Just Call Me Crazy

So I’m naïve. Maybe a little gullible. I’ve heard it before, notably 30 years ago when I trusted a husband who turned out to be HIV-positive.

For months, I’ve felt like my depression over Trump & Company is a personal weakness. I should be able to weather these political storms with more calm and grace. I’m old enough to know better; I’m a grandmother, for goodness’ sake. But the truth is, I’ve not been able to shake the idea that my fears and depression are my own fault.

There’s a reason the term “gaslighting” has found its way into our common parlance in recent months. It describes the experience of having someone tell us that what is plainly true isn’t true at all: I’m confused. I’m losing my grip. I don’t know reality. Ultimately, gaslighting’s goal is achieved when I say to myself, “That’s it: I’m going crazy.”

My experience with gaslighting came to a head when Trump went for his now-famous joy ride outside of the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. He couldn’t stand being a patient any longer. He needed to be special, to be adored and exulted. So he risked the health and lives of others — including, especially, the Secret Service agents tragically assigned to protect him — to parade in front of a few fans and wave to their applause.

Dr. James P. Phillips, an attending physician at Walter Reed, watched Trump’s excursion in shock and took to the president’s favorite feed, Twitter, to tell the plain truth.

“Every single person in the vehicle during that completely unnecessary Presidential ‘drive by’ just now has to be quarantined for 14 days,” wrote Phillips. “They might get sick. They may die. For political theater. Commanded by Trump to put their lives at risk for theater. This is insanity.”

I played and replayed Dr. Phillips’ commentary. And I was lifted, spiritually and emotionally, by his 3-word conclusion that “this is insanity.” No other explanation would do. Trump’s ghastly decision making and reckless disregard for those caring for him is beyond reason. I gratefully and humbly acknowledge my delight in the discovery that it isn’t me. I’m not going mad.

Back in the day when I was a presidential “advanceman” I occasionally rode in the specially outfitted car designed to withstand any attack. My most constant companions were members of the Secret Service detail assigned to protect the president. They were, to a person, courageous, loyal and good. This past Sunday evening, members of Trump’s detail were locked into a car designed to withstand bombs that could not withstand the insanity of a Narcissist in Chief. “The irresponsibility” in risking their lives, said Dr. Phillips, “is astounding.”

It’s all true. This is the insanity. And — thank you God and Donald Trump — I see it now: It’s not me.