The Saddest I’ve Ever Been

Watching women get treated like trash

The Saddest I’ve Ever Been

I grew up very blind to the injustices of the world, or maybe I was pointed in the wrong direction.

Being homeschooled, sheltered, religious: everything that was a threat turned out to not be so bad.

Nothing prepared me for the reality of this tragic life quite like a woman falling in love.

My grandmother was the strongest woman I know, also the angriest. She was the president of the NOW chapter for the whole state of California. She was a powerful voice in feminism. Honestly: she scared me.

I was raised to think she was some kind of enemy. She was a man hater.

She refused to use a mans name when she was spelling out a word over the phone. She would say: “D as in Danielle.” I was taught “D as in David” cause, I don’t know, the Bible?

She was constantly angry about how the patriarchy made everything about them. She was turning it all on its head and making her own matriarchy. It was beautiful and full of rage. But I only saw that last part.

She would always call out men for fucking things up and insisted we have more women, and women of color, in power. She hated whitewashed feminism and believed the best man for the job was a woman who knows what she’s talking about, a woman who represents her community. Looking back she was the most radical person I know. Especially for her time. I miss her every day but I also thank whatever being is up there that she never lived to see Trollnard Dump as president.

I found out at a young age, while going through puberty, that I was gifted with superpowers: SUPER SENSITIVITY!! Both inside and out. My heart is now constantly aching and seeing pain as plain as paint on someone’s face. I also have skin that can detect cheap metal the second it comes in contact. Giving me a trusty red rash to alert me of it’s trashy materials. Trust me, I know these powers suck. The “Incredible Empathetic Sponge” sounds pretty lame. But it’s better than “Metal Detective Dermis on the case!”

Not only could I see people’s pain clearly. I could also FEEL it. I’ve cried more for other people than I’ve ever cried for myself, which is a lot, and usually in public, but also hidden. Because I’m tough, so like as soon as I get in my car, it’s over for me, ho. FLOODGATES.

Now my grandmother, Sito, her rage never struck that cord for me. Not until I was old enough to experience the pain she had also felt. Now I can never unsee or unfeel it. It’s everywhere. And it’s destroying me.

Every man falls short of what their partner needs. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Not to say every woman is perfect. But women have a stronger sense of others, of empathy. And men constantly need to be reminded we exist. We’re important. We need you to fucking help us without being asked. We’re queens of the emotional realm and masters of multitasking. But we can’t do and feel everything for you. So wake up and act accordingly.

I’m truly exhausted from caring for my partners with little to no return. I’m tired of throwing a fucking parade every time they do a half ass job and not being acknowledged for my constant efforts that are somehow expected but not respected.

The emotional exhaustion is all over a woman’s face. Look at a family portrait and tell me if Mom and Dad look different. Not everyone can see it. I wish I could turn it off.

I went to a baby shower and wept in the car because the man was “joking” about how she was carrying “his child.”

Maybe it’s because I just got back from seeing my sister who was struggling with postpartum depression after carrying her first child. Maybe it’s becuse pregnancy is one of the most incredible and taxing things a human can do with their bodies. Maybe it’s because all he did was cum in her and she has to waddle around in pain pretending to smile for nine fucking months while he gets high and plays video games. I DON’T KNOW MAYBE I’M JUST BEING A BITCH.

The sad part is: he seems like a nice guy. So he probably honestly was “joking,” but I wasn’t laughing. Jokes that talk down, mock, insult, play off women being “weak” “less than,” “men’s property” aren’t funny. They never have been. And the problem with “good men” “joking” about that is that there are far too many awful men in this world who aren’t joking. So why even say that shit?

My parents are divorced. They were in love until they weren’t. They fought about money and it made sense that they broke it off. They probably stayed together for us kids, until we were old enough. Or maybe they just got real with each other after most of us were grown and gone. Either way: they’re happier now and they had five kick ass kids before they called it quits. So good on them. We turned out alright.

If there’s one thing that I can’t stand to be around it’s a couple who clearly NEEDS to call it quits. The obvious pain they carry on their shoulders and toss back and forth to each ther like a 10 lb bowling ball, knocking each other on their asses, then getting up and doing it again 'til they strike out on each other is too much for my little heart sponge to take. I feel that. Every throw at each other. Every comment. Every angry look. Every eye roll. Every jab. Kills me.

The saddest I’ve ever been is navigating this graveyard of hurt that is all around us. It’s like when Daredevil can “see” based on radar, infrared, and supersonic hearing, but people are always saying “there’s no way you know that.”

That’s how I feel with my power. But it’s all emotions. It’s pain.

It’s painful.

I don’t really talk about it for a few reasons:

  1. "Jesus, Amanda! What a bummer."
  2. I’m a comedian.

So none of this is funny. I mean it is in a sick twisted cruel joke kind of way. Even I find myself crying and suddenly burst into laughter like a psychopath because I can’t believe the things that get to me. It can be so small, yet profound. I used to be scared of talking about it. I was afraid of being mocked for it. Now that I’m older I’m more open with all my weirdness. I don’t care if it sounds odd. Luckily I don’t need to explain this to anyone. I just wanted to. This is my first attempt at making some sense of it. I don’t really know what to do with it, but here it is! Maybe I’m not the only one who sees life through these lenses.

I just wish I could take them off.

feminism
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