My Name Was Matthew Blake Atkinson

Every morning I wake up and it’s yet another gut check. These last 15 months have been trauma on top of trauma on top of trauma. Add that to my pre-existing trauma and every fucking day is a chore just to get out of bed and do basic things. I’m worn the fuck out all the time. Emotionally. Mentally. And all that takes a physical toll as well. Life’s too much, man. And the hardest part of all of it is watching people root against my kids and root against me. Evil is everywhere in the US right now. And it’s extremely uncomfortable to live this alternate reality where people are as quick to embrace evil as they are to reject the truth. I’ve written about it many times on the blog, but when I was a kid I was abused. There’s nothing more evil than that. Preying on the weak. Abuse victims might scream out. But, often times they’re not heard. Or if they’re heard, they’re not believed. Because, honestly, it’s hard to comprehend the type of evil that would hurt a child. That trauma

“My father looked at me mildly, amusement in his eyes.” Scout in “To Kill a Mockingbird”. That’s the dream, right? That our kids catch us being amused by them. We are, but do they see it? They’re amazing, but do we take the time to get out of our own shit and observe their greatness? And better yet, catch them being great and let them know that’s how we see them? I’ve said it before, but we all suffer from the misfortune of having parents. Parents are human. And humans are imperfect. So, we all grow up damaged. The goal therefore becomes to limit the bruising. And to take a stand against unhealthy family traditions. I write my way through my shit. And it does my heart good that my daughter has taken to writing as well. Having that skill and using it as a coping mechanism at her young age is invaluable right now. Because our country is fucked the fuck up. Every day is a waking nightmare when one third of our fellow Americans are completely untethered to reality. The Covid lies