In other parts of the world, women are lighting themselves on fire. Not with a new spin routine or Alicia Keys jam session, but with matches and gasoline. They’re burning themselves to death in the pursuit of freedom and equality. I don’t even want to compare my experience to theirs. To make the whole “my life and troubles are so small in comparison” observation feels wrong in 1. it’s obviousness and 2. it’s backwards attempt to tie my struggle to theirs by some flimsy string of womanly connectedness.
But here I am, writing this post despite myself awareness. I am a priveledged white woman who has had, by most all accounts, an easy go of it. I’m astonished at my ability to indulgently self-pity despite knowing quite well, that my problems are non-problems at best and self-imposed at worst. Burning hurts but only for a while. Dying is forever. I’m not dead and I’ve never been burnded.
