It is the latter half of 2016 and I'm on my way to my partner's birthday party. Instead of my usual high-necked T-shirt I am wearing a low-cut, bright pink top, and feeling ashamed. It's been so long since I stopped dressing in low-cut tops that even my staunchly feminist conditioning can't prevent me from manifesting anxiety. I'm worried about how I could potentially be read, even as I know that this uniform (a cut so popular that it's from Kmart) is the swathe of choice of an expansive army of women at any one time.
I get on the train, making sure it's the carriage with the train conductor aboard. The blue light is my beacon. There's no-one else on the upper floor for a while, but eventually a couple enters from the other side.
The man looks at me from the back, and makes a short, disrespectful vocal summary of me, into which I read that he is angrily eyeing a woman who exhibits sexual impropriety. His travelling companion, a woman, follows up: "What's that, a slut? A whore?"
I try to see the light-hearted humour in the situation as I rise from my seat and walk (playfully, disjointedly) across the aisle, still not facing them. The woman snarls at my rebellion, and I duck my head - but only so I can see my feet on the stairs, past my stomach. I walk into a different carriage and release some adrenaline.
I feel like there's a heavy cloud hanging over my day, yet I nag at myself to cease ruminating. I call my girlfriend when I arrive at Central, describing the events, minimising the intensity of my emotions. Whatever her response, it doesn't soothe me.
My partner's girlfriend echoes what I told my partner about 'that [random abuse] has nothing to do with you.' But it doesn't sink in. I feel turbulent.
I end up waiting for people to arrive in Newtown, where I duck into Tree of Life - the visual stimulation of the Asian-themed garments and items insufficient distraction from the noise in my head. I try to reach out again. "I was just called a whore on the train!" I exclaim to a shop assistant. She expresses shock and mirrors my half-hearted righteousness, but it's not enough. Some part of my fighting spirit has died. Or is it a lack of self-compassion?
It's 2019, and I make self-compassion my project.
*
Back in late 2018, I am catching the train to meet a new psychologist in the city. The petite Asian girl in front of me has earphones on and is carrying on a conversation on her mobile. I find her incessant chatter slightly annoying, because it pulls me out of my inner monologue.
A man twice her size in a gray suit sits down right next to her, although vacant seats remain on the train, his thin lips a fraudulent smile as he turns to face her.
I wonder how long she's going to sit there. Not long! A minute or so later she stands, erect to her full height, and non-verbally demands that he let her pass. I will later see her continuing her conversation in the standing area right before we both leave the carriage. The man's head lowers as she leaves the seat behind.
I think about invasive bodies for the rest of the trip.
*
All this is just the tip of the iceberg. I could write for days and not transcribe all the patriarchy-related injustices that inform my present-day anger, fear and sadness.
I don't want to get on a Sydney train again. Hell, I don't want to walk down a Sydney street again. Patriarchy oozes out of 50% of the population as they regard this body of mine. Without the drugs I'd be tense and frenzied; how I am currently is dissatisfyingly numb. But I know the danger is real, even though the emotional repercussions don't catch up with me.
I'm relying on my parents to eventually relocate to another country. A country that makes me feel less like prey.
How long will I wait?
*
I get on the train, making sure it's the carriage with the train conductor aboard. The blue light is my beacon. There's no-one else on the upper floor for a while, but eventually a couple enters from the other side.
The man looks at me from the back, and makes a short, disrespectful vocal summary of me, into which I read that he is angrily eyeing a woman who exhibits sexual impropriety. His travelling companion, a woman, follows up: "What's that, a slut? A whore?"
I try to see the light-hearted humour in the situation as I rise from my seat and walk (playfully, disjointedly) across the aisle, still not facing them. The woman snarls at my rebellion, and I duck my head - but only so I can see my feet on the stairs, past my stomach. I walk into a different carriage and release some adrenaline.
I feel like there's a heavy cloud hanging over my day, yet I nag at myself to cease ruminating. I call my girlfriend when I arrive at Central, describing the events, minimising the intensity of my emotions. Whatever her response, it doesn't soothe me.
My partner's girlfriend echoes what I told my partner about 'that [random abuse] has nothing to do with you.' But it doesn't sink in. I feel turbulent.
I end up waiting for people to arrive in Newtown, where I duck into Tree of Life - the visual stimulation of the Asian-themed garments and items insufficient distraction from the noise in my head. I try to reach out again. "I was just called a whore on the train!" I exclaim to a shop assistant. She expresses shock and mirrors my half-hearted righteousness, but it's not enough. Some part of my fighting spirit has died. Or is it a lack of self-compassion?
It's 2019, and I make self-compassion my project.
*
Back in late 2018, I am catching the train to meet a new psychologist in the city. The petite Asian girl in front of me has earphones on and is carrying on a conversation on her mobile. I find her incessant chatter slightly annoying, because it pulls me out of my inner monologue.
A man twice her size in a gray suit sits down right next to her, although vacant seats remain on the train, his thin lips a fraudulent smile as he turns to face her.
I wonder how long she's going to sit there. Not long! A minute or so later she stands, erect to her full height, and non-verbally demands that he let her pass. I will later see her continuing her conversation in the standing area right before we both leave the carriage. The man's head lowers as she leaves the seat behind.
I think about invasive bodies for the rest of the trip.
*
All this is just the tip of the iceberg. I could write for days and not transcribe all the patriarchy-related injustices that inform my present-day anger, fear and sadness.
I don't want to get on a Sydney train again. Hell, I don't want to walk down a Sydney street again. Patriarchy oozes out of 50% of the population as they regard this body of mine. Without the drugs I'd be tense and frenzied; how I am currently is dissatisfyingly numb. But I know the danger is real, even though the emotional repercussions don't catch up with me.
I'm relying on my parents to eventually relocate to another country. A country that makes me feel less like prey.
How long will I wait?
*
