Poem written by an 11 year old Afghan girl
This poem was recorded in a NYT magazine article about female underground poetry groups in Afghanistan. An amazing article about the ways in which women are using a traditional two line poetry form to express their resistance to male oppression, their feelings about love (considered blasphemous).
If there is one thing I could convey to people who do not live with chronic pain it is that the concept of ‘toughing it out’ is sort of laughable because that’s what we do every single day. There’s a reason they call it “pain management” and not “pain banishment.” They don’t get us to the point where the pain is gone. They get us to the point where we can tough it out.
Every day is an exercise in toughing it out. Get up? Tough it out. Getting my rolling briefcase to the car? Tough it out. Endure being in the car for a 30 minute commute that shakes me all over the place on windy-ass roads? Yeah, I tough that out, too.
If I could have just one, maybe two days where I was truly pain-free without being doped to the gills on opiates, that would be resting. But my batteries are so empty that I wouldn’t even recharge on that. I would need a month of that, and that’s not gonna happen.
I’m running on the last few sparks in my batteries. Every day. And because you can’t see it, you assume I’m making it up.
I’m not. I’m toughing it out.
I’m always toughing it out.
This pretty much sums up my day-to-day experience as well - except opiates don’t work for me.
nothing pisses me off more than the fact that 90% of women’s jeans have non-functioning pockets but baby clothes have proper pockets? what are babies carrying around that i’m not? baby wallets? fuck off
I did an experiment 7 months ago and compared my then 6 month old’s jean pockets to mine. This was the result:
If this doesn’t prove how fucked up women’s fashion is I don’t know what will.