Are My Parents Nazis?
In the middle of covid, chemo, and a wave of Christian nationalism, I panicked and wondered, “Are my parents Nazis?”
I asked this question of my sister-in-law who assured me they weren’t Nazis. Later I felt silly. Of course they weren’t, but also? Being a Nazi isn’t the political dead end it used to be. My anxiety didn’t just materialize out of thin air.
On any count.
My sister-in-law brought me back to reality. It was one of several times I’d need someone to flex some stability on my behalf, as it turns out. After being diagnosed with brain cancer and hospitalized during the narcissistic presidency of Donald J. Trump, I’ve been floundering a bit.
I don’t know if others felt this way after watching 2016 and then 2020 in real time, but I’d already been through some shit. Trump was and is a horror all his own, but he often reminded me of other trauma too. In ways I either wasn’t prepared to cope with or I wasn’t capable of processing.
Or both, maybe.
Having so much time to overthink through treatment was not good for my mental health. I wouldn’t have been able to articulate or understand my growing anxiety then, but retrospectively its presence is very clear to me. And with hours every day for years to think about it? And my ability to hold a pen and Zentangle (hopefully) temporarily gone?
Fucking yikes, kids.
There were signs early on. Like that time I surprised even myself by hyperventilating when my dad and I didn’t agree about cops. My mind went from reasoned to reactive in a nanosecond, convincing me my entire life was a lie and no one could be trusted.
Anyway, the point is not to relive, it’s to remind myself I’m making progress. Even on the days it doesn’t seem like it. I can breathe through panic now, and that’s something. Plus there’s a tumor on my lizard brain. That probably has an impact, right? I can cut myself some slack.