Part of the Same

I'm not sure how to describe what it feels like to be bipolar and off your meds. I can certainly try, but I feel the attempt will come up woefully short of the truth, if not entirely contrived.

Instead, allow me to tell you a story. It's not a happy story, but it's not sad, either. It is simply a picture of how things were. If that image makes you feel happy or, more likely, saddened at any given time, then it merely demonstrates the nuance and complexity of living a "good" life– the ebb and the flow of experiences, the arbitrary lines drawn between positive and negative, and the mundanity of having a preference. And if it happens to reflect parallels between the then and the now–well, that just goes to show that, whether the actors are the same or not, history repeats unless we course correct.

****

In 2016, the whole of the U.S. was building a funeral pyre. Whether you were Democrat, quietly aligned with the savage imperial entity. Republican, loudly proclaiming your divine right to power. Third-party supporter, eagerly awaiting a seat at the killer's table. Or non-voter, luxuriously or perhaps pragmatically disengaged from the status quo. It didn't matter. We were getting ready to burn.

Donald Trump, the Republican presidential candidate, seemed poised to win the election against Democrat Hillary Clinton. The polls reflected a popular vote landslide for Hillary, but the demographics of their samples left much to be desired, and I didn't trust their data. Most of my reading, professional interactions, and socializing suggested that Trump had garnered enough support to disrupt Clinton's campaign. Whether through legal means or not, I couldn't have said, but as far as predictions were concerned, I was very much in the boat that the electoral college would be split and no candidate would receive a majority.

During a discussion with a political science colleague from the program at my university, I became aware of some intel that seemed just absurd enough to be plausible. Like a movie or show depicting the inner mechanisms of politics as clunky, loose, and mostly performative, I ate up his story. He told me the electoral votes had already been determined. I tried to doubt that such a level of corruption could be at play, but I also felt confident that my source was reliable.

After hiding our phones in the other room and turning on the faucet, he said this: "My buddy works for the CIA classifying and declassifying intelligence. He slipped me a piece of paper the other night and said this came across his desk. I shouldn't be showing you this..."

With that, he slid the paper into my hand and said,

"It has already been decided."

Two names were scribbled onto a sticky note, a single number next to each:

Trump 306 Clinton 232

Donald Trump would receive the majority, and Hillary Clinton would take the rest. I told him I thought it would be a contingent election, that the House of Representatives would decide our next commander-in-chief, but he insisted his information was correct: Trump would be president.

And I believed him.

I held this revelation in the front of my mind for weeks before voting day. Mulled over the potential truth of it. I tried to tell myself that I didn't believe it. I would say things like, "I'll shit myself if the results come back and he was right." But really, I knew they would. I would tell people the story about the crazy man who told me the election results. I'd flash my own sticky note where I had scribbled down the numbers, never wanting to forget. I didn't need to feign skepticism to everybody, but for the most part, I did and kept my true beliefs about those numbers to myself.

I was lost to the world, deep within my conspiratorial mindset. Telling anybody who would listen about my thoughts on the election results that were still days away from being populated. Some people indulged my ramblings, possibly enjoying the passion with which I delivered them. Others were less enthused and quickly quieted my delirium with a change in subject. I lost some friends during this time. Too crazy for them, I suppose. Too entrenched in the possibility of a Trump presidency and how he might achieve it.

Voting day came and went. The results were finalized, and the prediction was wrong. What's weird is it didn't feel wrong. It still doesn't. Trump won, 304 to 227. So, technically, I was wrong. But, you see, needling away at the back of my brain is the thought that no one could have known about the seven "faithless voters." They couldn't have predicted the compulsory notions of free will and morality eating away at these voters' consciences, causing them to act outside of expectation. Who could? Not even the most powerful political figures can accurately account for spontaneous cooperation and resistance.

What really gets my goat, though, more than anything, is the disbelief people hear my words with now–if they are willing to hear them anymore–even back on my meds.

The sounds of a collapsing empire have drowned out my singular voice. But vitriol, division, and cruelty are still never enough to pull back the tide of a unified collective. I know the soft lilt of my speech becomes a bellowing with my global comrades. It's only a matter of time before the beast listens to and crumbles before the world. People can believe me or not.