I hate men
Before you start to read this journal, just beware that this is based on real events, even though I got a bit dramatic and wrote it in story form. And to any men out there who have the misfortune of seeing this, I think the title gives it away, so you may want to skip on...
I wrote this all in one go, just because I needed to vent my thoughts, so if there are typos, don't pick at them, as I haven't read it through since I started. And I don't want to. It will only make me upset again.
So, just skip this if you don't want to listen to me whining about the other gender...
I hate men.
Absolutely. Completely. Without a doubt. Until I meet someone as amazing as any of the latest soppy romance novels I have stashed away from prying eyes, my mind won’t falter.
They say they’re the dominant gender, yet who are the ones who do all the work? Who are the ones who stereotypically must reside at home, cleaning and cooking for their poor hungry beer-bellies when why come home from work, grunting and sweaty from sitting on a train with too many other Neanderthals. Though they say we’re equal, it never completely feels that way. There’s always that slight insinuation, or a remark that ‘she’s got to do this, or ‘she’ should do that.
The clearest moment that I realised this fact was last summer, spent with my friend’s family in Cyprus. The men had gone out for beer and socialisation at the communal Rugby bar, while us girlies had stayed in, pigged out on chocolate and wine whilst enjoying Baz Luhrman’s genius romcom, Strictly Ballroom. Not fifteen minutes after the film ended and all was happy and peaceful in the house did they come back.
As is instinct in my home, the closest to the door must open it. And as I was there, it was my turn. But having just had a very relaxing evening, naturally I was very happy. Nothing can beat that feeling when you’re with your friends just having a good time, not having to worry about anything. This, however, was where it was ripped from my grasp.
Teasing the four of them by opening the door slightly, I asked them what the code word was for their entry, thinking my uncle might come up with some witty retort. He was great like that, though he’s only my uncle by family familiarity.
‘How about you open the door before he punch you in the face?’ my father asked sweetly, a smirk and merry eyes meeting mine. His cheeks and ears warm from the alcohol he had so obviously consumed.
Taken aback by his blatantly horrific response to my simple joke, I stood, mouth open in surprise and simply stepped back to allow them passage before walking silently off to my room, no-one knowing what had occurred apart from myself and my mother, who had just been in earshot.
Surprisingly hurt by my father’s lack of control over his choice of words, I hid in my room, curled up on my bed away from the ants and other bugs that had managed to invade our outdoor room during the steamy day. Before I even realised it tears of shock were dripping down my face. Though he had claimed it was only a joke as I left the room, I hardly listened.
Not two minutes after I had arrived did my best friend also come careening into the room, tears flooding her face, trying to hide them from sight as she covers them with her pillow. Instantly I move to her, holding her close, asking what’s wrong and how I can help. Comforting her.
My skin can hold my anger no longer, and after telling her I will return, I head back towards the house. Anger gives me the strength to be confident and bold as I do something I have never been brave enough to do before. I start to shout at them. The men who call themselves our fathers. I shout at them. Demanding to know what they have done to her, ignoring how my mother tries to calm me down and save me from their wrath. She does however pull me free from the room and takes me back to my friend who is only gently sobbing now.
Together we calm her down, and when she has finally quieted down, she tells us her sadness. The anger once again boils up and I want to rush back in there and hurt him, both of them for doing this to us. Our evening that was so peaceful not half an hour ago was now a battleground. A war between generations and gender. Never have I felt so much anger and remorseless emotions aimed at one person or people.
Eventually, as most women will experience, the anger turns to sadness and the sadness turns to tears. For the second time that night I cried.
Then with a knock my friend’s father comes in, looking apologetic, his cheeks having lost most of the alcohol-induced colour. At this moment, my mother and I take it as a sign that we should leave the two of them in peace.
My mother returns inside to stay with my friend’s mother, while I stay outside.
Finally he arrives.
‘It was a joke!’ he says.
‘I don’t understand how what you said could be a joke,’ I reply. Never have I fought back with him like this. Constantly I fear the slap her normally threatens me with when I do retort against him. Though it always begins as a threat, a handful of times he wasn’t lying. But that was when I was weaker. Younger. Now I’ve grown. I have my own mind. No longer will I put up with this bullshit.
It was that night that I finally decided this.
Any man who makes a woman cry, doesn’t deserve any respect, let alone to live.
You may think that sounds harsh, and it probably is to most level-minded people, but to those who have escaped that ‘perfect’ bubble, either by will or by force, you should know how I feel.
When I tell others of my decision, when once again the anger returns, they laugh it off, or as much as they can do whilst facing my resolve.
It is sturdy, even when everything seems ok, and I forget the times he’s threatened me, or how many times I try to talk to my brother while he destroys the earth. Watching TV, playing on his laptop, singing along badly and completely off key to heavy metal records. All at the same time.
Even then, I remember that night. I will never forget it. Not until my hero comes along to change my infuriated soul.
And they say it’s all a joke.
Turns out I'm a bit of a feminist!
Sorry if I offended anyone with what I wrote. Please don't yell at me. It was just spur of the moment, honest, truth-telling.
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I'm so tired now...