Dwain Northey (Gen X)

We are, without a doubt, living in a collective national state of PTSD courtesy of the first Trump administration. Remember that? Those four years felt like sitting in a chair that’s constantly about to tip backward—not quite falling, but close enough to make your stomach lurch every second of every day. Sure, you didn’t actually fall and break your neck, but you lived with that buzzing anxiety in your chest, like a fire alarm with a dying battery that never, ever stopped chirping. And now, as we gaze down the barrel of yet another potential Trump chapter, it’s less “oh no, I might tip over” and more “oh no, the Mango Moron is about to drive us straight into an active volcano while bragging about how only he could discover magma.”

We used to think politics was boring. The biggest scandal was a senator getting caught with a mistress or a campaign staffer accidentally sending the wrong email. Quaint times, weren’t they? But with Trump, every morning was like spinning the Wheel of Stupidity to find out what flavor of national humiliation we’d be tasting that day. Would it be locking children in cages and then losing track of their parents like mismatched socks? Would it be cozying up to dictators while spitting on long-time allies? Or maybe just some casual Twitter diplomacy, threatening nuclear war in 280 characters because someone hurt his feelings?

And now, the sequel promises to be even worse—because like any bad reality show, Trump knows he’s got to top himself. Who wouldn’t feel traumatized waking up to see headlines like: “Trump Declares War on Argentinian Fishing Boats 11,000 Miles Away” or “President Orders Space Force to Build Wall Around the Moon”? If you’re not living with heart palpitations at this point, check your pulse—you might already be dead.

It’s not just the chaos itself, though—it’s the gaslighting that leaves us all twitching. In Trump World, nothing is ever what it seems. Children in cages? No, those are “summer camps.” Nazis marching with tiki torches? “Very fine people.” A deadly virus killing hundreds of thousands? “Totally under control, like a miracle, it’ll disappear.” And when reality is twisted like a balloon animal every single day, the rest of us are left doubting our sanity. Did that really happen? Did the President of the United States actually suggest injecting bleach? Yes. Yes, he did. And we all need therapy for remembering it.

The worst part is the anticipation—the endless “what now?” dread that makes you jump at shadows. Every time Trump stepped up to a podium, you could feel the country collectively holding its breath, like kids waiting to see if Dad is about to read them a bedtime story or hurl the TV out the window. And when the Mango Moron opened his mouth, it was always the latter. Always.

So yes, America is in a perpetual state of PTSD. We flinch at press conferences. We brace for the next executive order like it’s a hurricane. We eye the news the way a war veteran eyes fireworks—because we know one stupid spark can set off a national catastrophe. Trump didn’t just wreck policy; he wrecked our nervous systems. And now, with the prospect of another four years of this lunacy, it’s not just a chair tipping anymore—it’s the whole damn house sliding into the ocean while Trump stands on the roof, tweeting about how only he can save us from drowning.