I'm friends with lots of awesome people. I read a handful of really awesome blogs, and
I have found/created a community of people who care a great deal about the same
issues I am passionate about.
Considering there was a time I felt extremely isolated in my caring about
these issues, this is awesome. Really. I wouldn't trade it for anything. But -- it also means that my Facebook feed,
my email, the conversations I have...it's all centered around the same issues. This week, those issues have exploded:
sexism, rape culture, misogyny...it is all over everything. People are talking. Some people are listening. Other people are being assholes. Still others are not getting it. Others are arguing and saying everybody has
it wrong.
In other words -- hold on to your hats, people -- the
internet is still, officially, in working order. There continues to be the correct percentage
of agreement, disagreement and trolling that seem to keep the internet waves in
place.
I posted here about something awesome and wonderful that
happened for me. That thing is still
awesome and wonderful and important...but it also made me realize that there is
still so much work to be done. There is
always more work to be done. Always
more, and more, and more work to be done.
In part, that's where the burnout comes from, right? Seeing failure and seeing victories, and
knowing that always, always, ALWAYS there is more.
It's a hard thing to see your reality -- your often
undiscussed, often ignored, often silenced reality -- reflected across every
inch of everything you read. It's hard
to struggle with the reality of "other women are acting and speaking and
telling their stories...and what am I doing?
Why can I not tell my story? Why
can I not act and speak and tell?"
It's hard to see some brief Twitter statement that makes you realize
things about your own story. (Full
disclosure: I don't twitter or tweet, so I don't really understand it...but
I've seen a lot of #yesallwomen tags posted to Facebook or in articles I read). This reading, this witnessing, this awareness
raising, this conversation-having...this is also a type of work. It's hard work. It's hard work because it's hard to witness
the suffering, and the anger, and the injustice. It's hard work because it's hard to reflect
on your own suffering, and anger, and injustice. It's hard work to see the ignorance, and the
hatred, and the violence. It's hard work
to see the resistance, and the backlash, and the fighting against every step
forward. There are times when the resistance,
the counter-arguments, the backlash feel like a push to keep me moving
forward. There are times when they feel
like a slap in the face. There are times
when they re-ignite the spark of righteous anger in me, and there are times
when it feels like a deep and painful violation.
I care about many issues.
We all do, right? But I've
realized: as deeply as I care about disability rights and advocacy, and as much
as I care about calling out ableism, my relationship with this is entirely
different because I am privileged enough to take a break from it. When I need to take a break from advocating
and discussing and reading about it, that's all I have to do: take a
break. What a tremendous privilege.
The issue with sexism, and women's rights, and rape culture,
is that (to a large extent) I can't take
a break from it. (Okay, so compared to
others, I am incredibly privileged in that I live in a pretty safe area, I am
not facing violence or sexism in my home, I live in a country where I have
basic human rights, etc, etc, etc). But
-- largely, I feel I can't take that break.
Even when I don't engage it mentally, the facts behind this issue live
inside my bones. They are part of
me. Taking a break feels like letting
others down. It feels like selling
out. It feel like not caring enough, not
being active enough. Taking a break
means I'm not this big strong person who has a voice. It means I fill that stereotype of
victim. It means that I am allowing
myself to be silent or silenced. Who
knew there could be so much shame here?
Who knew this act of gathering strength could feel like so much more? Therein lies the exhaustion. Therein lies the burnout. Therein lies the desire to hibernate
sometimes: it feels like the only way to escape this reality, without having to
face the shame of letting others know I need a break.
But the thing is: we all
feel this way. We have to. There is no way we can all soldier on without
this sense of overwhelm and exhaustion regarding whatever our passions or
"hot button issues" may be.
Of course, the response everybody has (including me) is
"practice good self-care." And
let's say we do -- let's say we take deep breaths, and we meditate or go to
yoga, or we write or run or walk or sing, or whatever it is we do that makes us
feel whole again. It's awesome,
right? But sooner or later, we're going to feel empty again. Sooner or later, our cup will be empty, we will have forgotten our oxygen mask, we will be back where we started.
We forget to mention, too, that activism IS self-care. For me, learning to have a voice, learning to speak and write and be this person I am becoming -- that has been the most important act of self-care I could possibly imagine. And yet -- there are also times that it is not the type of self-care that I need.
We forget to mention, too, that activism IS self-care. For me, learning to have a voice, learning to speak and write and be this person I am becoming -- that has been the most important act of self-care I could possibly imagine. And yet -- there are also times that it is not the type of self-care that I need.
So even when I write about self-care here, I am thinking and
planning and community organizing in my head.
It is who I am. So this is what I
came to on my drive home from yoga today: this burnout happens in
community. As a result, I can only
imagine that the cure also comes from community. We need our activism to be a self-sustaining,
self-perpetuating cycle of filling us up.
We need to find a community self-care. I can think of few things more radical!
We need to find a way of caring for each other that moves like geese in formation: one of us will lead, and then, before we get tired, we'll fall to the back of the line and someone else will take our place. There is no shame in falling to the back of that V -- it is expected. We all take a turn, and we all care for those of us who have most recently run out on the frontlines.
We need to find a way of caring for each other that moves like geese in formation: one of us will lead, and then, before we get tired, we'll fall to the back of the line and someone else will take our place. There is no shame in falling to the back of that V -- it is expected. We all take a turn, and we all care for those of us who have most recently run out on the frontlines.
What would things be like -- how could we imagine this sort
of world? How could we create an
intentional community in which this is the way we support one another? How do we see and respect the burnout in others? Can we name it for ourselves without
shame? Can we name it for others without
insult?
I don't have answers, friends.
But I'm willing to ask the questions.
I'm willing to call myself out on this shame and hesitation associated
with stepping back and breathing. I'm
willing to say that what I need is individual self-care, but also community
self-care. Will you meet me there? Can we step forward into this place -- and
further still into whatever lies beyond -- together?