How could I be other than mixed?
Recently, every time I’m asked, “How are you?” I jolt back to the reality that, in fact, I’m not doing well.
And how could I be?
The world seems like it’s on fire.
My people—and I’m not certain what that means—were slaughtered on October 7, and now my people—and I’m still not sure how this is my people and the other people are not my people—are killing people.
I can’t explain it to you.
Or maybe I can.
It’s like a nightmare without being asleep.
The conjoined feelings of helplessness, horror, and fear.
I can’t find the agency to make it stop.
It seems, at times, the only thing I’m able to do is worry.
Mark Twain said, “Worrying is like paying a debt you don’t owe.”
Which is nice. But it’s like telling someone on death row, “Cheer up. It’s not your day in the chair.”
Different terrifying scenarios play out in my mind.
The most common is a global economic collapse for which Jews are implicated.
I wonder where we will go and how we will get there.
“Maybe you should stop wearing your hat in public, just for a while,” a well-meaning private message advised me last week.
“Maybe” is all I retort—refraining from continuing with, “But, if you really want to help, you could start wearing one.”
Usually I listen to the news only on my first and last dog walks of the day.
But today I tuned in while driving to pick Annie and her friends up from an adventure.
How am I?
I want to cry.