November 7, 2020

For several years, I was in a relationship with someone with undiagnosed, untreated mental illness. I never knew quite who I would encounter each day when I came home from work, or when I came home from being out with friends, or when I woke up in the morning. I didn’t realize at the time what a toll it took on me to be constantly vigilant, constantly unsure, always trying to anticipate what might set them off. What I might be doing wrong.

The way I felt the day I arrived at our apartment and she was gone is the way I feel right now. I’m so glad that people are celebrating, that people feel like driving around and honking, that this one guy was moved to walk through the neighborhood in his sweatpants playing the saxophone. I love it. I’m moved by it.

But this is a note for those of us who are feeling another way. I too had a burst of excitement when the news hit and my phone started buzzing off the table. I was thrilled. And then, relieved, so deeply relieved. And now, I’m tired. Exhausted actually. For a minute, I felt bad about feeling bad – why don’t I want to take to the streets, bang pans and shout?

When I walked into the apartment that evening, it was a shambles. There were half empty moving boxes, clothes strewn around the bedroom, a door of the armoire torn partly off… I laughed, and then I cried, and then I laid down on the unmade bed and stared at the ceiling for hours. It was over. There was so much to do – figure out what to do with the stuff she left behind, get out of the lease, reconnect with people I’d been isolated or alienated from. But right then, all I could do was lay there and feel the weight of those years lift off my body, start to convince my system we no longer needed to be on constant alert.

I know my friends who are people of color feel this way, felt this way long before Trump and will feel it until we truly change this nation. I know my friends who are women, who are trans, who are queer, felt this way and feel this way. But for the past four years the danger and the violence was coming from the highest level, at the highest volume, and while we’re far from out of the woods, there is much to celebrate.

I’m going to go for a walk, because it’s a gorgeous day. I will doubtless cry on the sidewalk as I’ve been crying here on this couch. I won’t bang on a pot because what I feel is quiet, is more a window opening than a parade. And that’s OK too. We’re OK. It’s going to get better now. It has to.