I don’t think I have to specify what this is about.

What I’ve been doing personally, as a young minority daughter of immigrants who’s trying to swallow the fact that half of my country’s population hates what I am, is a lot of crying.

News sites have been running speeches and analyses nonstop, which I can’t watch without my stomach clenching. Each statistic feels like another throb in a headache. I stay off of Facebook and avoid elections memes, which is unlike me.

Honestly, this is not something I want to think about or argue about or even write about. I just want it to stop hurting. 2016 has been such a rollercoaster -- I think I need a Tylenol that can erase the last eleven months, or at least the night of the election.

The five stages of grief cycled fast for me that night. I denied the numbers, sure. My anger roiled my insides and set flames of frustration on the sides of my face. I definitely offered my soul to any demon that was interested at one point, and my depression since that day has been a quiet, sleepy kind of slow. I’ve been stuck in that molasses.

But I don’t want to accept-- that final stage of grief-- that our nation is one that permits and rewards the kind of vitriol and bigotry that has been suddenly celebrated. Won’t that just normalize the state of things, like ignoring a toothache until your brain doesn’t even acknowledge the pain anymore? Even as a part of you is decaying and so vulnerable?

Since elementary school, I’ve struggled with hating myself. That sounds dramatic and unrelated, but those were the words I chose to describe my feelings to my confused fifth grade teacher at the time, and they still carry the weight of truth with me today. And during a time like this, when it feels like half the country hates me, I feel more determined than usual to not be one of those people.

I try to remember to eat vegetables, find time to sleep, and take care of myself. The internal monologue that critiques everything I do is set at a lower volume, even though it finds more to talk about. I stay away from social media and listen to the music I love and try to not feel hopeless.

I’ll stop here because a wave of chanting is building outside of my window; It swells and breaks and rattles the walls. They-- I think I see the familiar faces of my classmates in the crowd-- shout in the same angry and heartbroken voices as my friends who marched in Berkeley, in Los Angeles.

I’m crying again, this time because I’m not outside with them, yelling my voice hoarse like I wish I was strong enough to do. I wipe my tears and return to my mourning. To the small things I have to do to survive.

I’ll wallow now and be stronger tomorrow, because I have to be.