What is left for Goodbye?

A few years ago when I felt the need to leave a situation which seemed so inauthentic to who I was and wanted to be it was causing me to disappear into an abyss of sorrow, doing so required a lot of letting go I had not expected.

There was a home I’d made, a place I’d made, a community I’d made, a world I’d built; but these were tangled, meshed, intertwined, and knotted with people and places and assumptions and energies which demanded of me daily betrayals of my own soul, truth, and path.

To be clear, there were no villains, no evil people, no ill intent; but there was darkness, shadow, deceit, and delusions which were fed by silence, and there was much fear of repercussion if one disagreed, if one’s song and dance didn’t toe the dictatorial line of the group-hallucination, the prescribed agenda: you would see the emperor’s clothes or be banished, if ordered to, you would drink the Kool-Aid.

I could have stayed in that situation the rest of my life. I wasn’t being hit. There were some moments of happiness. I was in many ways far better off than I will likely ever be again, financially. But it felt wrong in my heart, as does much of the structure of the society in which we live — the acquisitiveness and the cruelty and the self-interest and the judgement of it all. In my heart, that is the measure, and, well, listen to this:

There is too much cruelty in the world. So much, we’ve embedded it into the very shape and structure of society; we measure people by the money they make, award them power according to the size of their checkbook. We limit and label and laugh at anyone who says, “But wait, maybe that model doesn’t work for everyone!” And we allow ourselves to be distracted by our petty arguments and hates and the grabbing and grasping on to what we have, the struggle to be one of the ones who can get what we want, who can have what we want.

I can’t. And I don’t. The Trump-ists are winning, have you noticed? For years I warned and ranted about the whispered, coded hate. For years I tried to explain that Reagan’s silence on AIDS and people who put Palin posters in their yards and my own sister who unfriended me because I explained that voting for Romney was like nailing Matthew Shepard to that fence in Wyoming and for years I have been dismissed, called an hysteric, ignored.

Look. Look. Look at what silence has wrought? The knives are coming out now, full in the open. Just like in high school when I was called “faggot” and thrown against lockers and dunked into toilets, now, the names come out on Twitter and in Republican rallies. Look. Look. Look. It is little different from 1183 and I think, I do, this time — when here I am again, going, needing to change my life, there is so little left for me to let go, what happens when there is nothing and no one left to which and whom to say goodbye?


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