If It Will Ever Get Better…

“If it will ever get better, it will surely get worse.”

I wrote that lyric back in 2010 for a song called Reverse Abortion. I had just come out to my very Christian, very homophobic mother. Her response not only led to my decision to write that song, which gutted her, but also to set very strong boundaries in our relationship. This led to a years-long estrangement. Then she got diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, which led to a reunion of sorts, but not necessarily a reconciliation. Then she died, which led to unimaginable grief and anger, which led to a spiritual reckoning, which led to me conjuring her through mediumship (you read that right), which led to intrusive thoughts and something resembling mania and PTSD. Through all that (sweat emoji), I emerged with an incredible child, a healed relationship with my mother, an opportunity to break patterns of generational trauma, and a deeper understanding of, like, the meaning of life. It only took like a decade and a half, but I guess you could say I called it. It did get better. But not before it got worse.

Me and my mom.

I’m thinking about that lyric and that experience as this country enters into what I’m sure will be a grueling several years. (I’m holding out hope for four or less, but you know how cheating, lying, egomaniacal dictators be dictating these days). I need some kind of reminder that the juice is worth the squeeze, ya know? I understand I’m not really using that expression in the same way most people do. In this context, it’s not about hard work paying off. It’s about finding some nugget of clarity or purpose in a pile of shitty shit. It’s about clinging to some sliver of hope that something resembling resolve or meaning will arise out of all *gestures at everything* this.

I swear to God, every time I try to give myself one of those “new year, new me” pep talks about having a positive outlook, focusing on my realm of influence, and keeping my side of the street clean, the world gets all the more dumpster fiery, and all the ash and debris mucks up my mental gutters whether I like it or not. I know I’m not alone. Everyone seems stressed. Sad. Broke. Busy. Exhausted. Anxious. Angry. Overwhelmed. Overstimulated. Dysregulated. Isolated. Numb.

I’m typing this all out on Jan 20, aka inauguration day, which also happens to be my late husband’s birthday, which probably explains my emo sensibilities. The whole weekend was a tilt-a-whirl of grief and political theatre: hypocritical warmongers taking ceasefire credit, TikTok sending creepy-ass Valentines to Trump, and (this just in) two full-chested Nazi salutes from Elon Musk. It’s too much.

I think back to the 2016 election when I was dumbfounded by white women voting against their own interests. 2020, when I was disappointed by people who couldn’t understand the concept of community care or Black lives mattering. 2021, when I was infuriated by sore losers cosplaying as “patriots.” 2023-24-25, when I was sickened by and ashamed of an entire world of everyday people across all parties who could not only stomach but celebrate, justify, and/or ignore a full-blown live-streamed genocide funded by American taxpayers. It’s been too much.

On and on it sadly goes, not by the year, but by the minute, and the only hint of juice (zest?) I can even sense along the way is that I have become more radical, aka compassionate, in my solidarity with people all over the world and more resistant to the propagandizing greasy billionaires and politicians who would sooner see everyone around them displaced, discarded, disenfranchised, or dead than let a little love and learning into their money-grubbing lives. It’s juice nonetheless, I guess, but it goes down bitter and leaves me very parched, coming at the expense of hundreds of thousands of lives and all. I don’t think it will ever feel worth the squeeze until we can all get out from underneath the squeezers once and for all. How do we do that? I haven’t a GD clue, I’m too squozen. So for now, I’ll keep trying to give myself that ol’ pep talk while hanging on for dear life to music, lyrics, my sweet little family, and the dull-knife hope that “If it will ever get better, it will surely get worse.”

On Deck at Songwriter Sanctuary
On a much lighter note, yawannaknow what does get better without getting worse? Songwriter Sanctuary, that’s what. Our 2025 season is now underway, and you’re not going to want to miss this month’s lineup. I know for a fact that it’s gonna cure what ails me for at least a couple hours. Join us?

Friday, February 28

Rebecca Jade
Nubella Honey
Ash the Author

All events are hosted in partnership with/at Normal Heights United (4650 Mansfield Street, San Diego, CA 92116). Special thanks to Duck Foot Brewing and our sister series Writers Round San Diego! More info/RSVP at tinyurl.com/songwriter-sanctuary-sd.

Thanks for Talkin’ Craft with me!