Reflection: I Don’t Have an Anxiety Disorder, I’m just DACA
This blog post was published by me in a time when I was still DACA, under an alias for the fear of retaliation. After years of therapy and trauma caused by this country, it has awarded me status. Weird to be thankful, it is a golden cage, an abusive relationship. To be thankful to a country for the pain it has caused and granting me a sense of freedom I thought impossible when I wrote this post. It has since been 14 years since I first became DACA and only four since I no longer identified as one. Still, under the same regime, I post this again because nothing has changed and to remind us that many still want life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
I do not want to seem like an ungrateful mocosa who does not accept that she has this privilege.
My parents bought my airline ticket and it was somehow the golden one that let me in this Oompa Loompa fucked up factory that we call America. It was in the right timeline and I was the right age. Yes, it allowed me to work, pay for school, buy a car and all that American dream shit. But, many have done the same for generations. Many have opened their own business, bought homes and made their own dreams true. Also, many are now winning in life without these 9 magical numbers that are really the mark of the beast. Meanwhile, I have to play pretend like this country accepts me.
I refuse to accept that this is what put me in therapy. I do not have an anxiety disorder, I’m just DACA. My therapist says that checking my bank account is obsessive, but she will never understand. I have to make sure I have enough for the next car payment and rent in case DACA ends. She also says that my panic attacks would lessen if I accept the inevitable. And to that I say, “Are you fucking serious? I have to accept that I could be deported, be separated from my family and return to my homeland when I haven't been there in 21 fucking years?” I think, “Fuck you. Pendeja gringa!” every time she suggests this (I need a new therapist).
Being a bargaining chip in the hands of some Kraft cheese product in the presidential office, is fucking tiring. Now the conflict of being DACA is not only that we live under the constant fear. The worst part is that they are making us choose between continuing DACA and the legalization of our parents, friends and everyone who are undocumented. They get forgotten and criminalized by the racist society that is being led by a Cheeto head (no disrespect to Flamin’ Hots, you have kept me going).
I speak for myself when I say that they should just stop pretending like the economy would not collapse if they get rid of us. I dare you orange puff! Get rid of us!
I am fucking angry. Can you feel my rage? I do not mean to punch through my words, but you all better learn to box, because I am not done. Also, I would apologize for my foul language, but I am furious, and also, my mom no lee esto. Y si le dicen, I am gonna be pissed.
Every two years, I have to reapply to obtain this wonderful opportunity to work. Every two years, I have to figure out how to pay five-hundred dollars to reapply. Every two years, I have to wait for my case to be under scrutiny of immigration and pray that they do not deny my application. I check this application online compulsively, but not because I have an anxiety disorder. No, I just want to make sure that’s all.
Once I get that envelope in the mail, confirming I am still good enough to work for this country, I take a deep breath and swallow my stupid pride. Then I exhale before I turn blue. I must continue to allow them to tax me and still call me illegal. Well, fuck you! All undocumented immigrants pay taxes. Yet, our communities and undocumented families have to endure police brutality, underfunded schools, and the constant fear of ICE.
I still have to fear those cabrones too! DACA or not, they do not give a fuck. I wish for the day that I can walk these streets like a gringa, high and drunk as fuck and not be in the fear of being deported. Don’t you dare judge me for making this my dream. These white people have the fucking privilege to walk around like pendejos with their guns in the air and I can’t fucking have fun. I call bullshit.
I want to be able to travel and not get the runs when I get to the airport. Every time an officer reads my name on my license, I swear I want to barf. I feel like he will read DACA on my forehead and call ICE to have me removed. I can’t even go on a fucking vacation.
The simple pleasures in life are what could possibly get me deported. Am I supposed to accept that and be grateful I can work? Work, now let's talk about that. DACA recipients are teachers, doctors, lawyers and in the workforce across the board, and his Cheeze-it face wants us gone. Okay, try cabron. Try!!!!! (I am not yelling at you, do not take this personally)
If he does terminate DACA, you all better not come after me. I literally have no power. This is it, writing gives me the ability to vent all these fucking injustices. It almost helps my anxiety, but not really because I am DACA.
Some of you will judge me and say, “well then don’t renew and stop complaining because others can’t even qualify and there are no new applicants and your privilege is showing its nalgas….”
Yeah, I know. But, am I supposed to conform and accept it all like a pendeja?
And that is the problem, the worse thing is not that I am DACA, it is that I cannot afford not to be one. I am at their fucking mercy, my life in their filthy hands.
The lack of control over my life makes me feel prisoner to an uncaring and violent administration. My chest tightens every time I think about it. My palms sweat and chills run down my spine. But it's not the anxiety, it is because I am DACA.