My roommate told me to write about today, and I responded, “I wish today didn’t exist”. Not in a trauma response way. No rather in just the frustration of interacting with patriarchy and capitalism – both sincerely attempting to tell me that how I do things is wrong.
I have been trying to buy a property, which I know sounds ambitious and exciting to some people, but for me it is more simply a wiser investment than a rental in which I get to give my money to a stranger with nothing to show when I leave. In this months long process, there has only been one non-man, and that person truly just files some paperwork. Here is my dad and I riffing on this:
Today, when another call came in, telling me that more men made decisions that would derail my plans. And then told not to panic. I have been told that I am confused, too critical, undermining, anxious, impatient, gullible, pushing too hard… And men please speak up, in the comments, tell me how often you are also described this way.
To cope, I turned to an overly dramatized crime show to at least satiate my reactions. Because often, especially as a woman, you can either be right or you can get what you need. Not both. I can smile and flirt, be easy to take, feed the egos of others; or I can break down all the points at which I had called attention to this point, raised a flag, asked a pertinent question and be told that I am impeding the work.
It was one of the worst pieces of dramatized shows, and my poor roommate got dragged into watching it with me. It had dramatic interrogation scenes, two white male writer protagonists, one pithy Black police detective – all up in Maine investigating a thirty-year-old murder of a 15 year old girl who was in the love with the Patrick Dempsy 34 year old writer character. Anyways, don’t both worrying about the plot. It made no sense, it just helped me to make this day pass. The book it is based on was written by Mr. Dicker.
Because I thought I would be moving soon, like in two days, I have become immune to the mice scurrying across the floor, the roaches crawling out of the dishwasher, the general sense of time being frozen because I get no control in how things move forward. But I did choose to wait until the sun set and the evening came to have my first drink of Tequila. For me that shows growth. And I stopped myself before cursing out all these men trapped in patriarchy who presume that we want a 10 episode series about a 15 year old murdered girl love affair with an adult; that I don’ t know how to communicate with the men involved in this real estate project; that I shouldn’t feel frustrated by having my plans of six months pushed just a few more weeks. The irony is that the only way to make myself heard is to get into the sandbox of patriarchy, which I can do, but that isn’t progress.
If the decisions of another person affect my plans, I am allowed to simply feel frustrated, annoyed, anxious. Those feelings are fine and normal. If someone talks down to me as if I don’t have any experience, I can get defensive. And no it doesn’t feel fair. That is real. That is enough. But in the meantime, I’ll wash it all down with terribly script writing and a mouse running across the floor.