A few weeks ago, while reading yet another story about the Valerie Plame affair and how Karl Rove was going to slither his way out of any culpability in the matter, my mind suddenly shut down. It bluntly told me that it couldn’t take anymore. It couldn’t read another word about the insanity that is so extensively pervasive in US politics. It couldn’t read another word about how Bushco was justifying the endless, illegal war in Iraq while ruthlessly ignoring the thousands of people who have died at his command. It couldn’t read about how horrendously children were suffering in the Sudan. It couldn’t read one more pathetic word that would justify the appointment of the man who will destroy the UN as we know it: John Bolton. It couldn’t read one more excuse for spineless Democrats whose only purpose in life is to get re-elected. It couldn’t read one more pronouncement of hypocritical purity from the radical religious right. It called a wildcat strike. And I had no choice but to wake up and pay attention, so we sat down and began negotiations.
My mind was at its wits end, but it had very clear demands that included better working conditions, more benefits and a mechanism for faster resolution of its grievances in the future. The state of my union was in shambles. First and foremost on its list of complaints was the need for more rest breaks. It laid out a plan that included watching decorating shows instead of wall to wall CNN, every possible version of the show Law & Order as much as possible, a move back to more music, a promise to get major news coverage and punditry from The Daily Show and the BBC, a temporary boycott of online newspapers and blogs, a self-imposed writer’s block, more time to read fiction and more sunshine.

Acting as an advocate for the rest of my physical body, it decided that it could no longer allow me to sit for long periods in pain as a result of the pressure on my left kidney which had for months caused such agony, a commitment to more physical activity, more garage sale trips, a pledge to work on some of the many craft and yard projects that had been neglected, attempts to spend a bit more time with the roommates, better nutrition, more respect for my illnesses, a stronger drive to resolving the kidney problem in whatever way possible and lots and lots of rest.

Well – that was quite the manifesto. But at the time, without the cooperation of my mind, I had no choice but to acquiesce. So, as management, I had some serious changes to consider. My back was against the wall – and a painful back it was. I wish I could tell you that the strike issues have all now been resolved because if I hear the word “whimsy” on yet another decorating show one more time I’m going to scream, but my mind still seems to want to grasp the concepts of focal points and bonus rooms (I didn’t know anyone had “bonus rooms” – how bizarre). I wish I could tell you that my medical problems have been identified and dealt with – oh how I wish I could tell you that. I wish I could tell you that I did stay away from checking in on CNN every now and then – I did have to have a look at Wolf Blitzer’s new “Situation Room” – what a joke – all hat, no cattle. Same old crap. I wish I could tell you that I got a bunch of my craft and yard projects done and that I read a dozen books – but I didn’t.

What I did accomplish was at least a small step to a more improved state of my union. I no longer feel the need to run out in the streets and scream about the insanity of the Bush administration and how they are setting back society a few centuries with their draconian attitudes and policies, although when I caught a bit of Bush’s Idaho speech I had an overwhelming urge to spit at my TV. The man is dangerous. Period. And the fact that millions of Americans refuse to kick him out of Dodge infuriates me, however, fuming about it will only destroy me. I will never give Bush that power. He’s a pathetic, weak man who is so insulated that from reality that he has to run away from a simple woman like Cindy Sheehan because he can’t stand to talk to someone face to face who would burst the little bubble of so-called reality that he lives in. Lowest approval ratings ever.  It’s about damned time. Wake up America. You don’t live on this planet alone.

So, I’m still on strike. To those who’ve been concerned about me, I owe you a huge apology for not letting you know what was going on. Burn out. I’ve been there before and the mush that my mind turned into was not a nice site to see. I’ve been in some dark places throughout this adventure into adjusting my view of reality and how I can better function as a whole person. I’m not completely mended yet – far from it. But I had to let you know that I haven’t walked away completely. I still think of you. I still care. I still need all of you. I still have passion. And,  man, I’m tired of watching decorating shows but at least nobody dies.