can you please, shut the f*** up

You do not know the deep crimson shame and worthlessness associated with losing a child, one planned for or not.

You do not know the feeling of failure, of brokenness, of emptiness, born from a belief that has been deeply ingrained in our beings, the notion that I am nothing if not a mother, that I am no one outside of my body, that I am worth only what I am able to contribute to the man, that I am worth the sum of my body after it’s been torn to pieces and my own sacrifice has been prioritized at every turn.

You have not seen a woman forced to give birth to her lifeless child as her body revolts against itself; spreading poison through her blood- you do not understand the guttural sound produced by gently ripping her daughter from her arms, her almost child dressed in pink stained lace. The placenta tossed aside, disposed in the trashcan to the back left of the room, a grave demanding hourly visitation. The failed protector of her creation, her inability to give enough of her own life for her child, her new born baby waiting for her behind the nurse’s desk while her own life hangs in the rafters; Giving, giving, giving, past any point of hope- the next 80 years lying on the floor beneath her, an orange peel forgotten in the summer sun.

And when I say I do not want to be my mother it is not for the reasons you think. It is not because she wasn’t enough or that I am more capable of her role or know a way to do it better, but that she played her part too well, that she spent her life sacrificing her own needs and hungers to lay the foundation of life for everyone who surrounded her and we are alive today only because we sucked her veins dry and she still loves, fiercely, flowing, constantly, from what spout does life flow from other than that of a self-slaughtered woman, our species reliant on the donation of our own bodies and our society determined to make us feel simultaneously reverent and disgusted by their representation and abilities. We carry blame for every death and are left in the ditch of fulfillment of duty for every life brought into this world. 

You can never know what is it to carry the power to create life- to be the sole proprietor of the will of God (or the universe or the gods or the higher power or whatever fucking meaning lies beyond the trivialities we choose to focus on). You cannot know what it is to feel this power drumming beneath our skin to carry the mark of pain and suffering we familiarize ourselves with at a young age and be told

We can be nothing more paramount than attractive

You do not know what it is to spend your entire life feeling your insides tear apart and cry tears of deep red blood in their exile. You do not know what it is to be 12 years old resting your cheek on the cold white porcelain while your knees hold you shakily above the dirty tile floor of the neighborhood Mexican restaurant and you succumb to a pain induced expulsion of your dinner. Meanwhile, your parents wait at the table next to an empty chair and a line forms outside the women’s restroom. 

You do not know the warm red shame running down your thighs as you are made to feel lesser by the simple facts of your anatomy.

You have not been raised to carry the burden of knowing you are the direct ancestor of sin and taught to believe you deserve pain as payment for your desire, you have not been made entirely separate from your body you do not know what it is to be ashamed of sexual need, once again a fact of human anatomy, a god given gift,

And you, by the laws of nature have had to have come from a mother, you who claims his knowing by his brotherhood to his sister, by his manhood to his wife, by his fatherhood to his daughter, how dare you claim to begin to understand an experience that has cost me a lifetime of conditioning, a lifetime of oblation, how dare you belittle an experience that has ravaged at my soul and torn apart my body and demanded a strength that is only learned through the swallowing of rage, a digging of fingernails into the skin of my forearm, a biting of teeth into lips, until my own blood is drawn and I have made it through the pain or conversation or his hands on my body or the fear of being told it is not my decision but it will forever be my burden to carry.

So I do not mean to be disrespectful when I say your opinion holds no weight in this matter

I do not mean to be disrespectful when I say please stop inviting yourselves to tables that were not built for you

I do not mean to embarrass you, but I do mean to humble you into unsderstanding your absolute wrongness in even considering the deliberation of this matter, this topic you choose to expend your energy on, that this is the battle women sacrifice themselves to fight over and over again

So please do not expect me to sound calm

Please do not discredit reason just because it is fueled by (justified) anger

You do not know what is to be woman 

You have done nothing to deserve a say in this matter