Bad Medicine
I believe my husband could *actually* save the world
“I don’t want to be wealthy,” he stares off toward the apple tree. “I want to be free.”
He’s been jack hammering the foundations of his identity. One of the first bits to be demolished is that of Capitalist. American Capitalist. American who sells time, who prostitutes joy for money.
“We believe that wealthy people are happier somehow. That they are any different. You know what separates the wealthy from me? Their cars require premium fuel. They take more vacations than I do. They have better plastic surgeons. But at the end of the day, we are watching the same sunset. Driving on the same highways. And wiping the same ass, depending on the plastic surgeon”
He’s right. He’s ranting. I love his rants because they are prophetic rants—they are true. They are the most thoughtful proclamations, spoken naked, coffee cup in hand, warm in our hot tub.
“At the end of the day we want freedom. And wealth sure as hell doesn’t guarantee that. What a lie we were sold.” Now he’s watching the sunrise through the branches of the neighbor’s maple.
My husband has been obsessed with Killers of the Flower Moon lately. Have you seen it? Leo poisons his wife’s diabetes meds, “bad medicine.” They’re adding small and regular amounts of poison to her injections. She is withering away until she is saved by law enforcement.
David can’t stop talking about the moment he realized they’d been spiking his everything with ideas of what happiness and fulfillment should be. Instead of the FBI busting through the doors to save his weary soul, he’s realized he must summon just enough courage and might to rescue himself.
Capitalism is not God, he whispers on his way out the door of his captors.
“It’s bad medicine. We’ve been slowly and systematically worn down by. We’re too tired to even fight back.”
I don’t tell him because he’s borderline manic and I’ll wait for a better time, but I believe he will be one of the people who will save us. Carry us out of the stuffy, death room out into the sun, where we can recover; where we find power and peace; where we feel safe. I don’t tell him that he is supremely equipped to solve 90% of the world’s problems, and I believe he just may. Does he know that anyone would follow his sure, steady, playful footsteps?
I love him because he doesn’t want to be wealthy, I love him because he wants to be free. I love him because he wants freedom for us all. And I swear to God, he just may do it.