Dichotomous feminist

Sometimes, when I think too deeply about the oppression of women and the way that men exist, my aura becomes very...decentralized. My peace of mind is disturbed, my chakras unaligned, you get the idea. Moreover, I've found the only proven remedy to the intense rage and entrapment I feel is to listen to the dulcet sounds of the Mitski scream. If you are a woman, I'd recommend tuning in to her as you read.

There's something so somber about being a feminist that I've only heard a handful of women speak on, but it's something I struggle with every other day. I'll lay it out flat for the girlies: you are not invincible. 

I don't mean that in a limiting, dismal sense. The world is your oyster and I'm your indefatigable cheerleader. My point is to shine a light on the unfortunate reality that no one is immune to patriarchy. Not even you. 

We don't live in a vacuum, we get social norms imposed upon us before we even leave the womb. And whether we permit it or not, they inherently contribute to our self-concept. Except, at times, it's such a tough pill to swallow. Especially with the cognitive dissonance that comes with the perpetual juxtaposition of my inter-rad fem mind.

I'll grow hoarse warning women up and down of the dangers, complications, and misogynistic undertones of plastic surgery, then turn right around and suppose getting my tits done is pragmatic. I don't believe in botox! Not yet, at least...

All noses are beautiful and represent your precious cultural heritage and ancestry! Until I'm perfecting the final touches on my eurocentric nose contour at the end of my 30 minute makeup routine. But that doesn't count, right?

"Please, ladies, don't feel pressured by societal beauty standards! Men are profiting off our insecurities!" I chant as I spend an extra hour in the shower, shaving and plucking and waxing out every unacceptable strand of body hair until I reach the hairlessness of a prepubescent. 

I suppose I can't help but feel a little pathetic. It's always fuck the patriarchy until you want to get fucked. Or seen as a person, for that matter. 

We can't lie to ourselves and pretend we're doing this for us and us alone. I know this, I know it like the back of my fucking hand, so why dear GOD do I continue in unwavering conformity? Why do I spend money and time and energy and health and peace on this disease? Why can't I let it go, be done with the hypocrisy and give way to liberation? But then—even not catering to the male fantasy is a male fantasy. What do I do? Die? Like idk, I'm just a girl. I am my own voyeur, and sometimes, she wins.