I Should Tell You

Here goes.

Another friend contacted me this week to tell me that her boyfriend had broken up with her out of the blue. No, she didn’t see it coming. Yes, she felt totally blindsided. No, she is not okay. It’s the same old story: everything was going so well. She felt safe. He turned on a dime. How could he have done this to her? How will she ever trust again? How can someone she loved so profoundly turn out to be so cruel?

Thus, I recruited another member into my scorned woman army.

For the record, my militia is comprised of hot, talented, intelligent women who have dated completely unremarkable men who look like creatures found at the bottom of the ocean. And our numbers grow daily.

I really do hate to generalize about men this way. It feels so broad to write “all men are bad” content on Beyoncé’s internet, but if these men are going to be walking talking cliches, they shouldn’t complain when they are portrayed that way. But they will. They always do.

I told my friend she dodged a bullet, which is also a cliche, but as someone who took the bullet straight through my chest by marrying an emotionally stunted person, I can’t help but silver-line the situation at least a little. I know she will be fine. She’s beautiful and kind, interesting and smart. She will love again. Unfortunately, the next man probably won’t deserve her either, but I hope he at least treats her better than the previous one.

In the months following my breakup, I’ve had dozens of fellow scorned women reach out to me. We connected over our sad situations, brought together by the cruel fate of being thwarted by ugly idiots who never even deserved us in the first place. We’ve chatted about the liars, the cheaters (sooo many cheaters), the ghosters, the love bombers, the groomers, the avoidants…all different flavors of men who have used and abused women. Talking about these things with people who understand is sad and cathartic. But more than anything, I am just astounded by the sheer number of women who have been put through the wringer by these dumb dudes. Has any woman not endured emotional turmoil at the hands of an unworthy man?

I can’t even call these men master manipulators because, in most cases, they aren’t. They’re so emotionally stupid that they aren’t even in touch with themselves and what they want, and you will fall in the wake of their thoughtless decision-making. They’re selfish, sure, but they’re often not even smart enough to be purposefully evil. How sad.

Again, I am generalizing. Yes, I know all people of all genders have hurt others with their indiscretion. I know women do fucked up shit all the time, too. I am speaking from my experience as a woman who dates men and hates men. And I’m angry. I also have a personal blog about my feelings—and First Amendment rights. So I’m gonna use ‘em.

I have observed long ago that even well-meaning, “feminist” men struggle to have a conversation with me unless they’re trying to teach me something. I used to joke that I would never watch Star Wars because I would never want to deprive my boyfriend of the pleasure of explaining it to me repeatedly. At some point, it would become a bit: I would feign ignorance and twirl my hair and ask for the umpteenth time if Luke and Leia are lovers, only for him to explain, for the umpteenth time, that they are not. And then he would launch into the plot. And the intricacies of space taxes. And the lore of George Lucas’ process. And I didn’t care about any of these things at all! But I was a good girl, and I listened because he liked that. Sometimes, the best way to get a man to like you is to degrade yourself. It feels wrong to admit, but most girls learn this at an early age, so why not name it? We’re all just manipulating each other in some way, I guess.

Since my breakup, I have let other men explain Star Wars to me. They think they’re so smart, but as they ramble on about Obi-Wan Kenobi, I think about what I get out of this: their attention.

Yuck yuck yuck I want male attention and male validation yuck yuck yuck.

I’m sorry if I disappointed you by admitting that. It’s not something I like to admit, but it is, unfortunately, the truth. And I’m never going to kill the man in my head if I can’t at least acknowledge that he lives there in the first place. It’s complicated because I simultaneously hold two truths in my hand: The intelligent me knows that I am, frankly, better than most of these losers. Emotional me still wants to be looked upon favorably by men. I’ve been conditioned to be like that. I’m always trying to undo it, but after being so cruelly rejected by a man who promised just a couple of years ago to love and protect me for the rest of his life, I find myself back in an old toxic pattern: trying to prove to myself that I am viable in the eyes of a man.

YYYYYYUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK.

Sometimes, I think the more you love yourself, the more men will hate you. Not purposefully. At first, a man will be attracted to an independent and self-assured woman. But the more time you spend together, the more he will realize that the vastness of your inner world leaves little space for his influence. You are too hard to control if you are not small and actively attempting to make yourself smaller. You have to need him in some way, and nothing will kill his literal and figurative boner faster than you showing that you actually don’t need him at all.

These are the rules of the game. We all know them. They’re fucked and sick and sad.

I think all of the strife I’ve ever caught in any relationship I’ve ever had with a man came because I am too shiny. When you’re shiny, you radiate warmth on yourself and those around you. People see the light and are attracted to it, like a beacon. I think all the men I’ve ever known must have secretly believed that I was a mirror, that my light was somehow for them to absorb and not to be returned. And maybe I let them believe that for too long, because I didn’t know how to tell them that I was not here to make them feel like they were enough or to fill the space between their insecurities with my warmth. I think, somewhere along the way, they forgot that I didn’t need them to reflect my light. I had my own.

And yet, the men—those poor, unshiny men—always confuse my light for theirs. That is what happens when I allow you to bask in my glow for too long, I guess. But the thing about light is, it's not just there for anyone to bask in. It’s there to guide. To reveal. To make everything sharp and clear. And it exposes them for what they so often are: a void.

Because when you're shiny, when you stand unapologetically in your own warmth, it’s not a question of if they’ll fall short—it’s a question of whether they'll find their own light, or burn out trying to extinguish you.

Now you might be thinking, “April, if you hate men so much, why don’t you just lez out for the rest of your life?”

Well, first, I might. But second, the reason I hate men so much is that I love them. It’s pathetic, but at least I’m being honest. I know that hating men is the internet’s favorite accessory right now, but just like real accessories, you can tell when someone isn’t wearing it authentically. I don’t want to be fasle in asserting my hatred of men while secretly wishing for their approval: that’s its own brand of “pick me” behavior. Instead I’ll do the less satisfying thing of trying to explain the complicated intricacies of holding my hatred and my love for them in the same space.

So far, the best way I have found for decentering men is centering myself. At first, going back out into the world after my breakup made me feel like a college freshman in heels: wobbily and unsure. The rejection made me look for validation in all the wrong places. But now I feel like I am hitting my stride. I feel stupid to have looked for answers in other people when the answer was really within myself all along. Another cliche, but like, DUH.

When I’m completely absorbed in the little sparks of creation, the rush of superficial attraction feels almost absurd. Like, really? That’s what I was chasing? The more I crush on myself and my own work, the more all the other shit feels empty. I don’t think I’ll ever be cured of my need for outside validation, but I can correct the ratios. I don’t want to be a hermit, sitting in my apartment pretending I don’t exist outside of it, hoarding all of my light for myself. My light is meant to spill out onto the street, to spill out onto people—and yes, that includes men, to make them uncomfortable or seen or loved or whatever. They may never deserve it, but it isn’t in my nature to be selfish— even if it’s in their nature to be.