When writing doesn’t help

Well-meaning people keep reminding me that I should write something, that during my prolific period here on Roamin’ Gnomials, my musings had been pretty good, even entertaining. I gained a lot of followers.

My wife, friends, even my therapist said so, though the therapist, at least, knew none of the specifics about talking toothbrushes, pipe diapers and, of course, the gnomes I used to write about so frequently.

Yes, that’s right, I had a one-off with a therapist after mentioning to my regular doctor that I was feeling kinda meh about my life and pessimistic about future prospects. And that was even before finally contracting the case of Covid-19 that I’d long avoided. I’ve recovered – thanks for asking – because I’m not an anti-vaxxer, though being sick with the rona did nothing to improve my outlook.

So yeah, I met with a therapist and when she asked what was troubling me, I told her that Trumpers were still troubling me a great deal, that every bumper sticker, every Trump banner and every “Don’t Tread on Me” license plate that I see sends my blood pressure through the roof.

Hey, the therapist might have been a Trumper herself for all I knew, but she was too professional to say, nor did I expect her to confess. I said what I said and she didn’t flinch. Instead, she asked me what I liked to do.

I told her I once got a lot of enjoyment out of writing my blog, and that my first blog had morphed into an anti-Trump blog that had run its course. And while it’s true that The Shinbone Star has run its course, my anger never did.

What changed was the realization that no matter how much I expressed my anger through writing, there would always be more. Where anger over Trump and Trumpism is concerned, I have an inexhaustible supply.

For expressing that anger I paid a price. Call it a self-inflicted wound. Call it punishment for following the dictates of my heart.

My vitriol reflected right back to me, and although I still don’t care that racists got their noses out of joint when I called them what they are, there were also those who, despite being on the side of good, felt I should have put on kid gloves, pulled my punches, and made allowances for those whose vote for a racist and racist policies might not mean that they themselves are racists.

Right?

Well, I know how I feel about attempts to rationalize that question but must acknowledge that others feel differently.

But here it is, 2022, and Joe Biden sits in the White House. One presumes that I should just forget about all that went before; pretend it never happened; even apologize for being so mean.

The therapist and other people want the old me resurrected and they think writing is the key. Even I admit it sounds like a good idea.

They want me to write about more “Things That Drive Me Batshit Crazy” (Trump excluded), or some of the other nutty topics this blog once explored. They want my “gift for words” to make them smile again, conveniently forgetting that that same gift can also make them bleed.

Against my better judgment, I sat down today to make a good-faith effort. I wanted to make them happy; I wanted to turn back the clock. I wracked my brain for something sufficiently frivolous to say. Instead, this is what came out. I don’t think I can control it anymore.

Do I really have a gift for words? If indeed I ever did, I think it has turned into a curse.

A gift, surely, would make me less an old fool and more the magician people want me to be.