Reading both the essay and comments is the profound type of uncomfortable that always accompanies the moments that you see yourself.
I can't tell a story that hasn't been told a hundred times, and that's a story in itself--there's something I can't describe in the sheer mundanity of reading and saying, yes, yes, yes, that's me, that was me, that could have been me, that was my friend, my sister, my mother. It shouldn't be this common to be reminded how much I'm defined by what I carry between my legs.
There should be a difference between being an object and a woman; they aren't synonymous. Most days, I try to forget it's common to confuse the two. Usually, I can't.