When I entered the hospital emergency room that night, I expected the urgency that the phrase “I don’t want to live anymore” deserves. I expected expedient treatment from a doctor. I expected talk, medications, and recommendations, not youthful administrative staff eating Doritos and popping out every so often to take my blood pressure. I expected a mental health system built on compassion and respect for the time and minds of the mentally ill.
“You are supposed to participate in things. Whether it’s team-building or some sort of activities committee, you’re going to be told you’re sullen if you don’t want to join. For whatever reason, women are supposed to be joiners.” You are spot on. I call these activities vagina events.
There are literally thousands of ways that you can be less of a woman in the eyes of others. Some things you can’t help. I have chubby fingers, for instance. For whatever reason, this is considered less feminine. One time, I went on a date and I entered first and put the reservation in my name. I didn’t even think about it, but apparently my date saw this as “masculine,” as if I had hoisted the hostess stand above my head and crashed it into the ground.