I Want Trump to Suffer and Die. Here’s What I’m Doing With Those Feelings

I’m alarmed at how gleeful I was when I read that Trump and his wife have a potentially fatal virus. Jumping for joy. Fist pumping his impending suffering and death, hoping for it actually. Not just death but a bad death — suffering, suffocating, gasping, paralyzed by fear. That’s what I hoped for him. Not Melanie. Just being quarantined with her husband is a fate worse than death — I figured in my hate-addled mind. These were my waking thoughts.

I should tell you I’m a practicing Buddhist, an ordained secular Zen chaplain, a long term meditator and yet this hate and vengeance caught me by throat like a thug in a dark alley, pinned me up against a brick wall with force and a smug smile. So there, hate said, how’s all that meditating working out for ya?

Thinking about the kids in cages. About the suffering his actions, words, policies, and sycophants have inflicted across this country and the world. Up until today DT was unstoppable. Cheat, lie, vilify, hate, deny the existence of a virus you now have — and still his flag-waving people excuse behavior as bad as those who nailed their Savior to a cross. Nothing mattered. He’s Teflon. Except he’s not because Mother Nature knows what’s up and She is beautiful and relentless. Covid is the great equalizer and I’ve watched this virus in awe since it swept through the world nine months ago. It’s taken out so many good people, why not hope it takes out a bad one?

While my ego runs amok…