This is what it is like to have PTSD from being a woman in this world that tells me how free I am then gives me these toys to my daughter to let her imagine being a female doctor according to the Barbie world.
Everything is tainted with an oozy creamy film of disgust and bad carpeting that doesn't match anything you are. Pink clashing with scribbles on walls that seem to appear from my nightmares.
Everything disjointed. Nothing makes sense.
I straddle this world and their world and our world and your world and their world but I must do it with no complaints about you taking a photo of an up skirt if me on an escalator and then sharing it with your friends and saying things like "I'd hit that" and "I'd cap that"
I am the despised and feared and worshiped Scandinavian woman from good stock. My drapes don't match the carpet so my value goes down 10 points for that. I have fake breasts that made milk for all three of my children. I now have curves like a "real" woman at 47.
I'm supposed to celebrate this.
I'm in my daughter's room wondering who she is and who she will be and just being blown away by the sheer responsibility of being in charge of raising "a strong woman" (because woman are naturally weak, you have to teach then to be strong, I hear)
How will I teach my beautiful little violet about up skirts? Why does she have to endure this bullshit in her future?
I can only pray the world is different when she is older and I can make it better for her. This is what every mother strives for (usually)
Will we survive?
Yes, we will. I take you up skirt doctor Barbie laying on the pitiful carpeting from 1979 and i say I love you. I love your mini shirt. I love the fact that you can lay like that with your feet in the air without a care in the world. This is what it is to see like a child.
I want to see like this again. It's just a doll laying on the floor that happened to fall over in that position.
Much like any woman.