Your Choices Matter

“This hour I tell things in confidence/I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.” — Walt Whitman

Years ago, a man told me that I was following him around, crushing on him, romantically pursuing him in an embarrassing way.

I did not think to myself, dude, five days ago you were serenading me with Bright Eyes in the desert, what gives?

I did not think to myself, this is what insecure men say when they feel rejected and confused.

Instead I thought, ‘see? I really am unlovable. I knew it all along.’

A few months after that, I had intercourse with a man for the first time. It was not my first time hooking up and it was not my first time having sex. Nevertheless, the first time that particular body part was ever in my body was a stranger I met off Tinder. He was 21 years old. I don’t remember his name. We hooked up in one of those pay-by-the-hour motels on a work night.

He wanted to, but I never saw him again.

It hurt. I knew it would hurt, and it did. I told him I didn’t want to, and I didn’t, but in the moment I said yes because I just wanted to get it over with. I had been waiting for something special but that other man had resoundingly convinced me that nothing special was coming my way.

These days, whenever I am having a particularly good day, whenever I start to feel good about myself, fat body and polka dotted dresses and all, I think about him. I think about what he said to me. I think about how the only difference between being the object of his desire and the object of his repulsion was whether or not he thought I was sleeping with someone else, or whether or not I was too sexually demanding, or too traumatized, or, or, or.

The line between being a woman who deserves to be treated like a human being, versus one who does not? With some men, it’s so hard to tell.

I thought I loved him. I really did. Some days, I still do. I still think that if he could just say the right thing, it would fix everything. It would undo the choices I have made in the meantime. It would give me back whatever it was he took from me. It would restore my faith that a girl like me, who grew up so deeply unloved, a girl so inadequate at performing femininity in every way, might still find her way to being lovable in someone’s eyes.

I know he won’t be back. I know he won’t do that. I know that he is off enjoying the privileges of being more powerful than I am in every way, which means his narrative is the only narrative that matters really. He moved on immediately to the white-girl-Dartmouth-grad who is half my size and blonde and I am sure she is perfect, and I am sure he would never say anything to her like what he said to me.

Women like me are mistreated from the moment we are born. We are accustomed to it, by the time we cross your path. If you think you can mistreat us, you are probably right. That does not mean that doing so is ethical or okay.

I guess what I am telling you is, the people you love will remember forever the things you say to us in a moment of anger or a fit of frustration. We hold our vulnerabilities close to the vest, just like you do. We women, maybe you think that we are all strong and savvy with our words, but it’s not true. Some of us are clumsy and lonely in the dark. Some of us are broken, same as you.

Be tender with your words, readers. You never know who’s listening to you.

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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.

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From The Good Men Project on Medium

What Does Being in Love and Loving Someone Really Mean?

My 9-Year-Old Accidentally Explained Why His Mom Divorced Me

The One Thing Men Want More Than Sex

The Internal Struggle Men Battle in Silence

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