Renew

That was the word I used to repeat and have splayed about my bedroom. It was a sort of affirmation to myself and those around me. What did that mean to me when I was 19-23? It was a way to remind myself that I could always pick myself up again. Every day if that was what I needed. In recovery you always hear "One Day at a Time". Essentially, I realized that is what I needed even before I admitted it to myself. Alcoholism isn't the problem for me, it is a symptom. My issues so deeply rooted within me that I was racked with trauma by the young age of 11 when my father decided to look at my naked body on multiple occasions. For the longest time I didn't know what to call it. I knew I hadn't been raped although it sure felt like it. At 31 I was given space to come to terms with what happened. I was assaulted. I was sexually assaulted. The man I should have been able to trust more than any-one-person betrayed my feelings of safety. The yelling, screaming, belittling, his withholding of love and his belt or paddle slamming against my body, those are something I feel more able to heal from. But the loss of choice over my body, well that fucked me up deeply and severely.

My father first called me a slut at the age of 14. I wasn't allowed to wear make-up, but my best friend at the time was exploring that world. She was rather good and sometimes she would tell me that it was okay, and she was going to put some make-up on me. I was allowed to go to the mall this day. I fucking hate the mall now, but back then it was my escape. It was the one place I could go without him overshadowing any chance of fun and peace. Later that night he saw me. I was wearing skinny jeans, a studded belt, and a black shirt. I also had on eyeliner and mascara. He looked at me and said, "You look like a slut. And I won't have a slut for a daughter." I can't tell you if that impacted me more back then, or now. The emotions I feel from this memory range from apathy to anger, sometimes I feel sick, but sad is generally what overpowers the rest. I feel sad for that little girl. My body was his. It always had been.

I've dated men who have continued this cycle. I've been called a slut, ho, skank, crazy, bitch; all by men that have claimed to love me. How can someone love me when they internally and externally hate women? I was talking to my therapist two sessions ago. We were getting to the end of our session. I remarked that I think my father hates women. She said, "I would say so." That validation kind of got the ball rolling. How many men have I dated that hate women? Very few men will admit to hating us, but actions speak louder than words. Incels exist for a reason, do they not? Every man is an abuser or is/was friends with someone who has harmed one of us.  We need to see accountability here, or things will never change.

Every time I hear of another woman beaten, set on fire, raped, murdered, or missing after last being seen with her partner or after repeated attempts to stop harassment, I think to myself: men hate us. 

I am fucked up because of my father. That abusive cycle continued in the men I have given my time, energy, body, and even love to; and with every moment my body became an object to possess. I will not let these men destroy me. It is my responsibility to rise up, no matter how unfair this is. I must set fire to those parts of me which have been corrupted by hate, manipulation, and violence. I will not become another statistic. I am more than "the crazy ex".