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I call it “The Time Before Men,” a version of myself I can never get back. I guess, you could say, some might also call it Innocence.
People didn’t care about truth; they only cared about how the lie appeared.
The older I became, the more convinced I was that no one escaped this earth unscathed by human suffering.
The world of men required certain sacrifices of me and I had simply tired of making them. It was high time for men to sacrifice for me. To give generously for my affection—to give of their bodies, not just of their wallets. Paying for dinner was easy. Paying with your flesh, as women had been expected to do since the dawn of time? That was hard.
What made a man? Hatred for women, perhaps. If not hatred . . . then apathy.
And so like my mother told me would happen, I walked the world of men alone, often discussing with other girls my age how to be a better product. A shinier product. Hot, wet, and ready. The first catcall made me doubt my body. Walk a different way to the mall, a quieter way, but not too quiet because then no one will hear you scream. The first assault made me afraid of my body. Your body is too tempting. Wear a baggy sweatshirt, not the low-cut sweater. Stop styling your hair, barely even brush it. No more make-up. Definitely no heels, they are too difficult to run in. The first rape made me
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I didn’t just hate men. I didn’t just hate the world. I hated myself. And everyone and everything who made me, only so a different set of people and things could break me.
As time had passed and I grew older, people wanted me around less and I didn’t hear how I was pretty anymore unless someone wanted something from me. I was smart, but not smart enough, not as smart, not the kind of smart that mattered. I didn’t like the right music, and I didn’t dress the right way, and my father’s interactions hinged on telling me what was moral or not.
