I am sad.

I had intended to write and post something yesterday. About yesterday. About Melissa and Isaac and Caitlin and Olivia, and Zheng and Faryaal and Zain and and and…

I can’t. My words aren’t working.

I am sad. Desperately sad.

Often I get angry. Anger is easy for me to write from. It clarifies, it makes my words come swift and hard and strong. Sadness weighs me down. I can’t write from sadness. Not well. Not in the way they deserve to be written for.

That is why I reblogged other posts. Because the names on this list weren’t just names. They were people. People who I wish so badly weren’t on a list I wish so badly didn’t have to exist. If they have to be on that terrible list, they deserve honor and remembrance and, yes, anger on their behalf. And I can’t do it. Not this year.

I have said in the past that I want a world where our murders are recognized as such. But that’s a lie. I don’t want a world where people condemn our murders. I want a world where the murders and abuses never happened.

I want a world where the Disability Day of Mourning doesn’t exist because it doesn’t have to. I want a world where Matthew McCabe plays happily with his little boy, where Isabelle Stapleton has a loving mother, where Alex Spourdalakis is sixteen this year, not forever fourteen.

And I didn’t post yesterday because that sentiment feels very selfish. It’s not about Ayahna or Vincent or Randall or Marian. It’s about me. And the Disability Day of Mourning isn’t about me. It’s about them.

But I am sad.


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