Entering an area of overwhelming enemy forces
The Sunday before the inauguration, I dumped my husband’s ashes off a boat in the San Francisco bay.
I’m playing Ghost of Tsushima again.
I do this sometimes: retreat into the comfort of familiar stories. The visuals, the soundtrack, the physical mechanics. I can zone out and let my body do something simple while my brain free associates about other stuff. I get the little squirts of dopamine: puzzles, quests, boss fights, gear. And the story is the story I always return to in times like this: one guy against overwhelming enemy forces. A tanto, some smoke bombs, and a dream of a free island.
The thing about video games is, completing a quest is all reward. Some silk, a gold coin, a new song for your flute. You never finish a quest and have your only reward be surviving, plus some trauma.
I wish real life was more like a video game.
When the open world map lets you into a region you’re not strong enough for, a warning displays on the screen: Entering an area of overwhelming enemy forces.
It’s not like good stuff isn’t happening. I went to the memorial service and a much smaller number of people hated or avoided me than I thought would. This weekend I found a document that means my stepdaughter will probably inherit a chunk of money (selfishly, it also means my husband’s estate will avoid probate, which I was not at all looking forward to). My book earned out. People are healthy. Big changes are on the horizon, and they’re largely good ones.
But we are still in an area of overwhelming enemy forces.
I didn’t watch the inauguration, of course. I have reinstated the personal commitment that got me through the first Trump presidency: never hearing the man’s voice. I donate, I call, I write emails. Nothing is enough, but it takes millions of people feeling like nothing is enough for something to start happening.
I feel the perimeter of my emotional life contracting, shivering together into tight folds like gooseflesh.
In 2016, many of us drew the unoriginal comparison between the Trump presidency and an abusive relationship. I hold the paradox of resignation and orneriness in the palm of my hand. Fear is a strong motivator. Anger, stronger still. Now it’s 2025 and I can say that a Trump presidency also feels very much like being married to an alcoholic, the slinky of hope slowly walking itself down the stairs, each flight a new degree of underwhelm.
I don’t know how we’ll get through this, but I also know I broke the back of 2024 and with just a little bit of luck I can break the back of 2025 across my knee as well. I don’t want to say the worst of the year is behind me already, but in January I watched the body of a human I loved spiral and drift like a dream beneath the surface of the sea. Time devours everything, even the worst years of our lives.
Here’s to the wild and unwritten future.