Soon after I moved into my cohousing community, I found out that one or two members were interested in survival in case of a zombie apocalypse or, more likely, an environmental crisis. So, we had some conversations. I felt safe. We could survive together. Grow our own food. Use the guns of one neighbor to fend off anyone who thought we were some crunchy, peace loving hippies so they could raid our food, etc.
It was all in the abstract. Yet, I wondered, what if the situation became dire? What if we had to eat each other? Who would we eat first? Those who hadn’t paid dues? Hadn’t picked up after their dogs? Didn’t attend enough meetings? Or would we go by meat? (then I was doomed.)
Then a real crisis hit – the pandemic. We helped each other – ran to the grocery store and picked up items for everyone trying to limit their trips. Staying 6 feet apart. I knew that the die hard survivalist had kept up with pandemic science so I would watch for clues – their family always wore masks even when others, for some reason, didn’t.
As the pandemic went on and on (and is still on), every family for themselves on the grocery store was the mentality and then all that time together wore on us and brought out our flaws – glaring red. That’s when the implosion happened. When problems were pointed out, fingers pointed to me as the scapegoat and no one looked at the real issue (in my opinion). I left. I saw how everyone dealt with conflict when push came to shove. As Maya Angelou said “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” I was out.
Today I realized my question was answered. In an apocalypse who would the community eat first. ME.