JUST GET OVER IT
I was 20 when my mom left. One day, we were the typical American family going to soccer practice and having barbeques, the next we were a shattered version of that, four daughters splintered different ways, a mother who claimed she hated my father, a father who became a defeated shadow. My mom left that day, and never came back. In many ways, my father never came back either. My sisters and I were left to manage the crisis on our own, to cope as best we could. My parents, who had never been very involved, were suddenly AWOL, suddenly enemies. None of my friends at the time, all Catholic college kids, came from divorced families. I had no one to reach out to, and no words for reaching out even if I had known who to talk to.
I was dating a pretty religious guy back then, head over heels. I foolishly let my anger and sadness pour out to him, and his response was always, “You have to get over it. You just have to forgive your mom.” No matter how much I prayed, how much guilt I felt over my anger, how much I tried to push it down, it kept bubbling to the surface and overwhelmed me. I felt like there was something wrong with me, that I wasn’t a good enough person, because I couldn’t "just get over it.” One year later, this person who I had naively grasped as a lifeline would abruptly break off the relationship because he was “sick of hearing me cry about my mom.” He rejected me because I couldn’t get over it.
If there is an overriding conservative refrain right now, it’s that those of us who are horrified by this new administration need to “just get over it.” For me, it’s a flashback to the trauma of my youth, and how my conservative, religious, unsympathetic boyfriend reacted to my grief. He pushed it aside because it was too inconvenient, too annoying, too disruptive, for him to deal with. Twenty years later, I can clearly see how damaging this callous attitude was, and how unhelpful. It breaks my heart to think of that sweet young girl, trying so hard to suppress her anger and grief so that she would not rock the boat, so that she could be the “strong” person that someone else wanted her to be. Now much of my emotional turmoil is not just in standing up to oppose the lies, the disrespect, the blatant emotional abuse of the current administration, but in staying standing, in having the strength to publicly maintain my opposition when so many of the people in my life want me to sit down and shut up, to “just get over it.” Meryl Streep’s speech at the Golden Globes was amazing, but let’s face it, she was in a positive, supporting environment. How much harder would that speech have been at the Thanksgiving table with your conservative family, or directed towards potential clients who might leave your business because of your political views? (And how much more frustrating is it, when you don’t even believe your views are political, that they are simply about basic human rights, about respect, about ethics?)
It is disheartening that so many people in my life want me to sit down and shut up about current politics, especially on social media. I have endured superficial posts about new haircuts, kids’ sports games, pics of the perfect steak or cocktail for years. And now that I want to express what is important to me, this is offensive? It’s as if so many want to maintain a Stepford existence at all costs, as if even voicing concern about human rights issues is a threat.
If I have learned anything in 20 years, it’s that suppressing my feelings doesn’t help anyone. That I must stand up for myself, because no one else will. That I must trust my gut. That being respectfully dissident is really, really hard, and really, really imperative. That I cannot be quiet. Still, I am saddened by those that are offended not by what I say, but that I choose to speak. I am scared that I will lose business, friends, and support because I am a “troublemaker.” These fears are not unfounded; they have already happened to some extent. But I am also deeply convicted that if I do not speak out, I will lose ME. And that I cannot let happen.
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