This Post Isn't About Writing

September 30, 2018

I'm struggling to write these days. 

 

The morning after Trump was elected, I spoke to my mother on the phone. She cried. She said, "I've given up hope of ever seeing a woman president in my lifetime."

 

I was, of course, horrified that so many people had voted for him, but I hadn't quite given up hope for women in this country.

 

But the past two weeks have been hard. So very hard.

 

This afternoon, a friend of mine came over to chat. As the conversation turned to Kavanaugh, I started crying. I've been crying a lot lately. At random times. I'll be driving along, then suddenly, tears. I'll be measuring out liquid laundry detergent, then I'll think about the Supreme Court, and I'll start crying. 

 

Friends, family members, women I respect and love are coming forward with their own stories, their own experiences with sexual assault. And I can't help but cry. Because it feels like everyone has a story. Every single woman has some experience with this. It's impossible to escape.

 

Then she said it made sense. Because we're all feeling helpless. Which is exactly it. We, the women of this country, are feeling helpless. Because no matter how much we march, and speak out, and literally scream for equality, it doesn't matter. 

 

And suddenly I realized that the horror and sorrow I've been feeling these days is exactly how my mom felt two years ago. I've given up hope. I feel helpless. 

 

Obviously we will never be equals. Obviously our bodies, and our voices, and our minds do not belong to us. I just don't know how to keep fighting this.

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