It’s not like we didn’t know it would happen. But that doesn’t make it any easier. Even before May when the SCOTUS draft indicating Roe V. Wade would be overturned appeared, movements, marches, and all manner of focus had kept the matter of a constitutional right to an abortion in the American mindset since it was decided in January 1973. I was 11. I didn’t join my voice in the fight to preserve the Roe decision until I moved to NYC in my twenties. And although I was adamant and loud and welcomed the crowd, I didn’t altogether grasp that having a say in what I wanted to gestate or not in my body would be wiped out altogether many decades later. I didn’t grasp it because it didn’t feel real. But then again… until something actually happens, even if it’s on the horizon, it isn’t real.

Living with the knowledge of something disappearing can make that thing precious. It can also make the fear become reflexive background noise. A friend texted me today writing, “I turned 18 in 1973 and thought my future was wide open. I can’t imagine what these 18-year-olds are thinking now.” Indeed. Fear made real. The monster steps out and in this case, it ain’t no mouse. It overstrides in black robes and upturns the lives of millions upon millions.

I think back. Was it exhausting to constantly worry that this right to choose what I would do when I became pregnant would be rescinded by the constitutional body that put it into place? When I did choose, I admit, I took it for granted. Mainly because thinking about it not being a choice felt abstract. Something to keep an eye on, imminent maybe, but distant mostly. There was always community to step out with that reminded me of the danger it could all go poof and I always made sure to give a monthly contribution since the beginning of self-earned cash to Planned Parenthood, the organization that consistently helped me in all things reproductive. But I was at a low simmer back then.

I’m not gonna lie, my current anger has come to a boil, but it feels impotent. As if I’m not sure exactly what to do with it. Drop something inside? Pitch it in a general direction? I’m frustrated by scalding voices raised for all manner of movements while human and social rights fall one after the other: guns flourish, police murder, people of color die and are maimed at higher rates because of all those aforementioned reasons that voices are raised to hot temperatures. It. Just. Keeps. Sliding. Seemingly backward. (Yes, a gun reform bill passed. sigh.) Dennis reminds me protest is good and necessary. Basically, I agree with him. But sometimes, like today, for instance, I’m also frustrated. I realize I’m not alone in this.

Speaking of alone, wading through all these fingerpaint-messy feelings there’s also a strong sense of staying in one particular very uncomfortable place. Grief. I’m a girl who likes to plan ahead. I’m pretty crap at just going with the flow, although you’d maybe never know that to talk to folx who think I’m really “chill.” Mostly I seem like that because it’s sometimes the stance that’s expected depending on the scene (music biz moments, for instance), but if I was a glass-bottomed boat of a person, you’d see a helluva lot of squiggly turmoil fish swimming. A Rubik’s cube of trying to line up all the right colors in the right order for the right response just in case. If A happens then B, C then D, maybe F then Z if it comes to it. Then the thing happens and it’s a crapshoot of J going straight to X squared, which isn’t even in the feckin alphabet. Being in community feels like a good string of letters joining together, but also there are those very individual letters left alone that only spell out personal, necessary moments.

Last week, D and I went to see Grief: A One Man ShitShow by Colin Campbell. Amazing. A father who lost his two teenage children in a car accident, he tells his story in a dark deep dive, kicking with humanity in waters that hold despair, humor, anger, love, and loss. It’s amazing. It’s difficult. It’s generous. I walked away thinking about the liquid maze of emotional planning. How even when you know something is coming—death, dangerous decisions, difficulty—there’s no preparation. It stares you in the face, in the moment, and that’s that. You’re alone in it. It makes me squirmy in my groin just thinking about it because, don’t-cha-know, I’m doing that anticipation thing. That planning action where I try and alphabetize all the feelings I might land on and what I’ll do when the thing happens. Well, Sesame Street cannot help with any of these moments.

Of course there’s the place for community, camaraderie, anger, expression writ large. Also for individual grief and time-taking for sorting through the stuff bursting out the door or hiding in the corner or just sitting on the mental sofa patting a space and saying “sit down, let’s discuss.” Gaaaarrrrrr. That sofa might also hold a nap. Be kind to yourself and all in your righteousness, and I’ll try and do the same. My only tribute to bloodthirsty butchers, as rendered by Yoshitomo Nara above, is a soundtrack to offer some notes on how alone and not can work for change for me and hopefully others too.

Currently, I’m appreciating So.Informed on social media channels (here on insta. here on FB) for their talking points and where-to-help focus.