I was brought up in a home where everyone was welcome. I was taught to treat everyone kindly and decently, to respect everyone — regardless of where they came from, their race, religion, economic status or sexual preferences, whether I agreed with their beliefs and opinions or not. I was taught to look for the good in people, not the bad. “Hate” was not a word — or a sentiment used, felt or tolerated in my family.
And I’ve lived by those principles my whole life. But I’m beginning to struggle with it.
I’m worn out.
Too many months of listening to Donald Trump’s relentless lies, threats, attacks and calls for violence. Too many months of excuses, support, false promises and silence from all those who could stop him, who should stop him, but won’t and don’t. Too many months of waiting and hoping his supporters will wake up from their trance and realize they’ve been duped and screwed.
I’m worn out. But I’m also angry and that’s what scares me.
More and more I find myself fantasizing about no one joining his golf clubs, staying at his hotels or buying his condos. More and more I find myself fantasizing about how good it would be if politicians had to spend a week or a month or a year “in the shoes” of the millions of Americans they turn their backs on and betray every day.
More and more I find myself wanting these souless, gutless, shameless, immoral SOBs to feel the fear, the despair, the helplessness, the sadness, the pain, the anguish they are causing others. I don’t wish any of them bodily harm, but I do want them to know, first hand, the suffering they are causing.
I know it’s wrong to feel this way, I do. But it’s becoming increasingly difficult to shove these thoughts away, to let them go. I try to stay in the light, focus on all the good things people do and say, but there are times, like last week, when that’s easier said than done.
The thought of at least two more years of this is unbearable.