I was driving home from work a few nights ago and got progressively frustrated with the state of things. I haven’t written since the 14th, and have no desire to. Lemon Pepper went into heat, so things have been tense at the house because she won’t stop marking and yowling and pacing and she has to be constantly supervised when she’s out of the “boo box.” That’s what we’re calling the guest room that is hers until she can behave herself or isn’t a hormonally driven anxious mostly-feral kitten anymore. I have not actually sat at my computer in my office in nearly a week.
And of course, Monday heralded an era of rapid change. A descent, if you will. Am I surprised at the outward fascist policies put into place on Day One? Not in the slightest. Am I surprised it happened so quickly? Yes and no. Am I already exhausted thinking about what kind of a fight it’s going to take to ensure we don’t slide further down into darkness so bleak and thick it blots out any semblance of light? Absolutely.
On the aforementioned drive home, I let myself finally release all the building anxiety since Monday. I cried. I cried because I don’t know what resistance fighting looks like in 2025. Marches, donations to the ACLU, helping those in need when/where possible? Yes, of course. But how do we stop the fascist regime that’s been growing and planning and scheming behind closed doors for the last four years? How do we protect ourselves and others in the age of being monitored by several alphabet acronyms? And moreover, how do we do this without significant finances and free time?
I still have a job to work. My spouse still has school to complete AND a job to work. I want to enjoy my time left on this planet as much as I can, but how is that possible when everything happening in the government makes me want to jump off a bridge? Maybe not physically, but definitely mentally.
When the time inevitably comes, I know I’ll find it in me to fight back. I have to. If not for me, then for someone who needs it. For all the women who fought before. Like Diet Eman, whom I met in 2015 at my grandfather’s nursing home. Like every other woman who broke a glass ceiling and helped another one through. But for now? I cry in my car and lament that people fell for the economic promises of dictators from the 1930’s in 2024 and brought us to this point. For now, I support my friends, my loved ones, the queer creatives and scientists and thinkers the best way I can.
Eliza Nix 