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Poetry, Feminism/Intersectional Feminism, Social Justice, Racism, Depression, Anxiety, Education, White Privilege, White Fragility

I’ve read that freezing to death is a surprisingly pleasant way to die. Like once you get past the painful cold and reach the stage of numbness, you get drowsy and everything in you just wants to give in to that drowsiness. If you do, you cozy up in the snow and drift into a peaceful sleep, a dreamless sleep, because you know, you’re dead. I suppose in order for anyone to live to describe this process, they must have fought their body’s will to give in to sleep, they must have fought through the snow and ice to stay awake, to stay alive.

I’ve been thinking about freezing to death lately because for the last few days my brain has been trying to convince me to give in to my own sort of numbness. It’s too fucking hard, just go to sleep. I’m tired of fighting against my own brain. The fight is exhausting, and I have to battle every day of my life. I’m fortunate enough to be in a warm house, but I am freezing to death all the same. I know that if I lie down in the snow the pain will go away. If I just give in, I can be done with this same old tired shit. It’s a very tempting proposition.

Unfortunately for the cruel part of my brain, I, like those who have survived the experience of freezing, am crawling out of the snow. Slowly, sure. But I am clawing through the ice, as I’ve done so many times before. Today I am choosing to rise, to stay awake, to stay alive.

This disease that threatens to kill me also gives me the superpower of radical empathy. The world needs my superpower. I am a warrior. I didn’t choose to be a warrior, but when you battle every day of your life and continue surviving, you become one by default.

There is work to be done.

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