By: Paulina Sicius
An illustration drawn by the author when she was 13 years old.
There is no greater embodiment of freedom than a woman in a tampon commercial: Running through a field, her hair and white skirt doing a synced choreography in the wind.
It’s a genius piece of fiction.
It’s June 2020, and there’s a new COVID restriction. Midnight curfew. I rarely find myself on the street after midnight anyways. When I do, I slide my key between my middle and ring fingers.
In the US, three women are murdered by an intimate partner every day.
Do I have to carry my keys inside as well?
I’m 2 miles into my morning run when a white car starts following me. Eventually, he pulls over, blocks my path, and begins masturbating while looking at me.
I don’t feel safe running outside anymore, so I sign up for a $50/month gym membership.
June 2022. Roe v. Wade has been overturned. I’m crying at my desk. My work chat becomes an encyclopedia of reproductive healthcare resources until a male coworker says, “this is a work environment,” and we “should respect other coworkers who have different opinions :).”
Abortion is quickly banned in 13 states.
Texas. Idaho. Wisconsin. Alabama. Mississippi. Oklahoma. Arkansas. South Dakota. Louisiana. Tennessee. Kentucky. West Virginia.
The unluckiest of numbers.
I’ve been on enough dates with this guy I met on Bumble that I think I can sleepover at his house. As we go to bed, he promises not to kill me in my sleep.
I go to the local Planned Parenthood for birth control. I choose to get the injection because I can’t trust myself to take a pill every day. The next day, I cry five times. And the next day. And the next day. This goes on for 3 months.
I Google: “Is abortion legal for dogs?” Yes, the procedure is entirely legal.
You’re a fucking bitch the guy from Bumble messages me when I tell him I’m not interested in continuing anything with him.
I’m on the bus on the way to work. There are a plethora of empty rows. The bus comes to a halt, and a man gets on. He sits next to me. His elbow is on the armrest. His knees face opposite directions. I inch closer to the window to escape the cloud of his cheap cologne. He makes small talk, and I force a chuckle at his jokes, ignoring the subtle misogynist jabs or glances down at my chest. He asks for my number when I push the STOP button. “We should stay in contact, you’re so beautiful.” I give him my number, afraid of any backlash if I don’t give him my actual one.
Hey, it’s the cute guy from the bus ;). I block him and pray I never see him there again.
I change my birth control. I bleed for 27 days straight.
My two best friends and I go to a pregame at an acquaintances house. We get there late, so we only have time to have one drink. Once we arrive at the club, I lose them. After a couple of minutes of searching, I find one of them passed out in the bathroom and the other one vomiting outside on the sidewalk. Before then, I’d only heard of women getting drugged on the news.
I never, ever take my eyes off of my drinks.
The woman in the tampon commercial is now dancing on the beach. I can’t help but think that there’s someone—a male coworker, a jealous boyfriend, a lawmaker, a Supreme Court judge— slightly off camera, threatening her freedom.
And yet, she still dances.
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