“How are you?”
It’s a simple enough question; why do I have trouble answering it?
Currently, we’ve just come out of the holiday season, which is one of the busiest and most stressful in all of retail. I’ve survived yet another one, again and that’s a good thing. I’ve kept myself together, not shouted at any jerks or rude people and tried to have a genuinely good time while at the door. That’s a good thing. But there are other things to consider as well.
I can only cope with about half an hour of news a day. Any more than that and I will get overwhelmed. It’s the same feeling I had during the years of George W. Bush: no matter what I said or did, no matter how often I exposed the stupidity on my old blog for the world to see, things just kept getting worse.
I vent, I rant and I shout, whether physically at home, or in the car as I hear the news over the radio, or here on my own little plot of land in cyberspace but it doesn’t feel like enough. I can’t do enough. The thought of that is physically crushing.
Social media has been a double edged sword. It has been helpful; I’ve been able to make friends with like minded individuals so I don’t feel so alone in the world. But there have been other days when the ugliness of social media rears its head, when the ignorance and bigotry of others becomes an overwhelming force, far too great to overcome.
Those days, I think of deleting my Twitter account as well as my Facebook. I don’t want to deal with either of them.
But I realize that if I do that, I will effectively be silencing myself. So I slog through the ugliness, wage a seemingly inept battle against the forces of evil and ignorance and keep going.
It isn’t easy some days.
Then, there’s my health, or the fact my body wants me dead. That screws with me on a level I can’t even begin to explain; I am fucked up on a genetic level. The very cellular building blocks that make me me are screwed up, mutated. They want to kill me because somehow, their programming has been changed. The very body I inhabit isn’t simply imperfect. In my case, it’s a damned time bomb.
The medication I take? Some of that doesn’t help. Tamoxifen messes with hormones which can mess with my personality. Some days I’m pissed off for reasons I can’t explain while others, I’m about to start sobbing at the drop of a hat.
“How are you?”
Most days, I say that I’m okay. I guess I am. The medication is helping me. I’m healthy enough to work. I have a husband who puts up with me. I have friends. In certain things, life is good.
But in others, life is a mixed bag, a question mark. Which makes answering that simple question so incredibly difficult.