For a long time, I hated him.
Well, hate is a strong word.
He was the first person to tell me I didn't mean anything. He was the first person to tell me I was ugly. He was the first person to tell me I didn't matter.
And he took something from me. Not something tangible, and not something that could be replaced. He took it and smashed it on the ground. And told me it was worthless.
My innocence didn't matter. My agency meant nothing to him. My response, the "no" that I couldn't even bring myself to say out of disbelief, meant absolutely nothing. What mattered was what he wanted. What he desired.
What did he desire?
Was it me? The things that make up who I am? The wit and humor? The fiery stubborn streak? The passionate drive? The intelligence behind my eyes? I don't believe that was it...
What did he desire?
That his desires be met. For me to bend to his will. A body to act against and upon as he wished. Nothing more, nothing less.
As he stripped me of my shirt, was that him stripping me of my decisions and the power to make them? As he pushed me back onto the cold ground, was that his way of pushing his desires onto me? Projecting them on my bared body, making him believe that I wanted this too? That I was asking for it?
For a long time, I hated him.
Well, hate is a strong word.
You know I don't want to hate anyone. I'm supposed to love. To forgive. But he took away my innocence. He sparked my first bout of depression. I went to counseling for the first time in the wake of his stripping of my agency.
But there was more. There was something unnamed floating beneath the surface of emotion waiting to break out. I know now that it wasn't just that I hated him.
I hated her. That 14 year old girl who was naive enough to be alone in a dark room with her boyfriend. I hated the stupid kid who let herself get caught up with a "bad boy" all the while just thinking he was "cool." I hated the girl who couldn't find her words when words were needed. Who couldn't even move when the moment called for kicking and screaming. I hated the girl who went home that night and numbly showered, wishing the water would wash away the feeling of dirtiness that lingered. I hated her.
I hated me.
Well, hate is a strong word.
I know I'm not supposed to hate myself. God loves me, why can't I love me too?
Maybe it's because I still fear men bigger than me. Maybe it's because every time I'm alone with a man I make sure I know where the exits are in the room. Maybe it's because I revert back to that 14 year old girl every time a man catcalls me, going numb all over.
Maybe hate is a part of trauma.
Maybe that's why hate is such a strong word.
Comments