Column: We never dealt with the trauma of 2020. Now it's created an even bigger crisis https://t.co/U4SuhvWtCK
— Los Angeles Times (@latimes) February 27, 2024
Whenever I used to say “I wish something would happen,” my friends would moan and say, “Stop saying that! Remember what happened the last time you said that?” So I started qualifying it: “I wish something would happen, something nice.”
But I find I almost never say that anymore, because since 2015, shit has just kept happening.
I remember feeling paralyzed after the election. I didn’t put up a Christmas tree that year, but I did find myself binging Hallmark Christmas movies — which I happen to hate. But under the circumstances, they were reliably cheery and had some approximation of happy endings.
And then, like every other sentient being I knew in the year of Trump, I went on antidepressants in an attempt to unstick myself. (I have a rule about these things: I only stay on antidepressants for six months, because after that point, they suppress your brain’s ability to produce critical chemicals.)
This time, I was on them for 18 months.
Because once Trump was in office, it was one crisis after another. The more you’d say to yourself, “It couldn’t possibly get any worse, right?” it always did.
Then there was cancer, followed by covid. And then long covid. And then car accidents, and injuries, and concussions, and endless doctor appointments. And having to replace the car. (Etcetera, etcetera, etcetara, as Yul Brenner said in “The King and I.”)
I’ll stop there. It’s just that was just feeling a teensy bit retraumatized after reading this L.A. Times piece, which I advise you to skip if you have even a hint of suicidal ideation. (I shared it with Digby, who said, “I’ve been calling it cultural PTSD.”)
Turns out it wasn’t our imagination. We really did go through a lot of shit, and still are.
If you do read it, you will probably need a hug. Or snacks. Lots of snacks. Keep them handy.
