I’m not gonna lie: on some level, I looked forward to the debate last night with a special sort of villainous glee.

Was this the moment he would crumble and, bawling like an infant, dash off stage? Go completely nuts? Finally hit someone in the face? Part of me watched with a delicious, dark excitement. But another part of me, my heart, was saddened; none of this felt good and I kind of wanted to throw up.


Because I know that in my worst moments, when I’m believing my darkest thoughts, I am Donald Trump.

Maybe that sounded weird. Stick with me here for a sec:

  • Although I don’t overtly denigrate women, every time put myself down or believe that my worth is in any way tied to my looks (and I do that sometimes), I am Donald Trump.
  • Although I don’t want to ban Muslims or anyone else, every time I point a finger at someone else and believe my “problems” have something to do with them (and I do that sometimes), I’m Donald Trump.
  • Although I’m not a multi-zillionaire, every time I believe that without money in the bank I’m not respectable, acceptable or free (and I do that sometimes), I’m Donald Trump.
  • Although I haven’t threatened to hit anyone in the face, every time I choose from anger, from FEAR, from lack (and I do that sometimes), I’m Donald Trump.

When we forget that we all have the capacity for everything we despise in others, even if it’s in the form of the subtlest passing thought wrapped in the most believable disguise, we disconnect from the truth. If we’re real about it, we ALL know what it’s like to feel disconnection, to want to wall up our hearts and protect ourselves, to lash out in anger, in fear.

This is the truth in the fiction.

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