It was all so much fun. Then election night happened. This pretty much encapsulates every Clinton voter, completely unable to cope with reality.
I found out Donald Trump had won the Electoral College while midstream in providing a urine sample for the emergency psychiatric staff of a New York City public hospital. The unlockable bathroom door in this unescapable wing was ajar, and I could hear the victorious Mike Pence’s sinister Sunday-school baritone taunting me with the truth from the hallway television.
For the preceding witching hours of election night, I had lain in a fetal position amidst a cast of anonymous men nursing their own crises, my hands clasped tightly over my ears. It wasn’t that I minded the howls of the guy nearby who was shackled to his cot and monitored by an unimpressed brood of policemen. Instead, I wanted to spare myself any word of the far greater insanity unfolding beyond the hospital walls.
Drained of tears, too tired to sleep, I stared at the fluorescent ceiling lights —which, indifferent to our suffering, remained on throughout the night — and endured the passing time by willing my thoughts to vanish into the dull glow. For a second, I imagined someone would burst in and proclaim, “It’s all right, Hillary won!” and I would bound out of bed, awoken from this nightmare.
This was all just a dream, right?
No, dipshit, it’s not.
A while before, during the final hour of November 8, I had committed myself to institutional psychiatric care. A generation or two ago they would have said I was suffering a nervous breakdown: catatonic, plagued by involuntary jerking motions (my head furiously shaking “No! ”), speech patterns disjointed, weeping uncontrollably.
This is the reaction by a manchild to an election. While normal people watch results, go to sleep and get up for work the next day, these people have nervous breakdowns.
Terror drove me to this interrupted state. I was afraid for the nation, for the stigmatized and oppressed. I was also afraid for my own life. Because the values and principles I hold dear felt fatally incompatible with the hate and bigotry that Trumpism had come to stand for. I did not want to live in a world that would elect such a man as president.
I tumbled from quite the perch of high expectations. An official “Hillblazer,” I raised $187,000 for Hillary Clinton and down-ballot Democrats, mostly by selling tickets to events headlined by first-name-basis gay icons — Cher, Barbra, Hillary herself. (I was at the September gala when she dropped the “deplorables” line.) I canvassed in New York for our state’s primary and in Pennsylvania during the general. I phone banked, I recruited. To social media, I became The Hillary Guy, famous for my ever-buoyant posts and pictures about my candidate of choice.
I capped it all off by marshaling a rotating brigade of 22 out-of-town campaign volunteers during a four-day door-knocking effort in Philadelphia leading into Election Day. So feverish was my commitment that I embarked on the exhausting long weekend only a week into a shaky recovery from an emergency appendectomy.
This guy is 38 years old and had to be locked up in a psych ward because his candidate didn’t win. Just pathetic.