Pain as Performance

by María del Mal 

Women are forced to perform. In all aspects of life, we have to perform when it comes to our bodies. In sex, in love, but mostly in pain. When we’re in pain, we’re expected to outdo ourselves. We’re expected to cry pretty and hold in our hurt for others. We’re expected to somehow capitalize on this suffering with all the grace and poise of a Navy SEAL. We have to carry ourselves with respect, showing the rest of the world that you, too, can capitalize on your afflictions. 

Women are essential members of society, to history, and yet our pain is what people mostly focus on. Women are not considered “front cover” until they’re dead, their lives taken by men and jealousy. Considering that some of the world’s greatest inventions wouldn’t exist without them, and integral moments of human history wouldn’t have happened without them, you’d think society would give a single shit about women. 

We come from women, all have mothers, some will be mothers, others marry mothers, the rest have kids that all have mothers. It’s not about the fact that women are something to someone else, but it’s the fact that we’re people. 

Tell me how it makes sense, how men get to rule society, destroy lives, and yet get no credit for what’s wrong with the world. Tell me how men rape, murder, and go to war, and yet we call them the rational ones. 

Women aren’t expected to just perform, but to also do it beautifully. We have to suffer in the way society deems good enough for us; we’re expected to add filters or lip fillers or to pose mid-cry session for a selfie. Because pain is a bestseller, across the board, in songs or movies or poems. Women give up their hearts, wear them on their sleeves, and dance for the crowd on bloody toes because it makes sense for society to function. Because it’s art. Because it’s worth our pain if it makes something beautiful. 

The worst part is that it starts in our mothers. In the ways that they tell us that we have to sit politely, “like a lady,” or to fix our face when we’re upset. Never forget to untwist the sour look you’ve mustered up because God forbid the world knows you’re the slightest bit bothered. Not when your brothers need help with their homework or some other bullshit. Not when your father needs you to bring him an iced lemon water with fresh fruit. Not when you need to sacrifice your free time to watch the kids of the family. 

At 15, I walked the halls of my school, wondering why I felt the need to hold back my tears all day long instead of just feeling them. I took every step with the weight of losing a woman who stood tall once, formerly the backbone of my family, and now a body in a coffin. Not only did she pass, but she passed her pain to me, too. The pain of knowing the secrets she carried until death, the pain of knowing how she held every fragile, shaky piece of our family together.