Straight from the hazy heavens, it struck me today, that — along with untold hordes of kindred sufferers of various ailments, until establishing Colorado residency — I am forced by the very consent of millions to unjust governance to deem myself a medical refugee inside the dubious boundaries of the nation of my own fucking birth.

I’m on fucking fire to write, having finally recuperated and nourished seeds of positivity faithfully remaining in my life, but I can’t fucking do that if I’m suffering for lack of the one thing providing relief sufficient to function. Truth be told, I’ve been horrendously remiss in fulfilling obligations of late, in large part attributable to an illness plaguing my whirlwind existence — to the confoundment of an interminable list of physicians and specialists and surgeons, no less.

It took one day. One day, to return from my soon-to-be home, for the pain of infection to echo, and the most excruciating of the longstanding problem’s symptoms to return as if revived in strength by orders of magnitude.

I’m tired. I’m tired of being physically — thus, usually, mentally — incapable of performing the one job, writing, I’ve ever adored. And I’m tired of writing about people in situations similar or worse; or whose [too rarely] cohesive families have been brutally and effectively divorced from loved ones obliged to seek respite in states that haven’t yet forgotten the will of the people includes their health, and, for fuck’s sake, their choice in pleasure.

And this is just one — albeit,  personal — issue. Were a nation to fall, however languidly, to the larcenous clutches of a kakistocracy, it would be incumbent upon the people unjustly ruled to attempt all avenues peaceful toward unequivocal dismantling and reform.

Then, without resolution, more drastic measures — such as our proclivity toward unproductive civil disobedience — find bone-dry kindling at the exact moment pols and hawks prognosticate an uprising. A marriage of repugnant wars — waged by kleptocrats — against the people, and our safe means to dissent against this fucking madness, ashy smoke from the conflagration of which has begun to bellow from gnarled gashes in Pandora’s increasingly horrifying box of the human capacity to inflict misery upon another.

Having nearly tightened the noose on my own writing career — when recently my skin crawled so relentlessly after events in Charlottesville and in several bitter revelations, concordant with research that veritably gave me additional PTSD — thus, in no muddled terms, I must declare myself in Nonviolent Resistance of This Rogue State.

This opinion-editorial is that of Claire Bernish, alone, and may be reprinted in part or full with attribution to the author and, under a Creative Commons 4.0 license. Image: Wikimedia Commons.