Privilege
They say some go to therapy to deal with people in their lives who won’t.
I’ve had the privilege of feeling loved and understood as a daughter.
I’ve had the privilege of feeling adored as a granddaughter well into my teens for simply being.
I’ve had the privilege of memory and distance, watching the parents and their parents feel understood and misunderstood, of their reacting and responding.
I’ve had the privilege of hearing intergenerational unvarnished stories of trauma told nonchalantly, telling me that as life goes on the sprit continues to thrive.
I’ve had the privilege of throwing a fit when feeling misunderstood, rebelling when feeling caged, dramatizing urgency for the simplest of cravings just because.
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I’ve had the privilege of space and stories to shape me into being empathetic.
I have the privilege of time and vulnerability to sit with those feelings before they escalate into anger and resentment.
I have the privilege of therapy as a useful tool and not a taboo I need to hide from.
I have the privilege of reason and introspection on ordinary and outrageous days.
This privilege is weighing down on me today.
I want instead to use my privilege to be irrational, irreverent, annoyed, displeased; to groan and moan and huff and puff.
And I did….. It felt human. But went poorly.
I forget that I’m not always surrounded by those who have been granted the same privileges. They are human after all, entitled to their humanity a bit more than me, apparently.
