My apocalypse doesn't involve meteors. It doesn't involve floods or fires. Nuclear war isn't an issue. Neither is terrorism.
If I woke up one day and found out that I had no rights as a woman anymore, that'd be my apocalypse. If I were forced to give up my education and career aspirations for an minivan and a cookbook, that'd be my apocalypse.
I cannot imagine a worst fate then being forced (keyword: forced) to be a housewife. A mother. A Stepford wife. One that must have long, flowing and usually blonde hair. Wears heels and pearls, not because I want to but because it is what a woman should wear. Starved until I reached the perfect weight and plastic surgery to fix all my flaws. Botox foreheads that lead to collagen smiles. Dinner on the table at five. Two perfect children, one boy and one girl. That perfect house on the crime free street. Don’t forget the white picket fence. Brainwashed with the “Husband knows best” mentality, that’d be my apocalypse.
The end of my world would be the day that woman no longer were able to make their own choices. Whom to marry or not marry. How many children to have or not have. When reproductive freedom becomes reproductive prison. Your husband and children become your career, your life. When your male significant other could degrade you, beat you, shame you and you just had to take it, that’d my apocalypse. When women lose their feelings, thoughts, ideas, and their voices became silent, that’d be my apocalypse.
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