This holiday is a frustrating and terrifying experience

I just started wondering how much I drank, and when, because I'm feeling dizzy and my head is pounding. Then I remembered I haven't been drinking.

My chests has been tight for hours, I can barely distinguish one voice from another. There are probably more people here I don't know than people I do. 

My work at Hampshire is a lot less fun to talk about in a room full of people whose only question is "what are you going to do with that to make money?" None of my usual responses feel okay to say right now. "I want to work toward building solutions to climate change." Nope, don't want to get into a fight about whether global warming exists. "We're probably about 10 years out from the end of human employability, anyway." Nope, they aren't gonna let go of their smugness about the liberal arts that easy.

My mind keeps going back to a point, an infuriating point, of rhetoric I heard once about social justice activism: that you need to be able to convince your family. That if you aren't doing that, you aren't really doing anything. 

As if family isn't a place to find a catalogue of almost every mentally ill person's triggers. As if they're the people you're most likely to be able to handle. As if they aren't the people most likely to assume that they're your intellectual superiors no matter what happens, ever.

I feel like I'm burning up and freezing at the same time. I'm hungry and thirsty but I'm afraid to eat or drink because I feel like I'm going to throw up. I can't stand in this hailstorm of microaggressions and fight for the hearts and minds of my family. I can barely fight for myself.

And I resent the implication that changing these minds is the litmus test for my ability to contribute to social justice movements.