When the Supreme Court of the United States leak of the Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization case occurred a year ago, it was devastating for me. I held out a glimmer of hope that Roe v. Wade and Planned Parenthood v. Casey wouldn’t be overturned, but I knew the final decision likely wasn’t going to change. It was still a debilitating gut punch when the decision became official. A right I had my entire life, a right I had exercised, was taken away from me. In that moment, half the American population were told they could not be trusted to make medical decisions for themselves.
Since that time, I’ve written many comments online. I’ve been called a murderer more times than I can remember. I’ve had kind internet strangers step in and tell forced birthers to kindly fuck off. I’ve said so myself. However, it is one thing to be called a murderer by internet strangers. It’s another when it comes from someone sitting in your living room.
If you’re not familiar with the book, August Heckscher, the chief writer of editorials of the New York Herald Tribune, wrote the book “suggests how easy it is for human beings in any society to fall prey to a dynamic political movement, provided their lives are sufficiently insecure, frustrated or empty.”
I am currently dealing with my sixth health insurance company in four years and my eleventh since 2007 when I moved to Scottsbluff, Nebraska. None of these changes were of my doing. My employers decided to change companies. Each change was touted as something better for the employee, but, looking under the hood, as usual, it benefits the company more than the individual.
One of the lessons my grandmother taught me was to “put your money where your mouth is.” It’s something I’ve hesitated a few times or couldn’t afford to do at the time. Over the years, I’ve provided financial assistance, protested, wrote letters, and made phone calls for issues that were important to me.
Formula 1 is on a bit of a hiatus for the month of April. There was supposed to be a race the weekend of the 15th, but that was going to be the Chinese Grand Prix, which has been canceled for a third year in a row.
They tell me I’m good at telling stories
but they don’t want to hear mine
it’s too dark
it’s too sad
it’s too scary
and they don’t want to think about it
They want me to tell them stories
but accounts need to be happy
tales need to be funny
a narrative which can be shared
“Tell me another story about your grandma,” they say.
Those are fun
those are nice
those make me think of my family
and not anything sad
They don’t want to hear my stories
of violence and anguish
they don’t want to hear my stories
of loneliness and torment
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless there’s a smile at the end
No one wants to hear descriptions
of potential snatched away
or chronicles of terror and screams,
suffering and tears
keep those stories to yourself
that’s for you to figure out
shoulders to cry on are rescinded
it’s too much for them to endure
I write my stories down on paper
for no one else to view
Everyone says they want to read them
but no one ever does
They say they want me to share my stories
but as soon as I open my mouth
the topic gets changed
keep that to yourself
Tears stain the paper as I go
memories I don’t want in my head
transferred to dead trees
but the visions live on just for me
They don’t want to hear my stories
of brutality and struggle
They don’t want to hear my stories
of solitude and sorrow
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless there’s a smile at the end
No one wants to hear
stories with terror, screams, and wails
of potential snatched away
or lamentations of what could have been
keep those stories to yourself
that’s for you to figure out
shoulders to cry on are retracted
it’s too much for them to bear
weeping should be kept solitary
Asleep or awake
my stories are continually shared
only with myself.
Everyone says I’m a good storyteller
but joy is all they want to hear
There is no desire to receive my speech
Their reticence serves to placate themselves
pat themselves on the back
with empty platitudes
thinking they provided guidance
and good deeds
while I process the images alone
I sit alone at home
putting horror and repugnance into words.
With my little blue book and black ink
I detail my stories
that no one will ever read
They don’t want to hear my stories
of trying to pick myself up again
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless it’s tied up neatly with a bow
They don’t want to hear my stories
unless there’s pleasantness at the end.
For the past few years, I’ve been toying with the idea of creating a podcast about history, particularly, the history of western Nebraska. The biggest factor holding me back was whether I should do it alone and whether my mental health issues would allow for such a committment. From 2020 to 2021, I really wasn’t in a place where I could do much of anything. I was functioning on the most basic of levels and could barely do anything except go to work and sleep.
Throughout the course of 2022, this all changed. I haven’t spoken much about what I did in 2022 for my mental health and how I worked on my PTSD, but I made significant changes and progress in that area, which I will, eventually, write about.
Today, however, I am pleased to announce the launch of a new podcast, Storytelling on the Plains. My friend, Conner, and I have been working for several months on our plan, creating a story list, researching, writing, and recording. Our first podcast went live yesterday.
I recently sent the letter pasted below to my state representative, Brian Hardin. The bill, LB626 passed through the committee, on which he sits, and will now go to the floor for debate.
If anyone wants to use what I wrote, please feel free. As readers of this blog know, this is an important subject matter for me, one in which I never thought I’d have to be fighting. It is 2,285 words long. Regardless of whether or not Hardin listens to me, or even reads my letter, I said my peace. I truly hope the bill fails.
