Tag Archives: Trump

Kentucky, politicians, politics, rants, slut shamers, Texas, true crime

Grateful to be a Texas voter who doesn’t have to live in Texas (or Kentucky)…

This is a pretty angry rant, so if you don’t like coarse language or rage, you might want to keep scrolling.

This week, I’ve been following the tragic story of 31 year old married mother of two, Kate Cox, and her request to be allowed to have an abortion. Cox, who lives near Dallas, Texas, and is currently about 20 weeks pregnant, learned that her unborn daughter has Trisomy 18, otherwise known as Edwards Syndrome. Cox’s doctors have told her that her pregnancy is non-viable, and that she is likely to either miscarry, or the baby will die during, or soon after, her birth. Additionally, Cox’s fertility may also be at risk if she continues her pregnancy.

A couple of years ago, Cox likely could have terminated her pregnancy without any interference from politicians, lawyers, or judges. It would not have been anyone’s business but hers, her doctor’s, and her family’s, if she chose to include them. But now, thanks to the cruel and misogynistic turn taken by Republican assholes in power, Kate Cox has not been allowed to make this very private and personal decision. This week, she went to court to request permission to have an abortion. On Thursday, she was given that permission by a compassionate judge who has common sense and decency. Judge Maya Guerra Gamble, an elected Democrat, granted a temporary restraining order that would allow Cox to safely terminate her pregnancy without fear of legal repercussions.

Immediately after Judge Maya Guerra Gamble’s favorable decision was handed down, Texas Attorney General, Ken Paxton, leapt into action. He sent letters to the Houston area hospitals where Cox could have had the abortion procedure done, threatening doctors with legal consequences if they carried out the treatment Cox seeks. Then he petitioned the Texas Supreme Court for a stay, which halted Judge Guerra Gamble’s order, and forces Kate Cox to endure her doomed pregnancy even longer.

FUCK YOU, KEN PAXTON!

I’ve been reading the reactions to this case. Most people seem to think Ken Paxton is absolutely wrong in his decision to interfere in this case. However, I’ve seen a lot of comments from MEN who think it’s right to force Kate Cox to deliver this baby and watch her die. I am convinced that these men– most of whom truly don’t give a shit about the welfare of already born people– just want to control women. And every time I read their feeble minded diatribes about the so-called “sanctity of life”, I become enraged anew. How dare they?!

I have never met Ken Paxton, but I hate his guts. He needs to go straight to Hell.

Anyway… I am a Texas voter, even though I live in Germany. I maintain the right and responsibility to vote in Texas, although it feels a bit like pissing in the wind. I will continue to do my part in trying to oust extremist Republican misogynistic thugs like Paxton out of office. And while I won’t write or say out loud what I hope happens to him, you can bet I’m calling on my higher power, too. I am infuriated and disgusted by this case, as I know a lot of other sensible, decent, kind people with functioning brains are, too. Abortion is necessary healthcare for some pregnant people, and I know this is an issue that people will fight over for the rest of my life. I no longer have skin in the game, since I’m pretty sure I’m menopausal now, but on behalf of all women, I am outraged by Ken Paxton and his anti-woman ilk. I hope Ken Paxton goes straight to Hell, and I pray the women of Texas wise up and get the hell out of that godforsaken state, and take all of the OB-GYNs with them.

Last night, I also read about an outrageous case out of Kentucky. I actually found out about it because I saw a headline about a woman who is eight weeks pregnant and wants to have an abortion. Kentucky, like Texas, has banned most abortions, so this Jane Doe has filed a lawsuit. Good for her for doing that. But, as I was looking for news on that case, I ran across another story about a young woman in Kentucky who was instrumental in getting Democratic Governor Andy Beshear re-elected (link is temporarily unlocked).

Hadley Duvall, age 21, got pregnant by her stepfather when she was 12 years old. Duvall’s stepfather, Jeremy Whitledge, had started sexually abusing her when she was five years old. At first, he made it seem like what he was doing was a normal thing. When she got older, and realized her stepfather was hurting her, he started to hold her down. Later, it became a punishment when she was “bad”. Her brother got spankings. Hadley got sexually molested by a man she’d considered her dad. Her mother and stepfather presented the image of a “perfect family”, even if Whitledge was treating his stepdaughter with the lowest form of contempt.

When Hadley Duvall was 8 years old, she learned about sexual abuse in school. She’d even learned a special song. She asked Whitledge about it, realizing that he was doing things to her that she’d learned were abusive and wrong. Whitledge, by then had been abusing his stepdaughter for years; first with anal penetration, then later vaginal and oral, according to police reports. Her abuser’s outrageously disgusting response was:

“Those rules are for strangers,” Duvall remembers him saying. “Not for your family.”

When Hadley was twelve, she started having menstrual periods. She’d only had a few when she realized that she hadn’t had one in awhile. She told Whitledge, and he told her to “fake being sick”, so she could stay home and take a pregnancy test. I don’t know why she’d need to fake being sick for that, since pregnancy tests only take a few minutes. But she did as she was told, and the test was positive. She was pregnant with Whitledge’s baby, at just twelve years old.

While they were waiting for the test results, Whitledge told Hadley that she could “sneak” a boy from the neighborhood into the house and claim it was his baby (OMG), or they could go to Louisville and she could have an abortion. Hadley didn’t even know what an abortion was at that point in her life. Two weeks later, by the grace of God, she had a miscarriage. But she didn’t know what a miscarriage was, either. She assumed she was just having a very heavy period.

As I read this story, my blood was boiling. I am outraged by people who want to force women to give birth at all costs. I think their attitudes show that they HATE women, and they care more about the well being of a potential person than the welfare of the woman whose body is being used to generate that life. I see a lot of shaming, cruelty, and outright contempt for pregnant people who shouldn’t be pregnant for health or maturity reasons, or don’t want to be pregnant for other reasons. It makes me feel rage on their behalf.

But then I continued reading about Hadley Duvall and saw this comment from her abuser, that made me feel even more disgusted…

In September 2019, Whitledge sent a letter to [Hadley’s mother, Jennifer Adkins Miller] acknowledging the abuse, writing, “Because of my weakness I failed as her father. I failed as her protector.”

JEREMY WHITLEDGE WAS NEVER HADLEY DUVALL’S FATHER, AND HE WAS CERTAINLY NEVER HER “PROTECTOR”!!!!!

He is a vile, despicable, sadistic, disgusting, loathsome piece of shit! I hope he joins Ken Paxton in Hell!

I don’t know how Hadley’s mother didn’t know what was happening in her house. The article explains that her mother was addicted to drugs for years, but finally got sober after a year in rehab. Hadley was astute enough to see that her mother would struggle if Whitledge was out of their lives. She realized that if she told her mom what he was doing to her, Whitledge would go to prison. But finally, in the spring of 2017, Hadley decided she had to tell her mother about the abuse. She texted her mom from school and told her she had something important to tell her. While they were in the car, Jennifer Adkins Miller pressed her daughter for answers… and finally, she heard the truth about her worthless husband. She slammed on the brakes, vomited, and went to the police.

Jeremy Whitledge is now serving twenty years in prison. And Hadley Duvall made the very brave ad for Andy Beshear, to help girls and young women have the option of terminating their pregnancies. Duvall goes to a Christian university and says she thinks there should be limits on abortions. I wonder, though, if she really thinks women have later term abortions for fun, and it needs to be regulated by law. First of all, late term abortions are rarely performed in any case. It’s hard to find providers willing to do them; they are very expensive and painful; and they are typically not covered by health insurance. And secondly, those who want to have an abortion for convenience sake would almost certainly have them early, if they were left to their own devices. It’s much cheaper, less painful, and easier to do it that way.

I think it shows a profound distrust in women as a whole, to say that politicians need to pass laws that limit or restrict access to abortions– especially when they disingenuously claim to be doing it for the women’s health. I don’t know of anyone who is “pro-abortion”. It’s not something anyone does for a good time. It’s a healthcare procedure that some women need for their own well-being. And it’s no one else’s business if a woman wants or needs to have one. No one should ever be compelled to explain it to anyone else.

The fact that the United States has backslid in this way is just mortifying. Sadistic, perverted, misogynistic creeps like Ken Paxton and his ilk are determined to ruin or end many women’s lives with these extremist laws that force women to forgo crucial healthcare for the sake of a developing fetus. It makes me sick that people like Paxton are in power.

Folks, I’ll be honest. I struggle with depression and anxiety, and there are a lot of days when I just wish I could be beamed out of this world so I don’t have to think about this horror show we’re in now. Depression and anxiety are two reasons why I’m sitting here with vague pain and pressure in my stomach and doing nothing about it. The prospect of Trump in office again makes me even more depressed. And that feeling of despair is mixed with rage and despondency when I read stories like Kate Cox’s and Hadley Duvall’s… although at least they fought back. I have great respect for the women who are not accepting these bans without a huge fight, even as moronic, hateful, anti-women dipshits in red states keep voting in these fantastically misogynistic fuckwads, who make terrible, dangerous laws that affect us all and place the well-being of an embryo or a fetus over already born people. All I can do is continue to write about it… and rage as I read about it, as my gentle, sweet, loving husband sits by and listens. Thank God for Bill, at least.

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holidays, obits, politics, weather, YouTube

Winter has taken a big dump on Wiesbaden!

Pardon the uncouth reference to big dumps. In this case, I’m referring to snow. For the first time since we moved up here from Stuttgart five years ago, Wiesbaden has gotten significant snowfall in November. Because it was coming down like gangbusters yesterday, Noyzi didn’t get his usual walk. He was rarin’ to go this morning! Below are a couple of photos from last night. The snow fell steadily all day and into the night.

I put on a pair of new snow boots from Aran.com. Unfortunately, they aren’t exactly waterproof, and I felt some cold water on my toes and Noyzi and I made our round about the neighborhood. There’s still a lot of snow out there, and a little bit fell this morning. But it’s very slushy and messy now, as the stuff is melting already. It was a challenge to walk around the neighborhood, not just because of the thick, wet, slushy mess, but also because I was trying hard not to slip and fall. I don’t recover as quickly as I used to from unexpected falls, and I’d rather not have an Unfall while walking Noyzi, who’s still afraid of people he doesn’t know. The creek is really high now!

We managed to walk around the neighborhood successfully, and when we got home, I went in the backyard and knocked some of the snow off the one tree and the three bushes back there. It was weighing down the branches and actually broke one on the tree. That tree actually fell a couple of years ago after snow. I was sure it was a goner, but once we pruned some of the limbs, it sprang back to life. The other myrtle we had back there died mysteriously.

I feel like I’m behind right now… I have ordered some Christmas presents for Bill, but I feel like I need to order more. Of course, I don’t have to do any such thing. But there’s something about Christmas that just makes me feel like I have to engage in the ritual. I don’t know what to get for him, either. I think we’ve got too many cookbooks, but I’ll probably look for one, anyway. Ditto to barware and kitchen stuff… and small appliances. I hate to spend money on stuff we don’t really need. But I also hate the idea of not having anything to open on Christmas day, even though I also hate wrapping gifts and am not good at it at all. We’ll see what I come up with.

What’s even crazier is, just ten days ago, I was in Armenia, wearing sandals and sweating in long sleeved shirts. Armenia does get cold in the winter, but they were having a pretty temperate November. It was good for our visit, since it made looking around the city of Yerevan easier. But here in Germany, we’ve already got snow. Rain this time of year is typical, and snow probably used to be typical. It’s not anymore… at least not in Hessen.

I finished my Armenia series this morning. I hope it doesn’t offend anyone… but then, I write these things for myself, in my own unique voice. And anyone who knows me, and stays in my life, knows that I have a unique voice. Some people don’t know what to do with it. Other people find it refreshing.

One other thing happened yesterday. A guy I did a few duets with a couple of years ago resurfaced on YouTube. He played a really lovely Bob Dylan song. I left him a comment, so he visited my channel and noticed all the new stuff I have up, as well as my new videos that actually star me in them. 😉 It was good to see and hear from him, and it made me want to record something new. Maybe today, after my hair dries post shower, I’ll do something new on the channel. Then, it’ll be time to think about Christmas stuff. This time of year makes me a bit crazy… but it could be worse. I could be dealing with holiday drama. There’s little drama here. Just Bill falling asleep at 9:00 PM, and me wondering when I’ll finally get fed up enough with my stomach issues and see a doctor… something I truly dread doing.

Maybe soon, I’ll get back to writing about current events. It’s hard to get back into the groove of that, though. I shudder to think what will happen if Trump manages to get reelected. Or worse, someone younger, smarter, and more diabolical gets elected… UGH. That was one reason I told Bill last night that I don’t want to see a doctor. Because if that happens, I don’t think I want to stick around. That’s how strongly I feel about it. Naturally, that comment really upset him, and I’m sorry for that. But it’s how I feel. I think Trump will lead us to Hell.

And finally, I haven’t had the chance to reflect on Rosalynn Carter’s recent death. To be honest, I don’t have a lot of memories of Jimmy Carter’s presidency. I was very young when he was in office. I do remember them, though, because I remember Amy Carter, who wasn’t that much older than I was. I was 8 years old when Reagan became president, and Carter was elected when we lived in England. I do admire the strong partnership Rosalynn and Jimmy Carter had in their amazing 77 years of marriage. I think Jimmy Carter is a true humanitarian, and he and his wife walked the walk of good Christians.

I suspect that it won’t be long before Jimmy joins his beloved wife wherever souls go after their bodies die. If I’m going to say anything about the Carters, I’ll say that they were tremendous examples to the American people of what we all should strive to be. I know not everyone liked Carter’s policies– particularly people in the military. But I think he and Rosalynn have represented the best America has to offer, especially post White House. And I hope that the Carters have peace, comfort, and love during this time of mourning. It truly is the end of an era for their family.

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family, funny stories, humor, language, memories

The unusual glory of being a “cusser”…

I’m ashamed to say this, but swearing is one of my many shortcomings as a human.  I cuss like a sailor.  Always have, and probably always will, although I’ve mellowed somewhat in my old age.  Although deep down, I am a lady, to most people, I come off as crusty as a crab cake.  I don’t even like crab cakes. 

Despite my cranky, bitter, and petty demeanor, I still have quite a few true friends who have known me for many years.  I made a lot of those friends in my freewheeling college days.  College was a pretty good time for me, although I spent those years fairly hampered by social anxiety and depression.  I still managed to have a great time at Longwood, despite those handicaps.  I left that school with lifelong friends and mostly good memories.  It was a really nice place to go to school.

One of my friends is a woman I met during the very first week of our freshman year.  In those days, Longwood College (as it was then called), had its bookstore in the basement of the much venerated Ruffner building.  The bookstore wasn’t that big, so one often had to stand in line to get in there at the beginning of each semester.  It was a chore that could take awhile.

I was standing in line, waiting for my turn to load up on overpriced textbooks, and somehow struck up a conversation with the striking redhead standing next to me.  She was a fellow freshman, dressed in denim shorts, a t-shirt, and a beautiful cardigan, which was very stylish in 1990, although curiously, I would imagine it would have been hot as hell to wear that during a typical Virginia August.  It’s also possible that my memory of what she was wearing isn’t quite accurate, although I do know she loved colorful cardigans and pearl necklaces.  What I do remember very clearly is that I noticed the redhead’s well-coordinated, stylish outfit and her brilliant red hair.  She was friendly, confident, and funny.  Her name was– and still is– Donna, a fitting name for her that means “lady”.  Donna is very ladylike and hilarious, to boot. 

We stayed friends throughout college and shared a suite during my traumatic sophomore year of school.  We were both English majors; she also majored in Spanish.  She joined Sigma Alpha Iota, the honorary music fraternity, and I was her big sister.  We were both members of Camerata Singers, which was Longwood’s auditioned choir that included a lot of liturgical, classical, and Broadway music. 

I lost touch with my friend after we graduated.  Then, one day in 2006, I got an email from her.  It was out of the blue.  She had included an adorable picture of her then three year old daughter, who was pretty much her clone.  Donna’s daughter has the same flaming red hair her mother has.  Not long after that, Facebook became a thing, and we reconnected that way.

This morning, as I looked at Facebook memories, I was reminded of something really funny that happened eleven years ago. My old college friend, Donna, was having dinner with her super bright and funny daughter. They had the following conversation:

Tonight over dinner, [her daughter] C says, “Your friend Jenny is a cusser!”

Me: “What are you talking about?”

C: “Your friend Jenny on Facebook. She’s a cusser.”

Me: “Why are you saying this?”

C: “Because every time I get on the computer, your Facebook page is up & she posts pictures that have the F-word by them. She’s a cusser.”

My friend continued…

Okay, so I just scoured your wall & I only saw one picture with the “f-word” near it & it was posted by [our mutual friend] Chris. HE’S the cusser! LOL!

It really is sad how she ended up a crack-baby & all. Especially since I never did any crack.

Donna is a dear friend, and we’ve known each other since 1990. Her daughter, C, is now a student at our alma mater, Longwood University. I’m sure she’s making her own hilarious memories at our school. Every year, on November 7, I see that funny post from 2012 and have a good laugh. What’s even funnier is that as of 2012, C hadn’t yet met me in person.

In 2014, just a few months after we moved to German, Bill and I flew home for my family’s annual Thanksgiving reunion. We were there to memorialize my father, who had passed away in July of that year. The memorial service was held in November so more people could attend. That’s also why I got married in November, although it turned out we couldn’t get married over Thanksgiving weekend. We probably should have done the deed in October. The weather would have been nicer.

Anyway, on that trip to Virginia, we met up with my college friends, Joann, Donna, Donna’s husband, and their hilarious eleven year old daughter, C, who had correctly identified me as a “cusser”. She was just as cute as she could be!  I thoroughly enjoyed meeting her.  As we were about to finish our visit, I said “Do you really think I’m a cusser?”

I treasure my true friends, and their clever offspring…

The girl blushed scarlet and hung her head in shame.  I laughed and asked for a hug, which she willingly gave me.  That day was probably my favorite of the whole visit, since it had been so long since I’d last seen Donna and Joann, and it was the first time I got to meet Donna’s husband and daughter and they got to meet Bill.  Sometimes I think if I lived in Virginia again, I might even have some semblance of a normal social life.  On the other hand, maybe I wouldn’t, because I’m kind of a recluse most of the time.

It’s getting close to Thanksgiving again.  I recently got an email from my aunt announcing the annual shindig, which she blasts to everyone in our humongous family every year.  Although I complain a lot about my family, they’re mostly very good people.  I don’t agree with most of them politically– quite a lot of them are diehard Trump fans and conservative Christians.  But they’re fun to see when there’s a wedding, reunion, or funeral.  Despite being a huge family, we’re somewhat close, thanks to the annual reunion at Thanksgiving.  Some family members are closer than others.  

Lately, I’ve felt like an outcast, but then I live pretty far away now, and have altered my views on religion and politics.  I no longer have the patience for long-winded arguments that I used to have, particularly with southern white men who are convinced that liberal politics are the pathway to Soviet Union style communism.  I might have agreed with them if I hadn’t spent so many years in Europe, which does have some socialist policies that work pretty well and doesn’t resemble the former Soviet Union in the slightest.  Having lived in the former Soviet Union just a couple of years after it fell apart, I feel as though I can speak with some authority about what it was like there.  Europe is not like that at all.  Since we are related, we all seem to have inherited a penchant for arguing to the death.  And some are more insistent about it than others.

In just a few days, I’ll be visiting Armenia, a former Soviet territory, for the first time since 1997. When I arrived there in 1995, it was still pretty Soviet in most things. Today, it’s a lot less like that. Every year, there are fewer people who remember what the place was like when it was a Soviet country. I wasn’t there when it was part of the Soviet Union, but I did go there less than five years after it became independent. And I can tell people I know– especially my conservative Christian southern relatives– that I have yet to see any place like that in my travels, even in countries that have “socialist” leanings. But they don’t listen to me either, because I’m not very religious; I don’t worship Donald Trump; and I am a CUSSER. Somehow, it seems like my love of swearing is the worst of my sins.

Many of my relatives who would argue with me about this are people who have not been outside of the southern United States, let alone “across the pond”.  They don’t respect my experiences or education, and stubbornly insist that they’re exactly right, no matter what, refusing to even acknowledge a perspective that differs from their own.  They don’t seem to understand that even though I’m a woman who is a bit younger than they are, I’m not stupid, inexperienced, uneducated, or in need of “special help”.  I simply have a different viewpoint based on actual things I’ve seen and done.  

I find it frustrating to engage in conversations with a lot of my family members, so I keep my distance. And they avoid me because I curse a lot.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not fond of most of my family members.  I wish them well and would happily break bread with them, if I was in a place where that was easy to do.  Maybe there will come a time when that’s the case again.

Once again, I feel compelled to share this classic song by Paul Thorn, who expertly sums up how I feel about some people who are my kin…

In July 2014, I discovered Paul Thorn’s hilarious song, ” I Don’t Like Half the Folks I Love”, as my dad was dying.  It’s a really perfect description of how I think of some of my family members.   I do love them, but I can’t spend a lot of time with them… and yet, I’d like to see them for an evening, maybe… as long as we don’t talk politics and/or religion.  Ah– never mind.  It won’t happen.  But I still wish them well. And I actually do love most of my friends– the ones who know me well, and accept me for exactly who I am.

Anyway… it might be worth it to go home to Virginia again, if only to see a few friends and eat some genuine American style junk food.  Seriously… I was looking at the menus of some of my favorite crappy chain restaurants in the States… places where there’s nothing at all healthy on the menu.  I certainly don’t need to be eating any of that stuff, but I still kind of miss it sometimes.  

November always makes me think of being home in Virginia.  I do sometimes miss being “home”.  I haven’t seen most of my friends and loved ones in years.  I think it’s having an effect on me.  I also miss really good southern fried food that will send me into a diabetic coma.  *Sigh*…  guess I’ll have to settle for Armenian food this weekend.  I’d probably rather have fried chicken, American style pizza, or ribs.  It’s probably just the hormones talking, though… which will later be silenced by my cranky digestive system. Isn’t it fun getting older? 😉 I think I’ll cuss about it some more.  

Incidentally, today is Election Day in the USA… so please go out and vote, if you can.

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condescending twatbags, fake people, lessons learned, mental health, narcissists, poor judgment, psychology, social media

Forever “misunderestimated” by people who should really know better…

I was never much of a fan of George W. Bush’s. On the other hand, I’d love to have him back in the White House over Donald Trump. Back when Bush Jr. was in office, people thought he was the antichrist. I can remember my sister actually calling him that. At the time she used that term, Bill and I were kind of appalled. We were more conservative then, and still had basic respect for Presidents, no matter who they were. Donald Trump has kind of ruined that mystique for us. He made a joke of the US Presidency.

Anyway… W is on my mind this morning, not because I want to write about his time as POTUS, nor because I want to bash Donald Trump. I’m thinking about Bush II because of his famous gaffes. One in particular is sticking out to me today. On November 6, 2000– almost 23 years ago to the day– Bush was in Bentonville, Arkansas, no doubt on the campaign trail. And he said, “They misunderestimated me.”

I’m assuming Bush II meant that people “underestimated” him and his ability to take care of himself or, perhaps, cause issues for other people. It’s usually a mistake to sell anyone short, especially when you don’t know them very well. People do it all the time, though. I suppose it makes things easier for them in the short term. Someone pops up as a “problem” and the person looks at them, gauges the threat, and blows them off, only to have that person later hand them their ass.

Bill and I are both the type of people who get “misunderestimated” a lot. People make assumptions about the type of people we are based only on what they see and perceive. They don’t take the time to get to know us, and assume we’re weak. It doesn’t occur to them to look at history, or consider things that aren’t immediately obvious to them. They underestimate everything from our maturity levels to our cognitive abilities to our level of fear of the unknown. They bluster at, threaten, or ridicule us, thinking that will get us under control. Then they’re surprised when we pull the rug out from under them and they land on their asses.

I am reminded of this phenomenon this morning as I was looking at my Facebook memories from 2017. That was one of the more challenging times in our marriage, as we were dealing with a truly terrible living situation. At the time, I was part of a Facebook group that, frankly, I never should have been in. It was aimed at making fun of people. The group had started off fun and lighthearted, but then the original creator of the group later decided he didn’t want to lead it anymore. He was a pretty healthy person who didn’t encourage anything dark or cruel, so it was kind of a sad day when he decided he didn’t want to run the group. I’m still “friends” with him, although we don’t interact much.

The formerly fun group was later taken over by a couple of folks who were also fun, at least on the surface. One of them is a person that I once admired a great deal. But then she showed me her true colors. I decided maybe she wasn’t as honorable as I thought she was, and disassociated from her. In retrospect, that was the right thing to do, as she later proved to me that my initial impressions of her were correct. The other is a person that I used to think was funny and basically an okay guy. He, too, showed me who he really was… It wasn’t a pretty sight. But, for awhile, it was still a fun group. We had barbecues that were a blast, and that convinced me that these were good people who were just having fun.

Anyway, in 2017, things had gotten pretty stressful for Bill and me, mainly due to our awful living situation at the time. Our landlady was being very abusive, and it was having a bad effect on both of us– but, especially me, as I had to deal with her more often. I was still in the Facebook group that was once fun, but had turned kind of sinister and mean spirited. There was a guy in that group who had oozed toxins to me. I had him blocked, because I could tell by his antisocial comments and behaviors that he wasn’t a good person. He used to laugh and brag about deliberately upsetting people and causing problems for them, plus he had a lot of misogynistic crap openly visible on his profile.

The group leader for whom I had once had respect found out I had blocked the toxic guy. For some reason, she shamed me for it. She made it seem like I was being unfair and judgmental. I respected her opinion, so, I unblocked him, and he later picked an online fight with me that showed me that my initial impressions of him were correct. He was the kind of person who would go way below the belt just to “win” fights with people. Looking back on it now, I can only assume that he had a really shitty childhood, and that’s what had turned him into someone who gets off on being mean to other people. I don’t know, nor do I care. He can rot in Hell.

Because I was in kind of a weak place back in 2017, I lost my resolve to protect myself. I let other people gaslight me into doubting what I knew to be true. I went along with the group… until I wised up and got away from them. I won’t say it wasn’t painful. I thought I’d liked these people. I found them entertaining and they rescued me from loneliness and boredom. Then they showed me who they were, and what they actually thought of me. It stung, but once I came to terms with it, I was fine. I was moving on with life and we were handling ex landlady with a well-deserved lawsuit that she ultimately lost.

In 2019, someone from the toxic Facebook group sent me a private message and suggested that I rejoin. She claimed that the group members had been reminiscing and remembered how entertaining I was. They supposedly “missed” me. I decided to respectfully decline, which I’m sure pissed her off… because they were hoping I’d either respond in a dramatic way, or eagerly accept, so I could be the butt of their jokes. In retrospect, I probably should have ignored her completely, but at that time, I still thought she was someone friendly. I now know otherwise, and she’s not in my life anymore. I noticed that she didn’t respond when I declined… That pretty much says it all. Especially since the so-called good leader wasn’t the one who asked me to come back to the group. She’d used a flying monkey to do her dirty work. How typical… and childish.

The 2017 era Facebook post that reminded me of all of this stupid drama was from someone else who turned out to be a fake friend. She’d tagged me in a picture of a shirt she’d seen at Target that read “I can’t adult today”. I’m not really sure why she tagged me. It could have been because I hate the trend of people using the word “adult” as a verb. Or maybe she was trying to say I was a childish person (and she’d be very wrong about that).

I noticed that she got a response from the Facebook group leader for whom I’d lost respect. She wrote something along the lines of “I can’t see her response because I’m blocked. But that shirt seems about right for her.”

I saw her response some time later, when I unblocked the former group leader. I thought nothing of it at the time. Now I realize she was trying to say she thought I was a childish person… which is an interesting observation from someone who was running a Facebook group expressly for making fun of people and didn’t even have the spine to speak to me directly. I’m ashamed I was ever in that group. I should have left it a long time ago, and trusted myself when I disassociated from her the first time. But, like a lot of people with dysfunctional backgrounds, I was carefully trained to doubt myself.

I also distinctly remember seeing her scathing comment about me in her group, as Bill was still a member at the time. She left her scathing comment about me about something that actually had nothing to do with her. I’d had a fight with the toxic, misogynistic guy, and had left the group because of him, and because I didn’t want to be around someone who was that hateful toward women. She wasn’t part of that fight, as she was living in a different time zone and it was long over by the time she was even aware of it. It had nothing to do with her at all. But she took the misogynist’s side, and was pretty mean to me when I was feeling legitimately hurt. And part of the reason I was feeling hurt had to do with something that had nothing to do with that toxic asshole guy OR her stupid Facebook group. She didn’t care enough about me to ask about it. She just denounced me publicly and showed me that she’s a fake bitch.

I guess that was what was especially hurtful to me. I once truly thought she was a good leader. I thought she had character and depth, and was a lot smarter than she gave herself credit for being. I never thought of myself as smarter or better than she was; on the contrary, I think I was just fortunate enough to have grown up with parents who had the money to send me to college. She joined the Marines and had a career until she retired. That is something I doubt I could have done myself, and I really admired her for it. She paid me back by stabbing me in the back and insulting me publicly. Her good friend and effective leadership act was just an elaborate facade. Deep down, she has no real strength of character. She only spoke to me so I could be the butt of her jokes.

Well… I learned something from that experience, and that’s that many people aren’t worth trying to befriend. If they show you who they are, believe them, and don’t give them another chance. And anyone who expects you to gaslight yourself, doesn’t care about your well-being, and mocks you for taking care of yourself, is neither a friend, nor a good leader. As she had underestimated me, I had grossly overestimated her as a person.

One of my real friends who knows me well shared something with me on November 5, 2017. It resonates a lot.

So true…

I’m so tired of people who can’t be real… and don’t appreciate people who are original and authentic. I’m tired of people who expect other people to ignore their own needs, so they can temporarily feel better about themselves. But, so many of us are carefully trained to be this way… we are taught to be “nice” at all costs, even if it causes harm. I was expected to be quiet about misogynistic crap being spewed by a man that I knew was toxic. I was expected to let him harass and humiliate me. When I opted out, I was accused of being “childish” and abandoning someone who wasn’t even involved in the initial incident. Who cares if just being around someone misogynistic and abusive like that literally makes me feel sick? I’m supposed to put that aside, so everyone else can get their “yuks” at my expense.

And then, a couple of years later, when I’ve broken away from that mess, they try to “Hoover” me back… No thanks. What’s really sad is that I fell into that shit in the first place. I thought Ex had taught me well, that I can opt out of the drama and not get involved in it in the first place. I guess sometimes we need a refresher course in self-care.

Looking at that memory on Facebook brought back the memories that has spawned today’s post. But today, I did something healthy in response to it. I untagged myself from the photo and hid it from my timeline, since I couldn’t delete it. Next year, on November 5, 2024– provided I’m still living– I won’t have to see it or remember what spawned it. I don’t wish any of those people ill, by the way. I just don’t want to waste mental resources on them anymore. They aren’t worth it to me. But they’re probably worth it to other people who know them better than I do. I’m sure to some people, they’re more genuine. I would sure hope so.

As for crazy ex landlady, she also horrendously misunderestimated us, and she paid dearly for it. I’m hoping it was bad enough to get her out of the landlady business. I did look at our former house on Google Earth, and it looks like there are German cars in the driveway. Good. Because if she’s their landlady, I know there’s pretty much no way she’ll be trying to screw them the way she tried– and failed– to screw us, and probably a lot of other Americans who were intimidated by her stern “Oma” act. They will more likely hold her to the straight and narrow of German landlord/tenant law than Americans will. That was ultimately our goal. I think it would be even better, though, if she sold that place and retired.

It’s true… I’m silly, giggly, blonde, and sometimes too emotional… but I advise you to never mistake that for weakness, stupidity, or childishness. You probably don’t know me well enough to discount the things I’m capable of doing. And if you’re laughing at me for writing this post, I hope you won’t ever engage me. I don’t need you in my life, either. I’d rather be alone.

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mental health, narcissists, politicians, politics, psychology

The more I think about Enough…

Please excuse today’s title. I use a headline analyzer on this blog, which turns green when I come up with a “good” title for SEO purposes. I probably ought to ditch that particular blogging tool, because I think a lot of the headlines it thinks are “good” are actually crappy. Like, yesterday’s title, which is literally what the post was about, got a “yellow” rating rather than green. But I think yesterday’s title is better than today’s, because what you read is what you get. On the other hand, maybe the tool is pushing me to write cryptic titles for my blog posts.

I’m writing today’s post because I can’t stop thinking about Cassidy Hutchinson’s book, Enough. It’s not because I think it was a great book. I’ve read much better books. I’ve also read much worse books. It’s not the writing or even the basic story that has me so intrigued. I think it’s the bizarre phenomenon that propelled Cassidy Hutchinson into the position she’s in today that has me ruminating on her book.

I mentioned in yesterday’s review that I think Cassidy Hutchinson has some “daddy issues”. I believe part of the reason she fell into the MAGA movement is because she was seeking a connection with her father. I also think she might want to work on that with a psychotherapist.

I don’t mean to sound condescending, because I know my suggestion that Cassidy seek therapy probably comes off that way. I also want to make it clear that there is absolutely NO shame in seeking therapy. I’ve done it. Bill is doing it. It’s been absolutely life changing for Bill, and when I did it years ago, it was life changing for me, too. In my case, therapy helped me recognize and treat lifelong depression, which I now know is a genetic issue. I know this because I know others in my family have struggled with depression, and 23andMe even verifies that I’m at a higher risk of depression. In Bill’s case, therapy has helped him explore who he is, and ease the complexes he’s struggled with all of his life. He also really likes his therapist, just as I really like mine– although he’s now my friend, rather than my shrink. 😉

I am making this suggestion from a place of empathy. I’ve had dealings with narcissists and I know the damage they can wreak on a person’s psyche. If Cassidy Hutchinson was my friend, and we had the kind of relationship in which I felt I could be totally honest with her, I would strongly encourage her to see a psychotherapist. I would do so, even if her actual father wasn’t an extremely right wing MAGA nut.

I think being exposed to a toxic narcissist like Donald Trump for as long as she was can cause serious mental health issues. Add in the fact that she was raised by a man who insisted that his daughter be a “warrior” and berated her when she cried for legitimate reasons, and you have someone who has learned to suppress her own good sense in favor of the wants and needs of the crazy. There are quite a few examples of this behavior in Enough. Moreover, Trump was certainly not the only narcissist Cassidy Hutchinson had close dealings with during her work with the MAGA folks. Narcissists are masters of mind fuckery, and it can take some time and effort to unpack that shit. Trust me, I know firsthand.

At the beginning of her book, Cassidy Hutchinson thanks her stepfather, Paul, for being her “chosen father”. Based on her book, I would agree that Paul is a good man, and it’s good for her to lean on him. However, also based on her book, it hasn’t been that long since Cassidy realized that her real dad isn’t someone she can count on. In fact, at the very end of her book, she’s gone to his house to speak to him one last time, only to find that he’s vanished… and he never told her that he was going or where he would be. She then declares herself “free”. But I’m not convinced she is. Check out these passages from her book. I’ve bolded the toxic behavior from her dad.

In the very first paragraph in Chapter 1 of Enough, Cassidy Hutchinson writes about how she and her dog, Abby, waited for her dad to come home from work. She writes:

Barefooted, I sprinted down our long gravel driveway alongside Abby as the trucks came into sight. Dad led the caravan in his white 1992 Ford pickup truck. Slowing down, but not coming to a complete stop, he would open the passenger door for Abby and me to hop in. We would belt “Black Water” by the Doobie Brothers and Glenn Miller’s “Chattanooga Choo Choo” at the top of our lungs as we drove to the back of the property, where Dad rested the equipment for the evening.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (p. 3). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

She explains that her parents weren’t big believers in doctors or hospitals, so her mother gave birth to her at home. They found a holistic midwife to help deliver Cassidy on December 12, 1996. She further explains that her mom is the eldest of seven. She never really knew her father’s family. Her mother’s mom was a very hard worker and taught her to look at things other people overlooked. Then, when Cassidy was four years old, her mother got pregnant with her brother, Jack. While she and her mother were snuggling in bed one night, Cassidy found out that her middle name was Jacqueline, after Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. I think it’s interesting that Cassidy was named after the wife of a legendary Democratic president, yet she fell into the Trump regime.

After 9/11, when she was five years old, Cassidy’s father took her turtle trapping. This was where she watched her dad and some friends obliterate a turtle in front of her. Cassidy was completely traumatized by what she watched them do, which was abject animal cruelty. She writes:

On our drive home, I told Dad I never wanted to go hunting again. Dad nodded. “That’s fine, Sissy Hutch,” he said. “But just so you know, warriors are not afraid to hunt. If you want to be a warrior just like Daddy, you must learn to hunt, Sissy. What you saw today is the circle of life.”

Dad always talked about how he was a warrior, and I wanted to be one, too. I knew how important it was to be a warrior. But I didn’t want to be a hunter, at least not yet. I decided to become a vegetarian.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (p. 9). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

Later, when it became clear that Cassidy’s parents were going to divorce, the idea of being a “warrior” was presented again, when Cassidy had an accident and her dad wouldn’t take her to a hospital.

…Recently, I had been injured while I was in the yard with Dad and his employees. The yard was junked up with machines that Dad had taken apart to fix, but he had not gotten around to finishing the projects yet. I was out back with Abby and tripped over a machine part and fell on an old lawn mower blade.

Mom had begged Dad to take me to the hospital for stitches, which I probably needed. The cut was deep and bled more than I thought I had blood. Dad thought Mom was being ridiculous. Working with Dad made me stronger, and warriors don’t get stitches for little cuts and bruises. I was just happy that Dad still thought there was a chance I could be a warrior, even though I had decided to become a vegetarian after the turtle incident.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (pp. 11-12). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

Cassidy’s parents said they were going to move to Indiana. Cassidy’s dad brought a moving truck to the house, but wasn’t around to help pack or load it. Cassidy writes:

…At one point, I saw Mom muscling our baby grand piano through the house on her own. I scolded Mom to stop—she was going to hurt herself, and that was a project Dad should do, since he was the strongest person in our family. Mom lowered the piano onto the ground and calmly walked over to me.

She was slightly winded as she told me that the biggest mistake a woman could make was to think she couldn’t do the same thing as a man.

Mom walked back to the piano before I could respond. I watched her maneuver that piano right out of the house and hoist it into the moving truck by herself. Mom repeated this process with every large piece of furniture we were bringing to Indiana.

Dad wasn’t the strongest person in our family after all.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (pp. 12-13). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

So… Cassidy has described her father as a man who doesn’t trust people in authority, abuses animals, abandons his family when they need him, and neglects his daughter’s medical needs. And yet, throughout her book, she continually goes back to him, hoping he’ll be someone different. She also describes other men she knows who are more forthright and responsible. Her dad doesn’t like guys in the military, and avoids Cassidy’s Uncle Joe, who is in the National Guard and has bravely fought for his country. But Cassidy admires him, and she enjoys life in Indiana with her mom’s relatives. Her father puts an end to that carefree existence when he declares that he can’t leave Pennington, New Jersey. They sold their new house in Spencer, Indiana and moved back to Pennington.

Cassidy dad, who had told her “warriors don’t cry” when five year old Cassidy watched him blow up a turtle and when she’d fallen and hurt herself due to his negligence, was sobbing over the idea of moving to Indiana. And there was Cassidy, consoling him… as if she was his parent.

Through the window, I watched Dad wringing his hands and sobbing. He walked over to the pool and laid flat on the diving board as he continued to cry. My heart hurt so much, I could not wait a moment longer to be with him, so I ran outside. I asked him what was wrong, but I could not understand what he said. Mom was frozen, like a statue, and did not say a word herself.

Eventually I understood enough of Dad’s words. He could not do it, he said. He could not leave Pennington, the only place he had ever called home, to move to Indiana. Dad’s chest was heaving as he tried to calm himself down. Mom went to tend to Jack, since I had irresponsibly left him alone inside to console Dad.

I sat on the edge of the pool next to Dad and dangled my feet in the water. I rubbed his leg and tried to reassure him that everything would be okay. We would never leave him behind in New Jersey.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (pp. 13-14). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

To add insult to injury, Cassidy’s parents had rehomed Abby before their temporary move to Indiana. She adds that she had lost many pets because of her dad and his whims.

When Cassidy was eight years old, her father presented her with a four wheeler. Her mother didn’t think it was a good idea, but Cassidy’s dad insisted that she needed to learn to ride. Without so much as a proper helmet (she had a bike helmet), Cassidy and her dad took off on their four wheelers. What could possibly go wrong?

Cassidy hit an ice patch and wound up pinned under the bike. Her dad came over to help her, then asked if she was hurt. When it turned out Cassidy hadn’t been seriously injured, he said:

“See, Sissy. You’re not hurt, you can move perfectly fine. Now, get up,” he ordered, as he kicked the bottoms of my snow boots again. I screamed that I hated him, and that surge of anger gave me the strength to get out from under the four-wheeler. As I staggered to my feet, Dad effortlessly flipped my four-wheeler upright.

I screamed again that I hated him. Dad did not say a word as he twisted my key back in the ignition, roaring the vehicle back to life. He told me to sit down. I was trying not to cry, but my face was so numb, I did not know how successful my efforts were. I sat down, and Dad started walking back to his four-wheeler. I screamed a third time that I hated him.

Dad turned around. There were two deep lines etched between his eyebrows, and I saw his jaw clench. Almost immediately, his expression softened, and a smile grew across his cheeks. “Sissy, I helped you. What would you have done if I wasn’t here?” he asked, in a syrupy tone. “Warriors are self-sufficient, Sissy.”

“I would not have been on this stupid thing if you were out plowing, where you should have been anyway!” I screamed. Dad spun around and stormed toward me. In one swift movement, Dad ripped my key out of the ignition and chucked it overhand across the field. “You better find that key before it gets dark, or you will not find it until spring,” he instructed. Then he stomped back to his four-wheeler and sped away.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (p. 18). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

She easily found the key, but purposely waited before leaving. She didn’t want him to think she hadn’t had to look for the key. She worried it would set him off, or cause him to fight with her mother. Her dad worked for animal control and also started businesses, which often became projects for Cassidy’s mom. Later, he took Cassidy to the dump to search for treasures.

Cassidy writes that her father, who used to hate TV, got hooked on a new reality show, starring Donald Trump. He loved watching The Apprentice because he admired Trump, whom he claimed was a “warrior” who had built his multi-million dollar business from the ground up. She writes:

Dad fixated so much on Donald Trump. I wished he would pay attention to us like he did to The Apprentice. When I told Dad this, his dinner fork clamored across his plate and he said that Donald Trump was teaching him how to become a better businessman so he did not have to work as much. The other option, Dad said, was that he could stop working altogether. Dad didn’t think his family would like how suffering felt, and since he had worked so hard, we had no idea what it meant to suffer.

In a way, Dad was right. I did not know what it felt like to suffer—to worry about not having food in the house, or a warm home to sleep in. But I felt like we were suffering as a result of his absence. I wanted Dad to be at home with us—with his family. And I wanted Dad to acknowledge how hard Mom was working, too.

Dad was gone so much, and as Jack and I got older, it was clear to me how essential Mom was to our family. In my opinion, Mom’s work was far more important than his. But Dad was growing more sharp-tongued with Mom, and I did not want to spark an argument. When I was not at school, I tried to help Mom with household chores and caring for Jack to take any load off her that I could.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (p. 21). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

It’s at this point in the book that I started to see how Cassidy Hutchinson was the perfect candidate for Trump’s administration. She’d been groomed from childhood to take abuse from men who were important in her life. Her father worshiped Trump, and she missed him, even though he was abusive, neglectful, and batshit crazy. So it makes perfect sense that Cassidy would come to adore Trump, too. Loving Trump was a way for her to connect with her dad.

There are more stories about Cassidy’s dad and his abusive and neglectful parenting style. Cassidy clearly loved her father in spite of his unpredictable behavior and insistence on turning her into a “warrior”. She worked very hard in an effort to appease him. But her efforts never seemed to be enough for him. As his antics became more bizarre and sickening, Cassidy writes that she’s started to realize he’s toxic– especially when he gives her and her brother two deer hearts, both still warm and dripping with blood.

When she was in high school, Cassidy’s mother went away for the weekend with Paul. She was taking care of her brother while her friends were spending the night. She was feeling sick, with a pain in her gut. Her mom told her to call her dad, who offered to perform surgery on her. Cassidy drove herself to the emergency room. She writes:

Not much time had passed when the doctors determined that I needed an emergency appendectomy. The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital room with Mom and Paul standing over me. Mom was sympathetic at first, apologizing profusely for not listening to me sooner. But then her temper flared. She said that I had been reckless for driving myself to the hospital in my condition and that I should have called Dad. I needed to be less stubborn, she said.

I wanted to tell her that I had called him, but there was no point. It wouldn’t change what had already transpired, and I didn’t want Mom to feel bad. Plus my story was much more fun to tell because of it.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (p. 33). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

When she got waitlisted at Gettysburg College, she thought about taking a gap year. But then she visited her Uncle Joe in Stuttgart, Germany. That’s when she decided to go to Christopher Newport University:

Late one night when we were visiting Joe and Steph in Stuttgart, Germany, Joe crept into the bedroom that Mom, Jack, and I shared and motioned for me to follow him outside. He asked if I was considering a gap year because it was what I wanted, not Mom. I considered his question before shaking my head no. He nodded, and then asked if I had heard where his next duty station was: “Williamsburg, Virginia. Fort Eustis. Didn’t you apply to a school near there?”

I had. Christopher Newport University.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (p. 35). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

I feel it’s important to note– Fort Eustis is in Newport News, which is also where CNU is. Newport News is a very different place than Williamsburg is. 😉

At her high school graduation:

Dad was standing outside the fence with a few of his buddies. “Sissy Hutch graduated high school!” he shouted, and whistled loudly to summon me in his direction. I cringed, and with a glance appealed to the rest of my family. And then I walked over to Dad.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (p. 35). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

All I’ve written about so far is just from the first part of Enough. The rest of the book is a study of what happened to Cassidy after she finished high school. There are many stories of her calmly accepting what men tell her she should do– everything from getting blonde highlights in her very dark hair (one of Trump’s suggestions) to ignoring mask mandates during a dangerous pandemic. Some of the men she encountered were good people with her best interests at heart. But a lot of them were selfish and abusive– highly polished versions of her father. And it just seems to me, reading Enough, that Cassidy was searching for some kind of bond with them… a substitute for her real father, who is clearly not a well man. This paragraph kind of sums it up for me:

Hundreds of Trump supporters gathered outside the airport gates, but my eyes locked on just one. Dad. He was wearing his formal clothes—a purple Ralph Lauren polo, dark wash jeans, and sneakers. His hair was neatly combed and thick with pomade. One of his arms was extended toward the sky, waving dramatically. He held his cell phone in his other hand, video-recording the motorcade. Our SUV rounded the corner, and I was close enough to see the lines on his face, the divot and tan line on his ring finger. I saw pride in his wide smile, too. Pure pride.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (p. 160). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

She continues:

Most of the cars and supporters had cleared out, including Mom. But not Dad. He was still there, still smiling, still waving frantically at the motorcade. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard that my mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (pp. 160-161). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

And…

Throughout the day, Dad sent me dozens of texts with videos of the motorcade, pictures of homemade signs people had brought, voice notes saying how proud he was of me, and that he wished he had seen me through one of the windows. “My Sissy Hutch, the Apple of My Eye, with the President… you work so hard, Sissy…,” one message read.

We were flying to our final rally of the day when I received one last video from Dad. It was of the C-17 aircraft that transports the motorcade vehicles, taking off against a stunning sunset. I stopped watching it when I heard Dad sniffle and begin to talk. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say. In a way, I preferred his cruelty. I was proud of the life I was building, but I couldn’t risk contaminating that life with the confusing, conflicted reality of my past. He had never shown up before, I reminded myself.

But he had that day. For a moment, I acknowledged that the shame I felt was not Dad’s fault, nor was it Mom’s. I was desperate to fit in the world that I had worked hard to become a cherished member of, but below the surface I felt displaced and undeserving. I did not know how to marry the two worlds I loved dearly: the world I came from, and the world I now lived in.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (p. 161). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

On January 6th, Cassidy is still planning to move to Florida. Her mother begs her to reconsider her move. She writes:

I feel physical pain when I see the Capitol dome as I cross the bridge into Washington. I want to scream, but I feel paralyzed.

I don’t turn on any lights when I enter my apartment. My body is on autopilot as I walk from my front door to the living room. I collapse onto my couch, staring at the ceiling. I feel my cell phone vibrate. It’s Mom and Paul.

Mom is crying. She’s begging me not to move to Florida. Paul interjects, trying to defuse the argument before it begins. He doesn’t realize how little I care, how far gone I am.

My tone is flat, uninflected. “I have to go. I’ve already committed. The boss needs good people around him. The only reason today happened is because we let bad people, crazy people, around him. I need to try to fix—”

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (p. 219). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

Cassidy still thinks it’s the people around Trump who have caused this mess. And worse, her savior complex, coupled with plain old egotism, cause her to think she can FIX Donald Trump, when other people, presumably older and wiser, couldn’t. She continues:

“Cassidy. Listen to yourself.” My mom’s tone shifts to parent mode, and I dissociate even more. “This isn’t you. You know better than this. You can’t fix him. You know you shouldn’t go. Listen to me, Cassidy. Listen to me…”

I hang up and put my phone on Do Not Disturb. Heavy, loud sobs escape from my chest. I have to go, I have to go…

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (p. 219). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

Even though Cassidy has seen the horrors of January 6th and they make her “sick”, she thinks that she can make it better and than Trump needs her. She doesn’t think of what she needs. It’s the same kind of thing she experienced with her father. She doesn’t seem to realize that she can only fix herself, and that is what she should focus on.

At the end of the book, Cassidy seems to have come to a conclusion about her dad…

Dad was never very fond of holidays, even when I was young. But for some unknown reason, there have been certain holidays when I’ve felt compelled to check to see if he was home. There was never a holiday I found him at home. I never knew where he was, but I also never asked. And I never told him I did this.

The pragmatic and optimistic scenarios were the same, year after year. His truck would either not be in the driveway or it would be. If it wasn’t, I would keep driving. If it was, I planned to stop, and hoped he would welcome me inside.

On Thanksgiving Day 2022, my optimistic scenario was that his truck would be in the driveway, and that he would agree we could talk.

As I approached the house, the first thing I noticed was not that his truck wasn’t in the driveway. I noticed that other cars were.

And a U-Haul. And small children.

I slammed on my brakes in front of the house, unsure what to do.

But what I had to do was clear. I had to keep driving.

I drove until my breath choked my lungs.

He left without notice, without a goodbye or a new mailing address.

He was gone.

I stopped the car and let my tears fall, until no more remained.

Hutchinson, Cassidy. Enough (p. 352). Simon & Schuster. Kindle Edition.

I’d like to remind everyone that, as of this writing, Thanksgiving 2022 was less than a year ago. Moreover, Cassidy Hutchinson has been through a lot since June 2022. So, if she was a friend of mine, I think I would tell her that she might like to seek therapy. I think it would do her a world of good. And I think it’s too bad she didn’t consider joining the military to become an officer. She seems very well suited to the work. She has a strong work ethic, a sense of right and wrong, and a willingness to put up with a lot of shit, particularly from men. She’s approachable and works well with others. Apparently, she’s willing to work for low pay, too.

In a weird way, I see some similarities between Cassidy Hutchinson and Monica Lewinsky. They were both young, ambitious, brunette women with significant issues with their parents, who eventually got tangled up in scandals with US presidents. Granted, Monica grew up with a lot of privilege– much more than Cassidy had. But if you read up about her upbringing, you find evidence that her father was abusive and neglectful. They both worked in the White House, got close to very powerful people, and wound up fodder for the paparazzi. I may have to explore this more in another post. This one has gone on long enough. 😉

Anyway, I hope Cassidy Hutchinson does get some support in the wake of publishing her book. I think she’s going to need it. Especially if Trump winds up finally being held legally responsible for all he’s done.

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