I don’t know what happened. I went from writing about this semi-fictional little girl growing up and having issues with men (maybe because of her sad, detached, shitty father?) to suddenly feeling really angry about women and how we treat each other. Transcriptions as usual.
When you judge other women, you’re comparing yourself to them to decide if you’re good enough. You are good enough, and so are they. Now Stop It.
“At least I’m not ______.”
What is it you need? I’ve been digging deep and I found nothing yet.
These hands are mighty empty.
So many troubles rode on her back.
She just didn’t feel like being the person they thought she would be. She hated to let them down, but the costume was awful itchy.
How is it you’ve been carrying this burden all your life and still got nothing to show for it?
Still thinking about “Sara” but also about all women and about myself and all the ways we strive and struggle to be acceptable. It does make me angry. How is it that we work so hard to be whatever we’re supposed to be and yet we aren’t happy or satisfied or even good enough?