This morning I woke up past the shock of the election. I forbade myself to doomscroll first thing after waking up.
Instead, I made a chicken soup from scratch because I’ve been eating like I was at a funeral. I unpacked from my recent move. I got the internet set up. I took a jog around my new neighborhood. I went to get a PO box. Then I looked at flights to Mexico to complete the process of my dual citizenship, in case the mass deportations hit naturalized immigrants like me. I tended to my little herb garden. Then I researched HRT medications in Mexico, in case my Trans siblings in the US need them later. I ordered an antique butter dish.
Political action folding into my day-to-day. This makes more sense to me than “Smash the System!” fantasies and feels healthier than the endless election autopsy. I’m no longer beating a dead horse when there are live ones to feed.
The news had begun to stress me out too much. I had to remember that I don’t need a front-row seat to the political theater all the time. The election is over. The new administration is not in office yet. I don’t need to watch the Bond-villain speeches or stay glued to the new guests on this new reality show. And no use in arguing with strangers on the internet about “how this happened.” I can unplug. The important details will still reach me.
There are 70 days until inauguration, and this system wants me exhausted by design. It’s the abuse tactic used by cults and wife beaters. Just because people turned over the country doesn’t mean I have to turn over my central nervous system. It’s OK to seek rest and solace, so I can energize and plan.
There is no virtue in burning myself out.
More on rest and sex as political resistance in my books POST & Analog Cruising.
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