Write What You Know
“Write what you know,” they say.
I know anxiety.
I know a constant, low-key fear when I’m alone in public, even when my surroundings don’t “seem” dangerous. I know I lock my car doors as soon as I get in. I know I tense up at every car that passes by as I walk in my quiet, child-and-dog-filled neighborhood. I know it’s not “all men,” but how can I ever know which men, until it’s too late?
I know disrespect.
I know I’ve had family members, ex-partners, and co-workers make jokes. “It’s just a joke! Lighten up!” I know I’ve had my “no” ignored. I know I’ve been told I’m being overly emotional. I know my tears immediately negate the validity of my thoughts and feelings. I know I’ve not been taken seriously more times than I could count.
I know rage.
Unending, all-consuming rage. Rage that they’ll never be this scared, this controlled, this burdened. Rage that I can’t make them feel what it’s like in my shoes. Rage that it takes having a mother, daughter, sister, or wife, to humanize any of us. Rage that I can’t make them hurt the way I hurt; that I can’t make them worry about the things I worry about.
I know sadness.
Sadness at the fact that it doesn’t have to be this way. Despair because I don’t think it’ll change in my lifetime. Sadness for my younger self and the things she went through – if only I’d known then what I know now (but, of course, that’s not possible.) Sadness that so many will continue to go through what I have, and more. Sadness for those who have to constantly fight to be accepted for who they are, because those in power don’t even see them as human.
I know begging to be equal.
And equality is not sameness! (So for fucks sake, stop asking “So it’s ok to hit a woman, then?”)
I know I’m tired. Tired. Tired.
I’m tired of the bar being in fucking hell.
Tired of the mental load, the emotional labor. Tired of being the one who notices everything. The one who makes sure we don’t run out of the things we need. The organizer. The planner. The birthday rememberer. The card sender. The gift buyer. The baby shower attendee. The gracious hostess. The housekeeper. The appointment maker. The fun police.
I’m tired of feeling like a nag and a burden, despite the value I know I bring to the table.
Tired of feeling broken because I know parenthood is not for me. Tired of the stress, the weight, the responsibility of making sure I don’t become pregnant. Tired of worrying that someone will leave me because they do want children, after all.
I’m tired of the constant comparisons. Not thin enough, not tall enough, not fit enough, not happy enough, hair too short, face to round, too stressed, too negative, too much.
Write what I know?
No thanks.
[7-26-23]
