Anxiety-Ridden

How naïve I must’ve been when I felt joy watching the ball drop on New Year’s Eve. I experienced a sense of hope since it seemed people were starting to see the damage the felon in the White House had been doing and that maybe just maybe the Epstein files would be revealed and he would be held accountable. But I wasn’t the only one since Jimmy Kimmel said the same thing during his monologue last night. I guess we were eager to leave 2025 behind while welcoming in 2026. But then, almost immediately, because he’s vindictive and far from being presidential, tRump, instead of attempting to temper the country’s unease, he added on to the chaos and my heart sank, or rather my blood pressure rose.

Let me be clear, I’m not asking for pity since we’re all in this together, most of us without blinders, but I’m struggling to find any sense of joy. Instead, I feel on edge continually, even though I’m not in the midst of ICE activity. They are very active on Long Island, but just not where I live. Probably because where I’m living is considered tRump territory, as horrifying as that is. What has me anxious is the feeling that there’s little we can do while the repugnants and the felon, who thinks he’s king and doesn’t give a damn about the Constitution, have all the control.

I’ve been told by people not to let what is happening alarm me so much and to try to find any sense of joy. I try. I really do. As I wrote about in a previous Substack article, A Challenging Commitment, I’m trying to read more this year, but I find that often I don’t recall anything I’ve read and have to go back, attempting to keep my mind on the words. I’m also trying to plan out my book tour for this coming fall for my forthcoming novel, one that I’m struggling to give a title, while wondering if the country will be in so much mayhem no one will want to leave their home for an author event.

Speaking of staying in, it would be easy to toss on a sweater and pair of jeans and mope around the house. Instead, I’ve always been a clotheshorse and have a closetful of clothes, many still with tags, while waiting for the right occasion to wear the new pants or blouses. As lame as it sounds, sometimes I take off those tags and dress just for myself here in my home. I even put on blush and mascara while my hand is trembling, reminding me of just how nervous I am by the fact that there is no accountability for those criminal ICE agents hiding behind masks.

I want, rather I should be in the know about what is happening in the world around me, but for my heart’s sake I now avoid much of the news. Sometimes it’s easier just to put on some game show or old sitcom, in an attempt to calm myself down. Even the late-night talk shows can upset me because those monologues fill me in on what I’ve missed and sleep is suddenly put at a standstill.

Again, none of this is really about me. It’s about a visceral reaction we should all be experiencing, so visceral that it will cause us to find a way to stop what he’s doing without adding to the chaos. Yet, when the president constantly outright lies, ICE breaks the law without repercussion, and people forfeit their rights so they aren’t on his enemies list, the very idea of hope and joy feels like a fantasy.