|Sick Woman by Jan Steen|
Image Provided by The Mag
Once upon a time in a land not that far away or a time not that removed women were not allowed to be ill - just hysterical. And doctors were not permitted to see them in their death beds or examine their bodies for the physical evidence of their path to death. Sometimes they could not be in the same room.
Dying women must pull themselves from bed, dress and sit in a chair as if to entertain and hope that with just a pulse to relate to a doctor the reality of their physical being. And so it is without understanding the number of women who died because of being female. Victims of their very physical natures or witches should they live.
And have we come that far? Or are we still being disbelieved. Fed tranquilizers and hormones and antidepressants for fibro and lupus and chronic depression and other diseases the medical profession continues to say are all in our head. We are seen through monograms and MRIs. Our knowledge of our own bodies disregarded. "Silly woman, you are just depressed. Nothing a good man could fuck out of you."
And at one time that is what doctors did so no wonder we are still being screwed.
Woman, heal thyself.
And so we go to herbal stores and the woman next door.
Or we choose to die. Whole with all our parts.