on the last weekend of american democracy

my thumb instinctively hovers over the tiktok app for the sixth time in the last hour, and i have to remind my all-too-media-addicted brain for the umpteenth time that the closest options i have to that word having any meaning in my life now are through ke$ha’s 2010 smash hit or the constant companionship of the analog clock sitting on our tv stand across the room.

and then mere hours later, the app is restored.

my feed is much the same, but an instagram ad and a pro-trump video manage to quietly sneak their way into the mix for the first time in my five years using the platform. it feels like someone’s been in my bedroom and i can’t figure out what’s been moved out of place yet.

on sunday night, i triple check that my husband’s working papers are in his wallet and that we have backup scans of all his documentation.

i plan a time to delete the instagram app in the morning.

i debate buying a box of plan b despite having a well-functioning IUD for another four years.

i wonder how “safe” it is for me to actually continue using tiktok now.

i make a beef stew in the crockpot that doesn’t turn out quite right. my husband sears the meat on the stove and adds seasonings to the broth that make it taste better, warming, more comforting.

he’s so good at that.

we continue his first-ever marathon of the star wars movies—a series that was a core part of my childhood. i continue to fight the urge to doomscroll during it.

i feel fragmented. i am half here. the fear is duller than i expected it to be. am i truly so desensitized that i can no longer feel with the sharpness that seems necessary in this moment?

i open tiktok again. my husband asks me to put my phone away. i plug it in to charge in another room and curl into his shoulder on the couch, but the itch in my fingers persists.

maybe that itch is where the fear is hiding.