It makes me sick to think about how much easier my life would be if I’d just stayed in my abusive marriage. Yeah that’s definitely how I want to raise my never-existent children to believe.
Everything feels so much worse. I didn’t really think I could be anymore depressed than I already was until I spent eight days in the hospital, and now everything feels so much worse. Especially since my surgery. My medicine is still making me sick, there’s still an open hole in my leg. I had a nice boy who I told to leave me alone. He annoyed me, even from six hours away. Maybe I’ll feel better after my bike gets fixed Wednesday, I don’t know. All I know right now is that I wish I’d died in that stupid hospital bed, because I couldn’t wait to get out of it and get back to my life, but now I’m back in my life, and I’m realizing it’s completely pointless. Nothing makes me happy. My dreams/nightmares are getting worse; when I wake up, I spend all day with the people from my dream right at the front of my mind, and I can’t handle it. I’m just so disappointed in everyone that I know. I expected better out of people, and I should’ve learned three years ago that people will only ever let you down no matter how much you love them. I’d rather just not be alive anymore.
A catcall is entirely about reminding you that you are not yours. The purity myth is entirely about reminding you that you are not yours. The fetishization of female purity in a world where catcalls are an acceptable form of communication telegraphs one thing very clearly:
“Women, stop sexualizing yourselves—that’s our job, and you’re taking all the fun out of it.”
The sexualization of women is only appealing if it’s nonconsensual. Otherwise it’s “sluttiness,” and sluttiness is agency and agency is threatening.