If Only

I guess I’m grieving today.

Grieving the death of dreams and wasted time.

Which stage is anger? Because I’m angry. Angry that I was taught my happiness didn’t matter. Angry at the stupidity of having my life crushed because old dead guys wanted to keep Patriarchy alive and kicking. Angry that my mom found safety and security in their rules. Angry that she grew to love having babies and being a homebody and was so very, very sure that it was God’s will for women to be ‘keepers at home.’ Angry that I spent decades fervently trying to please a fictional entity, riddled with guilt over my perceived failures, riddled with guilt that I wasn’t happy serving said entity.

It’s such a joke.

I think if someone had actively set out to ruin my life I might find it less distressing. At least then I’d have someone to lash out at.

If the random number generator had determined I’d be born in a male body – if I’d been born a rebel instead of someone that cared about pleasing her loved ones – if any of my friends had seen underneath the shoulders confidently squared and the resting bitch face – if someone had asked ‘is this really what you want?’ and recognized the lie when I said it was.

If someone had seen and cared and known how to intervene.

If, if, if.

If I were able to go to the middle of a wilderness right now I’d scream until I was hoarse.

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