous lips?  My eyes are so tiny!  If I suck in my neck, I can't talk but one of my chins disappears, sort of."

The biggest eye opener, though, is that I've had a chance to see what life is probably going to be like for me and Sweet Hubby when we get older.  At some point, we are no doubt going to want to - or have to - live more quietly, stay home more, ease into a more elderly pace.  Sort of like we've been living the past few months during the COVID lockdown.  And I've discovered that I rather like this pace.  I like kicking around the house, doing a few chores, reading, taking walks or working out to a tape, writing when I feel like it, snugging in with Sweet Hubby and kitty Flow at the end of the day to watch a movie.  I'm not ready to slow down quite yet; there's still travel I want to do, friends and family to visit, and, once it's safe, I very much want to start going to theater again, and out to eat, and have friendly gatherings.  But I know now that the quieter life of the elderly which probably awaits us is going to be pleasant, and better than pleasant, and that I don't have to be afraid of the future.  I know we might get sideswiped by disease or losses or various infirmities.  I don't really know what's coming.  But still, I am liking life right now, even including its imposed limitations, and if this is what's in store, that's okay by me.

Chauvin

What was he thinking, Derek Chauvin, as he knelt with his knee on George Floyd's neck?  What had happened to him that he was capable of this abuse of power?  Didn't he know that the moment would be filmed and posted and watched?  The horrifying moment lasted too long for adrenaline to take the blame.  There was time for thought.  Floyd was unarmed, handcuffed, prone.  What was happening in Chauvin's mind?

Did he not remember all those other instances of white police killing unarmed black men and the ensuing riots?  Was he sorry he killed Floyd or did he think the punishment was righteous?  Did he foresee his career going down the drain along with his reputation or did he somehow imagine himself a hero?  What kind of man was he out of uniform?  Did he hate black people?  Was he strung out on lack of sleep?  How much did relentless tension over this pandemic contribute to his stunning lack of restraint and forethought?

I don't presume that he actually intended to kill - no, murder Floyd.  So I am also intensely curious about what the moment was like for him when he realized he had.

And what of the other cops with him?  What was in their minds as they watched?  "Good for him."  "Shit, I'm glad I'm not the one doing that."  "What the fuck, man?"  One of them has been quoted as saying of Floyd "He's talking, so he's breathing."  Did none of them realize how momentous this one incident was going to be?  As they hear news of the rioting in cities all over the world, do they feel at all responsible for lighting the match that caused the explosion?

The pandemic lockdown and subsequent financial depression have acted as a pressure cooker for several months now and one could say that some sort of explosion was inevitable.  But the pressure began long before the virus.  At least half of this country and much of the rest of the world has been traumatized, divided, enraged, disgusted, aghast, and horrified by the loathsome corruption and ignorance of the Trump administration.  And in the background of all of that, there lives the constant racial inequality that has characterized the US since before the writing of the Constitution, which codified rather than eliminated that racism.

Other countries are dealing with similar divisions, suppression of freedoms, autocracies, alarming financial declines.  Perhaps the current violence is necessary.  I do not applaud it.  I will not take part in it.  But I understand that at some point, there has to be a rising up of the people to say "Enough".  Not all of us are protesting the same people or ideas, but we are a country in which there is subterranean protest going on inside every person's heart and soul.  I feel it in myself.  I hear it in every conversation that touches on politics, which, until the virus captured our attention and made us its captives, meant every conversation.  I myself live and have been living in a constant state of outrage.  It is exhausting, especially the relentless question of what can I do, what should or could I be doing, to help right the terrible wrongs being committed by my so-called leaders.  Perhaps I shouldn't be too hasty in assuming I wouldn't take part in a violent riot.  I didn't think I had it in me until Trump took office.  Now I'm not so certain.

One side note: It is interesting that this policeman's name is Chauvin.  Not meaningful, but interesting.