Someone will hate you one way or another. Men will no matter what. And many women will too, but for different reasons. You’ll understand why when you figure out how to love yourself.
You were born free.
What have they maimed you to be? First break all your bones, then blow you back up, and paint your face back on.
Stop defending men. Stop. Let them go. Shhh, no. Stop. Let their absence become a lifelong meditation. The silence is amazing.
What do you fear if you stop? What happens when you stop caring what they think? What happens when you stop propping up their egos and pandering to their emotional fragility? What happens when you aim like the sharp-shooter you are and take out the man in your head? Kill him dead. Don’t apologize. Kill him dead.
There is no theory to explain that revolution.
You’ll feel it in your gut as your body comes alive. First will be all the agony for the times you wouldn’t let yourself feel. Then will come the rage, up like a geyser, as you catch your breath. And the joy, even at the fury, that you can feel at all. Be angry as hell. Let your eyes flame wild, your hair stand on end, and scream so loud the power of your voice knocks them all over in your path.
Then love every piece of you with reckless abandon, fearless compassion, and staunch loyalty. Be your own soulmate.
Sometimes it seems like I am screaming at you: That you’re too stupid. That you caused this. That you’re weak. That you’re not good enough. All I say funnels through the man in your head. Kill him dead. Don’t apologize.
You are brilliant. You didn’t cause this. You are strong. Your value is beyond measure.
I am screaming because I can tell you don’t hear me still. I am shouting for him to leave. You hear nothing because he is still talking endlessly in your ear, yapping yapping yapping. I know he is because you bring him up at every turn. Not all men. Not my Nigel. Not this man. Not my dad, son, brother. And when you don’t mention him, you are thinking of him. The Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, Allah, Thor, Adonis, Ra. Rousseau, Nietzsche, Aristotle, Freud, Stalin. Huckleberry Fin, Aladdin, Johnny Depp, Shakespeare, your neighbor, the last guy who harassed you on the street. Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, Elvis, Mozart, the first male you ever loved, Ru Paul. So what. Big deal. Swinging dicks.
In the commotion, I see you twist and turn endlessly, sister. It’s a familiar movement, one turned on itself, in a pain only women ever know. We have our own pain. It is ours and ours alone. Our pain is visceral, so deep in our bodies that its burrowed a hole there through to the other side. Our pain blinds our eyes and clouds our minds, cuts us off from our elemental power. Threads of women woven through seasons and life and death, surviving, still beating. Our vibrancy leaps out at the world and dances with her.
Stop giving it to men. Stop. Shhh. I’d take your keys. I would. You’re drunk on them, you are. You’re drunk. I know, it eases the pain. It calms the nerves. It slows you down and makes you stumble and fall. Stop.
You feel so alone and are so afraid.
But you have not yet even known what you are.