A Bottle
I have written this letter hundreds of times. Never sent.
I don’t know where the line is between when I should just suck it up and keep going and when it’s time to complain. I don’t know why those two things are seen as mutually exclusive. I’m soldiering on after many vocal complaints. Both can exist, I think.
My Father Was Not Fred Rogers.
I don’t begrudge his disappointment. It is, in fact, reasonable.
To both their credit they have only ever loved their daughters. And I am hard to love.
Anxiety is the thing that’s ripped our country apart. It has divided us, caused us to fear and hate those who think and live differently than us, and even caused us to hate those who only slightly disagree with us. It has led to panic and overreaction. And I worry that American Anxiety is only going to exacerbate the social and political divide in this country to the point that there is no coming back.