By the time you are reading this, I’ll no longer live in Georgia.

At this point, I’ve lived in a small town in rural Georgia longer than any other city anywhere else. Some might say that makes me a native. I doubt they’d want to claim me anymore than I want to claim them though.

My time here has been marked by sharp edges. It’s being expected to attend a church – despite clearly stating that I’m Pagan. It’s well structured and highly efficient charity, in very select means and ways. It’s it all being about who you know and knowing no one.

I have found myself poorer here than I’ve ever been. Financially, emotionally, socially, pretty much any metric that can be used to measure happiness I’ve failed here. But I’ve stubbornly held on well past the point where I thought I could get out of here alive.

With recent events, it’s become clear to me that I no longer feel safe living in a red state. I no longer feel safe living in rural Georgia. I don’t see routes for advancement here, only a very well crafted system designed to keep you down. Worse than that, is the feeling that I’m alone in this discomfort.

The last nine months in Georgia have had me stocking up on everything, checking in with friends of all hues and trying to affirm the community I still have, despite having moved so far from my base. But when I talk to Georgians about the prices of gas, the empty store shelves or the coming detention center, it’s mostly blank stares and confused faces.

I’ve started to feel like the toad sitting on the ladle trying to tell the frogs in the pot that it’s not a sauna, they’re being slowly boiled alive.

Seems like a good time to get as far away from the fire as I can.