#sick of fighting

[xxguerrillaxxoperatorxx]

Tørsö // Sick of Fighting

Another year has come and gone. This battle feels like it's already lost. Slipping away, and there's no escape. Wake up in a dark place. Endless road. Suffer and abuse. My time has come. I see no use.

[godddamnbranman]

don’t wanna lose you for some evil I did in the past..

[womaninaburninghouse]

.

[justfillingintime--untilidie]

“You’re tired all the time because you oversleep” Or maybe did you consider I have depression? Or that anxiety is exhausting and literally takes away all my energy? Or maybe just maybe that I only sleep well when you’re next to me because that’s when I feel safest

[reaganthebird]

I wish I was at a friend's house right now.

[desiretheaffection]

I've bitten my tongue so many times recently. It might slice right in half

[chinchilln]

I'm sick and tired of walking on eggshells..

[keiren-smith-blog]

Stone by Stone

Imagine you’re walking down the street and you feel a quick thwick of something--you’re not even quite sure what. You noticed the impact, but it didn’t really hurt. Maybe it was a bug? Maybe a small stone? You wonder vaguely, you brush at the spot as if to brush away any imagined pain, then you continue on.

Imagine it happens again. Maybe you do exactly the same thing...maybe you’re talking to someone or you’re distracted in some way so you find yourself touching the spot, on your arm, on your leg, just to acknowledge that something happened. Then you continue on.

Now imagine that it happens over and over again... After a while, you’re starting to feel slightly paranoid. You can’t see anything--it seems like it had to be a stone, perhaps flung by a car tire, perhaps kicked up by someone in front of you...maybe it slid off an awning? But no one else has seen anything, and when you look around, you can’t see any stones near you. 

The next day, you’re nervous when you walk out side. You’ve told the story to friends and family and they’ve eyed you a little nervously and made jokes--suggested that you’re imagining things and you need to take it easy. And as you walk around you’re jittery, looking around you at all times--waiting to be hit. And nothing happens.

And nothing happens the next day either. You forget about it, and walk outside, smiling, head high. Then:  you feel the stone hit. You’re frantic, you’re nervous--it’s happening again. No one else knows what you’re talking about...and you’re worried that you’re losing it. All you can focus on is your fear of being hit by these small stones--the stones no one else can see.

And so it goes...some days, you’re hit so many times, it’s overwhelming. Sometimes you’re hit by so many stones you cease to notice. And some days you don’t even realize that you weren’t hit by a single one at all. It’s your new normal.

That’s what microaggressions feel like... sometimes, those microaggressions aren’t even that micro; it’s just that whatever it is that a person experiences--sexism, homophobia, transphobia, racism, etc.--happens so often and is such a common part of their day that it can be hard to separate out the really big ones from all the small ones... but the reality is that small ones are only small in and of themselves. They’re always part of a much bigger problem.  Someone who isn’t getting hit by any of these stones has no idea what is being talked about. They know that[fill-in-the-blank oppression] isn’t a problem--because they don’t see it. No matter how many times they hear stories of the stones, they haven’t personally suffered from them, they’ve never been hit. And so, they don’t see them. And it doesn’t matter how graphically you describe the sensation of being hit by the stones, it doesn’t matter if you show bruises--they do not see the stones, therefore the stones do not exist. The stones only matter, they can only cause pain if that person can see them and feel them. And that is what it is like to talk to someone of privilege...someone whose identity is such that it protects them from stones. The white girl who doesn’t see racism. The cisgendered straight kid who can’t see homophobia. The man who can never ever see sexism.

People don’t have to see the car accident to believe someone when they say they were hit by a car. They don’t ask to see hospital records, to see all the injuries...  If a man comes home from a bar and says that a drunk took a swing at him, no one grills him asking for proof. When a kid comes home and says that someone called them stupid, no one demands proof. But when someone points out an incident of oppressive behaviour, too often the reaction is for those around to demand proof. They can’t see the damage--they can’t see the stone.  Therefore, it was imagined. The person knows that it was imagined because THEY didn’t get hit by the stone--and if there really are so many stones flying around, wouldn’t they, too, get hit by one? Or, conversely--yes, the world is full of small stones, and you’ve been hit by one. But clearly, you’ve imagined all the others because someone gave you too much attention when you were first hit by one. So you keep imaging more stones and more hits, hoping for the same kind of reaction. And so, the person who has no reason to expect any kind of oppression whatsoever over their identity, sits triumphant. They’ve proved that oppression doesn’t exist--because if it does, shouldn’t they, (too often a white middle-class cisgendered straight male), know what that oppression is? After all, they’re overweight...or maybe they grew up poor. Or maybe they drive a crappy car--people are oppressed over crappy cars, right?

I’m tired of telling people about the stones... I’m tired of telling them about the hits, the bruises, the wince of pain. I’m tired of their belief that people really just want to imagine that they’re getting hit by stones all the time. We don’t tell these stories because we enjoy them...we do it because we want the stones to stop. We want to know that we’re not alone looking for the stones...and that, together, we can stop them.