It is now Friday, 10 days post-election. I have come to this page several times to jot notes, but I've been unable to draw my thoughts to cohesion. Tonight I will post come hell or high water--and I'll say the past 10 days have felt like both.
I made a commitment to blog through THIS on Oct. 27 as we were headed into the final days of the campaign. THIS has not turned out to be a Harris win followed by god knows what. Instead, THIS is day after day of watching a slow-motion train wreck.
Here goes:
On the morning after the election, I told my husband Dan I was gutted, maybe I should call in sick. If I ever questioned the mental-physical health connection, my doubt was wiped clean on Wednesday. My heart was a heavy lump in my chest. My bones cried. My thoughts and my body were one in pain.
I was determined to just get through the day. And the next. And the next week. And the next four years. And then...it won't be a lot longer until I die.
Sheesh.
Let's just say I (you too?) visited some dark places.
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I survived Wednesday with blinders on. I stared straight ahead, doing the next thing in front of me, which was teaching. Then when the bell rang between classes, lightning shot through my stomach as I remembered the election.
I am grateful to have a job that consumes me. Once in the flow, I have no space for thoughts of...tyranny? authoritarianism? the demise of democracy?
In the stages of grief, Wednesday was numbed denial.
It was also on Wednesday that Dan checked the messages on our landline (which we check only about every two months...) Turns out our neighbors had left a message that yes, they would post a Harris sign in their yard.
It wouldn't have made a difference, I know. But I appreciated the solidarity.
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On Thursday I awoke feeling better. On a scale of 1-10, I went from -3 to a solid 1. I could face the day.
It was later on Thursday that I learned a student had, the day before, come to school wearing a Trump flag wrapped around his shoulders. I've been told that during at least one class he affixed the flag to the white board at the front of the room. The teacher was absent, but the substitute both allowed the student to post the flag and also addressed the class with comments supporting Trump and disparaging those who did not support Trump. The fallout of the episode is still up in the air.
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I was about 13 when Watergate unfolded. I remember feeling a surge of patriotic pride when Nixon resigned and our country said "no" to insidious attempts to sway elections. That time now looks benign. We did not know what we did not know.
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I scheduled an appointment in Des Moines for Friday. I've been in need of a new breast prosthesis (19 years out from my cancer diagnosis now), so I harnessed my blue mood and scheduled a fitting, then headed to the city for a day of soft quiet and pretty lingerie.
On the drive over and back I listened to In Cold Blood on audiobook. Not your general cheer-me-up fare, but it's a book my AP Lit kids are reading, and it took my mind off the whirlpool of dread that sucks me down if I let my thoughts roam untethered.
In Des Moines, I bought lacy bras and then ate lunch at Thai Flavors, as my sister had suggested. I sat in the warm sun and read a book (Distant Sons, the All-Iowa Reads choice by Tim Johnston *****). Again, not your feel-good story, but consuming, and I needed to be consumed.
So I'd say Friday was another day of denial. I avoided the news. I avoided social media. I drew my focus into a very small space called me.
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On Saturday I hosted a neighborhood coffee. Since my son moved into our old house a half mile down the road in August, I've intended to introduce my daughter-in-law to the other young mom across the section.
This past Saturday, I needed to take a positive action. I needed some joy. A three-generation coffee (with accordion music!) was the ticket.
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