It is terrible, and I haven’t the “luxury” of being a fiction writer. I absorb reality at its worst (and best, but the worst sticks more), then scribble or tappity tap pages about it. I can’t help it. I didn’t choose to write about this frigging life. I must, or KABOOM! My head will explode.
Adopting a vegan lifestyle gifted me with inner peace and patience. Soppy, but true. Unfortunately, like many vegan newbies I started reading about animal agriculture. A lot. Joined the vegan community on Facebook and was inundated with articles, graphic videos, and photos highlighting the horrors. I handled it OK for a while. Was saddened by “angry vegans'” hate-filled rants towards all humans, daily crying jags, sleepless nights. Now I’m an angry vegan.
Knowledge is power but it’s painful, too. Growing pains. I can’t un-see or delete what I’ve seen, read, and heard. I understand more than ever how images and sounds haunt others day and night. How a peacenik can be poisoned by hate and anger and hopelessness. Slowly, like a nagging wife by her browbeatened husband. And I hate myself most of all for allowing others’ behavior to affect my own. I won’t live that way again. I didn’t survive all I have to succumb to such useless, negative, and fleeting (if I let it be) garbage.
I’m needed, dammit. I’m no good to the animals, Earth, and you as a hopeless, overwhelmed, hate-filled, non-blogging, angry vegan. And I’m no good to myself. I count, too.