I am a person. A normal, everyday person.
At least my body is.
See, I get regular hormone supplements, injections, implants, patches and even surgery.
I go in repeatedly to have masses removed from my body, sometimes naturally ejected, sometimes surgically removed.
If I hurt or feel strange, I am assured that my daily medicine just needs an adjustment.
See, I’m perfectly normal!
A normal, everyday woman…
Why is this? Why me? Why us?
Why is it that if I want a choice in the matter, it isn’t about “us” or “him”? If I’m concerned, why must I distort myself, hurt myself, to fix a problem I can’t ever call that? Avoidance, actively or passively, is considered rebellion and will be demonized, or at least demoralized. Despite the prevalence of it, we can’t talk about it except in hushed tones: our injections, our pills and even, rarely, surgeries.
Then if I rely on a male after I procreate and do not foist all burdens onto my own shoulders, I am stared at oddly. Is she a bad mother, a strange bird, neglectful? I am to do it all, without a please or thank you. Or else.
No. I am a PERSON. This is not fair.
This one-sided conversation of physical distortion and self-abuse.
This overly demanding, one-sided burden of humanity.
As feminists, we fight for the privilege of sharing the freedoms and burdens of men.
Yet what I think we’re really fighting for is the privilege of not HAVING to add an unfair number of burdens to our plates.
You do the dishes.
You rotate the laundry.
Yes, change the diaper. Clean up the mess.
Do not ask. Do not question. Do.
I am so tired of asking…I’m so tired of having to explain that my burden wears me down. The physical demands of non-procreation push that beyond the bounds of tolerance.
I don’t care if you have clean socks.
I don’t care if you don’t have the right things from the grocery store.
Don’t make babies for us. Be the one who doesn’t make babies for us.
Find a way. Find a pill, a shot, a surgery.
Share some of the real, invisible burden of love.
Fight for a way. We did.