votingTuesday I went out and voted for the first time. It was a terrifying experience (at the time), because my anxiety was already through the roof. I voted because I wanted to be part of choosing the smart course for our country.  To show that, while yes, the campaign had been disturbing and awful, saner heads had prevailed. Because the alternative was ridiculous.

I had far too much free time that day at work and so was gifted with the chance to watch things go from bad to worse. And listen to ridiculous talk. “Those things he says aren’t a big deal, I voted for him” I kept refreshing my phone, watching it go from bad to worse. By the time work was over, it was becoming clear that there would be no last minute respite.  Late that night, the results became final. I forced myself to go to sleep, desperate in the hope that I would wake up to a miracle.

Instead I woke to fear. My fear.  I was afraid. Afraid to go out, afraid to wear makeup. Afraid to speak my mind. Afraid to be me. So that day I went to work, subdued and stripped of personality. I heard talk of “well both candidates sucked” and even bits of happiness at the victory. How could that ever be a victory, when it would hurt so many?  He’d just been elected and already I was hurt. I cried at everything that day. Hurt and afraid.

And I wasn’t the only one. Day 1 and I already hear about people killing themselve, people  harassed, assaulted, my own partner insulted. It was day 1 and already everyone was hurting.

I went to bed again, because what was there to stay awake for? The more I thought, the more I fell into depression, and anguish. I wanted to be mad, I wanted to scream, I wanted to hurt me, but I was numb. So I went to bed.

I woke up, showered, and put on makeup to get ready for work. I was ready quickly, but still almost late for work. Why? Because I was afraid to walk out the door. Afraid of what someone might say to me. Afraid of what someone might do to me. Eventually I made it out the door, and with many a furtive glance, made it safely to my car.

Dysphoria ruled me.  My fear and anxiety combined to make me hate my body in a stunning way. I was amazingly aware of every glance and stare that day. It was day 2, and I couldn’t imagine making it through 4 years.

I got home and took my sleeping medications and at that moment, half awake, and vaguely drugged, I suddenly needed to get off. And so I lay in bed with 2 wands pressed against me ( because why not), a plug inside of me, until I had a stunning orgasm. And I felt sexy. Whole body, legs shaking, stunning.  And then I fell immediately asleep.

Day 3, I slept in. And awoke with 2 wands next to me. And I still felt sexy. That day felt manageable. Things weren’t alright, but they were manageable. I even tried out a new toy that had arrived. Twitter felt like sanctuary. I found comfort, if only in small sentences.

Day 4, I laughed, I had fun. I couldn’t ignore what was going on, but I could no longer ignore life going on despite it.  Bex wrote a post, that made me want to write if only to get things out out of my head.

Day 5 I wrote it all down. This chaotic and ugly mess. There is no pretty ending, no moral of the story.

I hurt. I’m able to manage it, but it certainly hasn’t gone away. But I’m here and I’m going to keep going.

I can do this.