Donald J. Trump, an Unlikely Catalyst for Healing
It is January 10, 2017 and I am in the fifth day — or sixth, I’ve lost track — of some kind of dreadful cold: exhaustion, sneezing, coughing, eyes running, sore throat, randomly experiencing pain in my ears… unpleasantness all around. I have also, apparently, had as much as I can tolerate of the anxiety that has plagued me ever since it became apparent that Donald Trump was going to make a successful bid to snatch the office of the president of the United States from an actual statesperson. His upcoming ascendancy is the reason that I am writing now, the reason, (if I am correct in all this), that my immune system has crashed.
I have a very sensitive body. It may not have been born that way, but it was created to be that way by the time I was in my fourth year of life by a man, my maternal grandfather, who had more than a little in common with the current president-elect. My maternal grandfather, who, in order to supplement an income that had been in a steep decline ever since the crash of ’29, rented out my sister and I to other men like himself: incredibly wealthy, greedy, self-centered and lacking a moral compass. The massive overwhelm of abuse enabled/forced me to develop exceptional empathic skills that are still functioning and that gift is my challenge.
This morning, as on most mornings, I eventually opened my email, went online, and immediately had visual access to at least 20 things that were deeply distressing to me. Today, unlike most of the days that have preceded it since about last August, I went off-line and back to my sickbed without reading a single one of them, returning to the book that I am reading when my eyes aren’t dry and sore, Leonard Schlain’s, Art and Physics. I was in the middle of reading about Newton and da Vinci when, for no reason I can put my finger on, I felt something… a small, vicious, pent up energy in my belly, something that I perceived as a kind of holograph; it seemed like a rolled up porcupine on the verge of bursting open, of allowing her quills to do damage where they might, and not giving a shit about where they might go or what they might hit.
Well, holy fuck.
Y’know, at some level, I think I kinda knew she was in there and I just didn’t want to acknowledge her. With the help of numerous wonderful therapists, an excellent couple of shamans, and my own body’s wise guidance accessed via sleep, over the course of almost 30 years, I finally managed, about seven years ago, to begin living a life that I simply cannot imagine could be any better. It is an amazing life, nothing like I’d been used to in the past when I’d struggled — and repeatedly failed — to overcome unconsciously generated behavior that was trying to hide me from the hideous history of my youth.
But this is the first time I’ve come face-to-face with this being in my belly, this prickly beast. And maybe I had to have seven good years of a beautiful life under my belt before I could take a look because she ain’t pretty… but she is pretty pissed.
[I return to the couch to sleep. Time passes.]
So, I just took time out for a nap, but first, using one of the many tricks I’ve learned along the way of my healing process, I invited the prickly being out from under my solar plexus where she seemed to be hiding. She sat on the edge of the couch, above me, reminding me tremendously of Fusilli’s Nightmare and she didn’t look nearly as frightening outside as she had seemed when she was inside. Nor did she seem nearly as angry; in fact, she seemed scared… and sad… so sad that I started to cry a little. My sense of it was that she’d been in there since some time in my mid-teenage years, probably right around the point when I discovered that what my father had been pouring into me wasn’t his love, but his desperation. (Another mess altogether.)
[Night comes and more sleeping ensues.]
A restless sleep bought waking at dawn. Waking often brings information and/or clarity and I remembered in childhood having to ‘keep it to myself,’ at my mother’s command. “Too sensitive,” were the words she’d dismiss me with when I’d try to talk to her; “Labile,” if I started to tear up. No the hell wonder there was a ball of prickly energy inside me, separated from my awareness by my mother’s commands and by years of practice. Well, Prickly’s not separate anymore, and she will, as I have, require some time for healing, some time to reintegrate into my conscious awareness so that I can be everything that I am.
One of the first things I’d thought, after DJT had become officially elected was how incredibly sad all the well-meaning people that voted for him, all the people that trust in this man whom they see as powerful, may be if they become disappointed, as it seems they inevitably will, when they discover that his priority is him and that they are no more than the tools he used to get what he wants… just as I had been crushed by finding out that all my father had been doing was taking advantage of the fear I carried for myself and my sister.
But maybe Trump’s people won’t be disappointed at all, maybe that’s what they’re used to, what they expect from people… maybe that’s the world they live in.
For my part, I’m pleased that all my angst (apparently much of it subconscious) over these past months has not been for naught, and I’m glad to have that raspy little thing outed so that we can figure out how to live together consciously. If that’s all I get out of this mess, it will have been worth it. I feel better already.