I don't think I want to "meet" any more men. There's just way too many horrible surprises to sift through.
A chronological list of "romantic" surprises :
Surprise! He raped little boys.
Surprise! He raped little boys. (Two different men. This happened twice to me when my hair was short...)
Surprise! He has a compulsive fetish that he won't tell you until AFTER he traps you in a marriage.
Surprise! He raped you, and he is married with kids!
Surprise! He lied! He has a girlfriend! She'll assault you after your show!
Surprise! He's a domestic abuser, cheater, stalker, addict, and rumored rapist. Wish I'd known...
Surprise! He's an alcoholic and drug addict and lied about it.
Surprise! He raped several women and is a coke addict.
Surprise! He drugged you without consent.
Surprise! He drugged you without consent AT A WEDDING. (These were two different men.)
Surprise! He's dead. He only had two years left to live due to alcoholism, and lied to you about it!
There were other less extreme offenses wedged between those, men with emotional problems who probably just didn't know better, lacked fathers or were just emotionally immature, or weren't the brightest. I didn't include every man who ever grabbed or groped or spanked me on the street or shouted at me, because there are too many to list.
It's as if men have always been fighting a war with me, but I don't understand why. Why they'd feel the need to be so aggressive against a 90-something lb woman. Why would that feel like victory to them, to fight a tired little woman who doesn't fight back? How small they must be inside. Did my inner bigness make them feel small, even though I never said it aloud? I did, after all, accomplish more than all of them combined. Maybe it enraged them to see their prey thrive despite every attack. I don't know why I'm still standing either.
Well, I didn't waste time fighting useless wars, for one thing. I focused on self-betterment instead. I'm very good friends with myself. I lift myself up not because of them, but because, I love myself. Men who abuse women do not love themselves. They're too caught up in some imaginary fight/war/game to think logically, or lovingly.
Even the person I'm grieving for, acted rapey at times, and was openly anti feminist. His friends weren't much better.
I am sure there are good men out there. But it's like belief in god. I've heard he exists, but I've never seen him. I try to have blind faith, but more often I think there is no "He." It's too far-fetched. And it sounds suspiciously authored by a man, like most everything else in this mismanaged world dominated by the male ego. Women and children suffer from this imbalance. Everything is backward. Maybe there is a male god, and he's a piece of shit.
A capable, loving, compassionate creator "She", I can easily imagine, because I see those qualities all the time in women, and sometimes in gay men. Neither of whom ever get enough credit.
I am so very sad in this moment. I guess that's to be expected. I know it's affecting me, because every morning something breaks. Two glasses broke this week from pouring hot water into them. Today my water filter disassembled itself into a sinkful of dirty dishes. I am not a typically clumsy person, but since R died I have two left hands and two left feet.
After getting to know R a little better, I started to notice that he was never ever sober. I started to fear he'd die. I had these fears way back in 2019, so I stayed far away from him, to protect my heart from grieving more stupid men fucking up everything. But I thought he'd wait at least a decade longer to die.
After we reunited one evening in August, I came home feeling like I'd already seen a ghost. Wow he looked bad. It looked way too late to tell him to stop drinking. He reminded me of the cadavers we dissected in school, yellow, soaked in formaldehyde. He didn't eat a thing, even when I asked. I stood and waited for him to wake up, checking on him every few hours so I could leave and go home. His breathing was shallow. He looked so tired... It scared me. I got out of there as fast as I could, and still he seemed to not understand why I'd want to flee.
I went home and told M and N about it. "It's so sad," I told them, not even knowing he'd die two months later. It all seemed too late already. I didn't know what to do. Still don't.
My life feels like a series of traumatic things that men do, and my efforts to stay afloat despite their terrible mistakes.
And I feel guilty for the part of me that knows my life will be better with one less of these men in it, because it's true.
And I'm pissed off about the stupidest detail, that a dead man has my coat. I lost a person, AND the only coat that kept me warm. Winter coats are so expensive. Where will I find one that fits? Men and coats, they never fit me right. But at least coats don't hurt me. I pay and receive something in return.
Some people leave you with less than you started with. R left me with grief and without a coat. Could have been worse. I could have obeyed his wishes and given up the life I worked so hard for to live with him. I could have drank by his side and had a nice little coffin next to his. Instead I rejected his insanity and left. So I lived.
“Gentle overcomes rigid. The slow overcomes the fast. The weak overcomes the strong.” - Lao Tzu. :,(
Another rigid conflict-seeking fighter bites the dust. "The meek shall inherit the earth" seems truer every day.
The angry anti feminist buried himself, but men are still looking to blame me for it, that they have to invent magical belief in curses. The doctor said he'd been in ER for liver problems five times before he even met me. Bro, I'm going with science on this one... I chose sobriety. He chose death. He did this to himself.
10:08 a.m. - 2022-11-04