Catharsis | Georgia Maull-Keyser
The women’s health clinic put up a corkboard in the waiting room. A sheet of printer paper had been tacked to the top of the board with a simple message: Let it out. If you’re feeling it, another woman is probably feeling it, too. (Please no profanity).
Affixed to the bottom of the board were three small trays: one with blank index cards, one with an assortment of pens, and one with thumbtacks.
In a week, four cards had been added. In two weeks, fifteen. By the end of the month, there were more than thirty.
Most were brief. Some rhymed. All were poetry.
MY BASIC NEEDS, the very first card up proclaimed, followed by something that resembled a hastily written shopping list: SLEEP, WATER, FOOD, AIR, LOVE, PROTEIN, PROTEIN, FIBER, FIBER, FIBER, FIBER, FIBER.
In a swirling cursive hand: Would that men could feel the cramps I suffer. Someone had tacked a card next to it and written: Wouldn’t it be great if scientists studied women’s health?
One card asked: Is my headache because of dehydration, perimenopause, anxiety, or the fall of democracy? A card answered in vibrant red ink: yes. Another card elaborated: No amount of anxiety meds can counteract the dumpster fire of a world we live in.
An index card with drops of coffee staining its blue ink lamented: I’m great at watering plants but not myself. Someone replied: Coffee counts! Another commiserated: I’ve been dehydrated for thirty years. Anyone else? A fourth added: No one drank water before the turn of the millennium except if it was straight out of the hose and only in the summer.
In glittery, purple ink, someone wrote: I’m so tired of being tired. I would sleep for a whole year if I could. Someone added a red heart on the bottom along with two words: same, girl.
Why didn’t anyone tell me I needed to start weightlifting a decade ago?, a card ranted. If you’re reading this and are younger than thirty, start right now! Save your bones. A card in a frantic script asked: WHAT DO YOU MEAN!? Another card answered: Look up osteoporosis. Another card: THANK YOU!
On one card: I hate my cell phone. Every time it buzzes, I assume it’s someone I don’t know wanting to scam me or someone I do know needing to tell me a family member has died. Someone in that loopy marriage of print and cursive replied: I felt relieved when my dad died because it meant my mom wouldn’t be calling anymore to tell me he was in the hospital again.
The receptionist Helen’s favorite card said: I unknowingly rawdogged ADHD for my entire life until I started perimenopause. What the actual fuck frick. Sorry for swearing. She liked the card for the cacophony of hearts and exclamation points others had added to it. She didn’t know that the OB-GYN had written it. Helen had added a card of her own that said: I only have two speeds. Awake and Asleep. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.
Jennifer the OB-GYN loved the card that said: I like being alone but I hate silence. Someone had added: Thank god for podcasts. Another chimed in: Yes! My therapist calls it a sensory void.
When there was no more space, the staff added a second board. They all agreed that it didn’t seem right to take the cards down.
I started hormones last year and love my body for the first time, a card said. I was not ready for the breast pain, though. Or the crying. Another replied, I have PCOS and feel the same way! A second reply in fluorescent green highlighter shouted: IN DA CLUB, WE ALL FAM! (Warm compresses are super soothing!)
My boss, a card complained, is bro-y in a bad way. Welcoming any and all suggestions for acts of microfeminism. Petals of replies bloomed from this card in the course of a week.
Make she/her your default pronouns for talking about someone new. “The new manager starts tomorrow.” “Wonderful! What’s her name?” “Ted.”
Add “male” when describing a man’s occupation, especially for high-level jobs. “Jeff’s a male doctor. Craig’s a male engineer.”
Refer to male celebrities as “the husband of [wife’s name]” whenever possible.
Ask him to explain sexist jokes he makes.
If he gets a short haircut, tell him you like his pixie cut.
Refer to groups of men as boys.
The clinic had to add a third board.
Then a wonderful thing happened.
This board, intended for catharsis and validation, transformed into a space to uplift and empower. Business cards for life coaches, job recruiters, and headhunters. Flyers for women’s open mic nights and women-writers book clubs. Coupons and discount codes for woman-owned restaurants and businesses. Invitations for women entrepreneur happy hours and an event called “Gender Euphoria: A Night of Pampering, Womanhood, and Community.” Cardboard boxes were placed beneath the board for can drives to benefit the domestic violence shelter.
A new problem presented itself: the clinic had no more wall space in the waiting room.
Regina, the phlebotomist, always the innovator, found their solution. She brought large shadow boxes into the clinic and carefully transferred the contents of the first two boards into them. And then she mounted the shadow boxes to the ceiling in the exam room, directly above the exam table.
“So patients can see them when they lie down,” Regina grinned. “They can see them and know that they aren’t alone when they might feel it the most.”
Everyone in the clinic agreed that they could figure out later what to do when they ran out of ceiling space.
Bonus audio of Georgia reading her piece…
about the author:
Georgia Maull-Keyser’s work has been featured in Currents in Theology and Mission and she holds a MA in religious studies from the University of Chicago. She lives in Portland, Oregon. For more information, visit georgiamaullkeyser.com