Nothing Is Inevitable

 (Originally posted to my newsletter, which you can subscribe to here.)

I often don't remember I have depression until I realize that I've been putting off writing my newsletter for two weeks because I want to do it when I'm "in a better mood." The better mood has yet to arrive, but my book reviews are piling up, so you get this letter.

The particular variety of depression I have isn't never-ending sadness or even numbness; it mostly manifests itself in finding it difficult to do things that actually bring me joy, such as writing or drawing. I force myself to do yoga or go out in the garden or take a bike ride, and afterward I'm glad I did so, but when I sit down to write, the enormity of what I want to say fills my chest, and yet there are no words. So I go back to editing student papers and think, I will write my newsletter tomorrow.

I have been in mourning about the politics of my state. Missouri's Attorney General issued an emergency order to restrict trans healthcare a couple weeks ago (which would, among other things, bar anyone who had depression, was autistic, or had "social media addiction" from making their own choices about receiving healthcare). A judge just put a temporary halt on it, but the fact that trans people are in the midst of fighting for their right to do what they want with their own bodies is unbelievable to me. Especially as someone who grew up in the homeschool community, who proclaimed loud and clear that we didn't want the government interfering with our business, it's discouraging to see the same demographic turning around and saying that not only do parents not have a choice in what healthcare they seek out for their children, but grown adults should be restricted from healthcare through the government.

With such flagrant abuses of power being thrown around in my state (not to mention the 15 legislative bills that have come through Missouri this year specifically targeting trans people), I feel like, what am I doing here, doing nothing? Isn't this how we give up our rights, one little bit at a time? How can I sit around when politicians are trying to rob people of their right to make a decision about their own bodies? I've had some conversations with my trans friends the past couple weeks and seen the fear, the anger, the exhaustion of constantly being forced to fight for the right to exist.

Like most Americans, I grew up with a sense that all of history was on a never-ending downward spiral— that unlike the good old days (whether that refers to the 1950s or ancient Greece) when we were smarter, better, more moral, etc., we are now hurtling on a downward track toward the end of the world. It's a view embraced by Christian fundamentalists and "climate doomers" alike, because there is a relief in feeling like anything bad that happens is inevitable.

And yet it's not. Fascism is not inevitable. People losing personal rights is not inevitable. Everything bad I fear for the country and for the world is not inevitable. And that feels like a blessing and a curse— a sign of hope, but a call to action, to struggle. But what does the struggle look like? How do you fight when you feel like you can't even keep your head above water?

I grieve and I stew as I plant flowers in my garden, and pack grocery bags at the food pantry, and sing in my church choir, and wave hello to my neighbor. I reproach myself for "just throwing money at the problem" when I donate to the Missouri ACLU, then remind myself that money does more tangible good than "educating myself" (aka entering Endless Depression Spiral) endlessly on social media. I try to carve out room for joy, for simple happiness, for fun, for art. 

I look at the oak sapling in our front yard and wonder what the world will be like when they're grown into a tree— and remind myself again and again that the world of my grown-up oak may be a better world after all. Nothing is inevitable.