Validation and the Year from Hell

Well, it's been over a year since I last posted anything on here. And paradoxically, this downhill slide started right after my last post about challenging myself to write more. Good job, self!

But in my defense, this has been one hellish, cluster-f*** of a year. I've been mentally and emotionally drained in a way that, for once, had little to do with my brain chemistry and everything to do with world. It was, is, and probably will continue to be a horrible year, so right now, I just want to validate my own struggles. Because in the face of the suffering so many have experienced, this has been a year of pretending that everything is fine.

I was so damn lucky this year. I work in the construction industry, so I had stable work through out the entire pandemic. And since I live in a house that's bought and paid for, I didn't have to worry about being evicted. Furthermore, no one I personally know had died from COVID-19. And despite the necessary self-isolation, my living situation meant that I wasn't alone. I have been fortunate over this last year, in a fashion that makes me feel like I shouldn't even complain about the little things (i.e. depression, anxiety, worrying about the meaning of my life; you know, the usual) because I have been so lucky. Because the fact is, despite my good fortune, this year has taken a toll on all of us in one fashion or another*. (*This doesn't apply to the wealthy; they had enough money to isolate in luxury, at the expense of workers, while getting even richer, but I'll save that tangent for later.)

Bitching with friends seems is my time-honored method of discussing my thoughts and sharing. I know that if I bitch to my friends, they'll listen and validate me. They love me, and I love them. But at the same time, this has been a shit year for everyone. Over the past 15 months, I've had friends that had to deal with COVID and other tragedy personally. I have friends that have suffered in a way that I didn't. So, I do my best to limit my bitching. Because even though I'm upset, so are they. To me, being a good friend means being aware of their struggles, of considering how many spoons they have left. (If you don't get that, read about Spoon Theory here to learn more.) So, sometimes when I speak with my friends, I'll just focus on them. Because I know what it's like to be so overwhelmed that you just need a break. Over this past year, I've kept a lot of my worries inside and unspoken. But what I am feeling is valid and real. It's okay that feel like this.

So how do I feel? Well, probably like most people right now. The past 15 months have a been a time of worry, heartbreak, and rage for me. On a global scale, I've watched COVID burn through our planet. People have have lost their loved ones, many of them due to the hubris of others. People have been losing jobs and homes, both to the pandemic and to natural disasters. There has been a deep frustration and sadness, seeing all this death and chaos. And then there's the hopelessness and impotent rage at and knowing that I couldn't do a damn thing about it. With the Cheeto in Chief in power at the time, there was no guidance and little help. It was like watching the Titanic sink from a hot air balloon. I was alive and relatively safe, but there was little I could do to save anyone.

Locally, things weren't too much better. In my rural community, it took a bit longer for COVID to hit. With our spread-out population, it was easy to keep to myself and stay safe. But that also meant that there was more time for cocky arrogance and disinformation to spread. So on top of the worry for my at-risk family (who are among the only ones still living) there was also the rage I felt (and still do) when I saw local people ignoring the mask mandate. Rural folk descended from pioneers tend to think of themselves as hardier. So even those who don't use faith an excuse still have this antiquated, macho attitude holding them back from wearing a mask. I see these people (and they're usually men) in the stores, I still want to confront them. But I have no delusions about my ability to protect myself against a man who thinks I'm impugning his masculine honor. And I'm not dumb enough to think being a woman would stay a man's anger.

And then, there's the hard-core, born-again people. You know, the ones that homeschool their kids so they can have a Christ-centered education? I remember getting so angry at seeing one such woman go maskless. And because it's a small community, I knew that not only did she have to two small children at home, but that she also had cancer. That's two kids that could easily lose their Mom. She's a nice enough woman, and she finds strength in her faith and belief, which was good for her. A lot of people have relied on their faith in this tough time. But, imaging being that young and losing my mom? That would be devastating. It's as if they think "well, God won't let me die, so I'll face it, and if other people die because of it, well, then they should have believed better." It's the self-righteous arrogance that really burns me up inside, because I know that confronting these people with facts would do no good. So there you go, a maelstrom of fear, impotent rage, and hopelessness. And I just have to swallow it all.

But that is only one of the factors that made this year so hard for me. Because there was also the utter heartbreak and blind, helpless rage from last May. I know it was a rage that so many of us felt and still feel. Not only at seeing the video footage of George Floyd's death, but at the callous or dismissive reactions of so many. I watched the protests and made donations to bail funds. I signed petitions, wrote letters to my Senator. I'm angry at the system and at the humans who've allowed this injustice to flourish. And I'm heartbroken for those who will never be free from those consequences.

I will never truly understand the kind of fear or sense of loss experience by a marginalized group. A black friend of mine has shared their experiences with me. As a cis white woman, I can only listen to my friend's weary, depressed resignation each time another black person is killed for no real reason. I can only listen to them recounting their fear of the police. I can only validate their anger when they say we should just burn it all down because this country seems too far gone to ever be fixed. And getting a glimpse of the world though their eyes just leads to helpless frustration and rage. Because I know that while my validation, support, and empathy are important to my friend, I can't do a damned thing. Despite my efforts, my feelings and actions won't save my friend if a cop murders them.

So there you go; an ugly cocktail of helpless rage, frustration, and heartbreak that has bubbling in my mind for over a year. This year has also left me numb and somewhat hopeless. So that is why I'm back on here. Because I know I'm not the only person who feels lucky, but also feels like they need to bury the other emotions. American society thrives on gaslighting, on telling us "it could be worse" or "the solution is just too big, so don't think about it." All humans need validation, to be told "yeah, this sucks, and I'm sorry you have to feel that."

That is the reason that I changed my blog's name. Originally, it was titled "Chasing My Own Tail." I think that title was meant to convey the endless, circular nature of my thoughts, but in a quirky way. Because deep down, my hope was that someone would read it. Now it is Void Barking, because, in truth, that is what this blog was meant to be. I wanted a place where I could share my thoughts without having my internet friends stumble across it and freak out. Or worse, have them read it simply because they feel compelled to. This is my place to scream my fears without worrying about worrying my friends. It's where I can make my bad puns and discuss the my adoration of fanfiction and fandom, free of judgement from those who really matter to me. It's my place to think out loud into vast empty of internet, knowing that I may never have a reader, but that I should still write, just for me.