Tired of being tired

It sounds strange to say that I feel fortunate for never having been sexually assaulted. Fortune and assault should never go hand in hand. Full autonomy over one’s own body is a right that everyone should be able to take for granted. Nevertheless, the pairing of these words is increasingly appropriate these days when congressmen seem more intent upon making passes than passing legislation, and when newscasters themselves are the stars of the headlines they report.

In spite of my own “luck,” I, like all of us, know countless women who have been denied their rights to bodily autonomy. I wouldn’t dare tell their stories or pretend to know that I fully comprehend the extent of their pain and trauma. I would imagine, however, that in addition to unfathomable emotional burdens, many of my female peers are just plain tired—the kind of tired that can’t be remedied by a day off of work or a good night’s sleep. 

I’m sure they’re tired of explaining and re-explaining, of seeking some shred of justice through re-traumatization, of convincing others—and even themselves—of their righteousness. I bet they are weary from people like me attempting to pare down indescribable experiences into neatly packaged op-eds. Acknowledging my limited capacity to understand, I ask that victims and survivors of sexual assault in its myriad forms allow me to relate in some minuscule way to their exhaustion because I, too, am tired. We are all tired. 

I’m tired of apologizing. As I write, lyrics from Beyonce’s feminist anthem Sorry emerge forcefully in my head. The song is not just a battle cry against relationship infidelity, but a desperate plea for women to stop apologizing for their very existence. It speaks to my compulsive need to apologize for abstaining from sexual activity yet also for engaging in it. It explains a tendency also to ask forgiveness for answers that I haven’t even given. It sheds light on the way in which I beg pardon for not sharing a suitor’s romantic interests. I even say sorry for my overuse of the word “sorry” in a world that constantly draws it out of me.

I’m tired of feeling the full weight of my body, often in the most literal sense of the word. I can barely remember a time in which I didn’t analyze the impact that each meal would have on my physique. Nor can I fully escape the sickening notion of my self-worth as a function of my appearance. I begrudgingly drag the chain that links spirit and body everywhere I go. All this while playing roles that I never asked for: entertainer, plaything, emotional punching bag, just to name a few. I dress, paint, prick, primp, squeeze, and adorn myself to gain the approval of men whose names I’ll never know.

I’m tired of being an unwilling competitor in a game that pits women against each other. I’m disgusted by my compulsion to tear down and one-up other women in order to maintain my own standing in the competition. We learn in the schoolyard to seek protection in calling other girls too curvy, too skinny, too needy, too prudish, too flirty, too everything. In order to reap the full benefit of this self-defense mechanism, I’m required to hold men and women to a different standards. 

I generally admire Bill Clinton in spite of his predation and admonish Monica Lewinsky because of it. By the same token, I’m ashamed by the antics of public female figures like Snooki, Paris Hilton, and Tila Tequila while simultaneously finding amusement in the replication of this behavior by male reality stars. On a much more personal level, I sometimes catch myself dismissing quieter women as cold and aloof, while attributing the same trait in men to sensitivity and emotional intelligence. I re-envision attributes of confidence in men as signs of arrogance in women. I invert male strength to female brutishness. 

And perhaps, above all, I’m tired of not being allowed to say that I’m tired. Often, to even hint at my fatigue is to validate stereotypes that women are weak, nagging, and dependent. God forbid a disgruntled woman inconvenience anyone with what might be perceived as shrill whining. Rather than risk acquiring a reputation for being overly sensitive and self-involved, I normally prefer to suppress my frustration. In fact, I’ve become so adept at said suppression, that just last month I tried to convince my friends that maybe this whole notion of the patriarchy had been an over exaggeration by white women looking to mitigate their own racial guilt. Shortly thereafter, when I felt threatened by an encounter with a small group of aggressive preteen boys nearly half my size, I immediately messaged these same friends to retract my silly theories.