I wrote a blog update last Thursday but didn’t post it.

The main reason for this was fear. I had written down all my honest feelings about guns and I have to say, it was one-sided and unreasonable. And raw. And very honest.

Putting those raw, honest feelings out into the world of social media seemed too vulnerable to me. I was afraid perhaps a few friends would “unfriend” me, I was afraid I would be lambasted by strangers in the comments section, I was afraid I would be seen as a stupid, idealistic, whiney pacifist. I was simply ruled by my fear.

And guess what? I am an idealistic pacifist. And what’s more, I’ve had this same panic after almost every blog post I’ve made, regardless of subject matter. This time, I couldn’t overcome it.

On a related topic, I went into a deep depression last weekend.

Part of me believes that Thursday’s full moon had a lot to do with both my depression and my inability to post. The high lunar energy drew out an impassioned writing frenzy that, when expressed, left me feeling drained and unsure. Those emotions snuck and swamped and swallowed the following three days.

On Friday I had two tickets to a play. I did not have someone to go with. Correction; I had at least three people I could’ve invited but my mind insisted on clinging to the idea of a fantasy mystery guest.

I had accepted the two tickets on Monday without knowing why I hadn’t asked for one. When racked with indecision about the matter, I knelt down and clasped my hands and prayed for an answer.

Some small voice within me clearly insisted on two.

I went with my small voice thinking, “Ah, my magical, mystical intuition will conspire with the universe to bring my perfect soul mate to me. He will be my guest. How exciting!” And another, even more treacherous, completely delusional thought, “Maybe that man I fell in love with who hasn’t spoken to me in almost a year will suddenly contact me this week. I could invite him. How exciting!”

As the week wore on, I began to feel anxiety creep. No mystery guy or former lover sounded the text chime on my phone. Ah. I see. Well then, I guess I don’t believe in small voices or magic or faith or a greater power or love or friends or good or myself or anything. I will go alone. As I deserve to be. Pathetic and without.

When I got home from the play, a dull and lonely cloud covered me completely. I stayed in bed for two days, barely eating, coming up only to feed my cat. I was numb. At my lowest, I had the thought that life might not be worth living with such a damaged mind as mine. Why go to therapy and fight so hard for nearly a year to be insidiously attacked by foolish fantasies? Why doesn’t he care? Why do I? Why? Why? Why?

The answer to why is only ever because.

I had to go to work on Monday. I also have a commitment to attend a recovery group Monday nights. Monday was a better day and the depression started to fade.

In my clear hindsight, I am able to see how I had rebelled against any help or tools at my disposal. I could’ve invited someone to the play, I could’ve exercised, I could’ve called one of the group members to talk, I could’ve meditated, I could’ve written about my feelings. I thought of all these options while I was depressed but pushed them away from me like a petulant child.

I could not do any of those goody-goody things, so there. Everything was simply too much and too difficult while I was locked in my pity-party prison of self-loathing and apathy. Taking care of myself was impossible. Loving myself was pointless. Curling into the fetal position was manageable.

But going through those three days made me face my reality. It’s brought me one very big step closer to total detachment from him. It’s nudged me towards a better awareness of self-care. It was painful and I cried but those things happen during the birth of a new being.

Perhaps next time I won’t find it impossible to reach out and accept the abundance of support available. I truly hope so.

And I hope you reach out too.

(Head of Passes was the play I saw and it was powerfully and brilliantly brought to life at the Mark Taper Forum in downtown Los Angeles. The abundance of talent I was blessed to witness snapped me out of my sadness for a full three hours. If you are able to see it, you must.)

Btw, if you wanna keep reading, here’s that reactionary piece on guns:


Okay. Real talk y’all.

Guns are bad.

I know this here is a VERY touchy subject, especially right now, especially again, but I’m gonna touch all over it.

Because I’m through with trying to avoid hurting the feeling of those who believe violence is our birthright.

Guns are wrong.

They are machines made to kill. They are devices designed to inflict pain. Whether it is death and pain towards humans or non-humans, there is no difference. This is why they came into being and their creation is one of the very greatest sins humankind has ever wrought upon this earth.

Oh, you use guns to hunt? To provide sustenance to get you through the long hard winter, huh? I suppose you then skinned and cleaned the animal’s carcass to perhaps smoke or dry the meat and it’s now lying in repose down cellar next to canned preserves and salt pork and root vegetables. And Ma’s upstairs basting the hems on our calico dresses as we darn stockings by oil lamp. I forgot we were back in the little house on the prairie, pardon me.

Oh, no? You hunt for sport? Fuck you. Some sport. And tomorrow I’ma hop by the Colosseum to watch people kill each other. You know, for fun. I forgot we were living in ancient history when “sport” meant death, pardon me.

Oh, because it is your right? Because the blessed, most wonderful and perfect, inviolate, on-high second amendment guarantees it? I forgot that one section of an archaic document written by racist old white men has more worth than a broken, grieving mother, pardon me.

Oh, you have a gun to protect your family and property? I see.You and your loved ones are more important than anyone else. Your things are more sacred than someone’s life. I forgot we were living in a dystopia where ego reigns supreme, pardon me.

Actually, how did I forget that? It’s been drilled into my consciousness and yours to value one’s self above anything or anyone else. By the way, please like and comment on this post. Or hit the angry face reaction button and start an argument thread. Just pay attention to me. I am important.

I’m sorry I’m so angry but sorry not sorry I guess. I hate it when people tell me killing and violence is a part of human nature. It is a part of un-evolved human nature. It is a part of our animalistic, primal past. One day we will not need for violence. One day, there will be an end to war. One day, not while I or you are living, human beings will wake up.

Yeah, I know that’s idealistic to the point of stupidity. Fine. I’ll be stupid then. I’ll be a stupid person who believes guns will be left behind by people who have surpassed stupidity.

Of course, in my home state of Vermont, there is the least amount of gun crime with the least amount of gun control. I can’t explain that. Maybe it’s because there are more cows there than people. Also, Vermont is perfect.

I know I’m being unreasonable.

My heart is broken.

I can’t keep watching bullets rip through innocents. I can’t bear knowing at any moment someone may take a gun into their hand and steal what is most precious, most pure, most loved: life.

How is that a “right”?