Welcome to the Winter of My Discontent

Y’all. I know it’s only November. I know this, but all that does is worry me more about what the next few months will be like.

Let’s take stock.

I have seasonal affective disorder plus some fun anxiety disorders.

I have a toddler who can end up in the ER from a simple cold.

Trump will become president of the United States.

My therapist is going on maternity leave next week.

This just does not bode well.

I bet companies that make antidepressants and benzos are raking in money right now. I’m already maxed out on Zoloft and my Ativan is technically expired, and I swear if fucking Trump is the reason I have to call my psychiatrist I will … well, probably not much more than I’m already doing.

I’ve decided this kinetic energy needs a place to go, so I’m directing it towards doing my small part to make sure my kids grow up as compassionate, empathetic, kind people who stand up for injustice and say fuck a lot. That last part isn’t on purpose, but it’s probably unavoidable.

Parental participation in school is difficult for me because I work full time, write part time, have two kids, and am constantly trying to just keep my head above water. But it’s time. It’s time to be part of the solution. Writing can be a useful tool, but I need something more concrete.

Thanks to an idea floated by a friend last year, we are going to attempt a Random Act of Kindness week at school. I want these kids to feel how great it is to make other people smile. I want them to feel how it is to work together to help others with nothing but satisfaction in return. I want them psyched about helpfulness. Kumbafuckingya.

I also want Lorelei to clean her room, but I’m trying not to get carried away.

It feels like a little bit of a race against time.

I hope I’m not just creating a self-fulfilling prophecy, but I suspect this winter is going to be hard. I can only hope for an unseasonably warm season to help take the edge off. Luckily, Trump is already working to ensure plenty of global warming in our future. The woolly worms and persimmons and other old wives’ tales are telling a different story, as usual.

I am simultaneously devastated, terrified, and hopeful. My hopefulness is a long view supported by my desire to raise my kids to be the change we need.

If things go well, I’m hoping I can turn this project into something bigger by writing an article / essay about it. It feels like a huge task, but hopefully a fulfilling one.

In the meantime, I’ll just keep swimming.