This past week has been a bit of a roller coaster.
I sold a short story to Escape Pod. Woo!
My husband had to work 24 hours of overtime and the kids get wildly insecure when he’s missing. Boooo.
I was solicited for a super cool reprint anthology. Woo!!
I’m sick for no good reason. Boooo.
The medicine is giving me hilariously neon orange urine. Lol woo??
Today is the 18th anniversary of my high school shooting. Boooo, booo, extra boooo.
I’m feeling… contemplative. I wrote about my weird lingering feelings last year, so I won’t rehash that. But my kids are approaching school age, and I’ve been trying not to think about how that will make me feel. My older sister only sends her kids in twice a week and home schools the rest of the time. Another sister, my mother, and both my sisters-in-law work in schools, plus yet another sister and four more nieces/nephews are in elementary.
The dissonance of knowing what can happen and actively just pretending it won’t ever touch our lives again is very real. It comes up once a year, when my community collectively says, “oh man, has it been X years already?” And that’s not even accounting for, you know, every other public space in America. That’s not even mentioning how we wave hello to the police snipers positioned above Comic-Con every year, or Pride. It’s not including the fact that I attended active shooter training at my last job because I worked in *gasp* a museum in a large public park.
I’m mad. I can’t understand why you wouldn’t be.