To all the boys who have killed me.
I have recently come to find that I have developed a violent hatred for men’s actions. Not men, per se, but the violently selfish actions of men and what seems to be causing them. I seem to frequently fall down the spiral of but’s.
Me: “But they can’t help it because of how they were raised in a patriarchal society.”
Also me: “But there is also no possible way, at this point in time, that men do not see and hear the privilege around them and refuse to learn more. How many of them choose to cut off their own ears in order to continue the delusion for their own benefit?”
You see, I have grown up around men my entire life. In my household, my church, my school, and unfortunately, I centered them significantly. Every trait I consumed was just to impress them. I learned instruments so I could entertain them. I dyed my hair because men liked blondes. I forced tight Aeropostale shirts over my prepubescent body to appear more delectable. I gave my body for affection. I learned these traits to stick out and be different than the other girls that also felt an invisible, inevitable competition.
I have also felt their gentleness, their arms covering me and comforting me. I have seen them cry over losing the family dog and held them while they did so. But even when I look at those memories with fondness, warmth even, the sting creeps behind. A kind memory laced with indifference in genuine danger or pain.
So, I have decided that I am going to write down every interaction with a man that has shaped me, good and bad, and at the end of all of this… I hope to feel better. My assumption is that this will not be so. Still, I remain hopeful.
I must warn you, I am going to tell you everything.
