He grabbed my ankles and began pulling me out of bed. He tightened his grip, and I realized it wasn’t my husband teasing me. I opened my eyes, and a large man in a navy blue suit and red tie with orange hair held my ankles and pulled me toward him. I tried to kick, and the grip tightened. I worked hard to force a scream so someone would hear me and come to my rescue. The scream began in my gut and rose up through my throat and finally out into the darkness of my bedroom and straight into my husband’s ear.
“Wake up, baby, wake up,” I heard my husband say. “Do you know where you are? Wake up.”
I finally realized that Donald Trump had not really been pulling on my ankles, but he’d been there in the fear of my psyche crowding my thoughts and feeding the frenzy of my worse nightmare for my country.
My blood-curdling scream woke up both my husband and me and kept us awake for a long time afterward. So much for peaceful weekend sleeping.
The reality of what is happening with the new president is worse than I ever imagined and worse than a nightmare. But unfortunately, this is a nightmare that doesn’t go away with the opening of my eyes. The relief from waking up from a terror dream is not abated, not now when every day brings one more horror and one more erosion of our democracy and republic.
Today, I have lost hope. Today, I feel the need to flee. Today, I cry for those most affected, and wish I could go back to the sleep-induced nightmare so I could kick my feet, scream my screams, and fight the demon in the room.
I will fight to become hopeful again, and I will do my part by continuing the phone calls, sending the postcards, and posting the reports. Please do the same.