I hate men. I grew up harboring a lot of hate for those creatures when one of them sexually abused me and destroyed my innocence at a very young age. I was only nine. He was supposed to have been my babysitter for a short while. He was supposed to have been a good neighbor, supposed to have looked at me like a father would look at her own daughter. Instead he looked at my undeveloped body and decided that he preferred that to the body of a fully developed woman. My innocence aroused him, my flat chest gave him an erection. He feasted on my naivety and killed my feelings on that fateful day.
My memory is vivid. I saw him lead me to his bedroom the moment my parents left after dropping me off. I saw him lock the door and remove his trousers. I was dizzy, I was scared, I was confused. I will spare you the details of that encounter. It is just too much for me to recall, and I spent many years blaming myself for something I had no control over. Then, I started harboring resentment towards my parents. Why were they always so busy? How come they never really knew me on an emotional level? It wasn’t enough for me that all they did was provide money for my upkeep. I needed them here. I needed them to love me and not just shower me with money and gifts.
It took ten years for me to open up to a psychologist. Ten years of trauma and painful silence. My mother should have noticed something. But she was always occupied with work to even know what was happening in my life. I grew up withdrawn and fearful of men. Especially those who were around my father’s age. At 19, I was ready to open up. I had gone to the University, and the Counselling Center was open to students. My counsellor suggested I could still report that paedophile to the authorities. But it was already late. That idiot had escaped this painful world. Death was no punishment. Death was numbness. He wasn’t facing the music for what he had done to me. He was lying peacefully beneath the ground and I could do absolutely nothing about it.
Today, I am 35. I am pursuing my PhD. I am accomplished. My life is comfortable. But I have built metallic walls around me and no man has ever been able to drill through them. At a point in my life, I identified as Asexual. I have varieties of dildos for my own satisfaction and men do not attract me at all. I have spent money on therapy sessions that were supposed to have ‘rekindled’ my affection for men, but none have been able to help. The sessions made matters worse. They took me back to that day when our neighbor penetrated me and destroyed me. I have stopped attending therapy. They leave me depressed and suicidal.
I immerse myself in work and my academic pursuits. I am concerned about taking care of me and only me. I do not want any children of my own. I don’t want any child to inherit the complexities of my personality. The truth is, I am paranoid about the whole idea of parenting. I do not have love to give to anyone. I cannot even love myself. I am content with paying the school fees of relatives and friends’ kids. I find some fulfilment and purpose in that. I plan to write a will very soon. Everything I own should go to charity.
I know I am a beautiful woman. Many men have approached me, but none of them is the Messiah. None of them can resurrect the feelings that are dead inside. So I enjoy the look on their faces when I turn them down. I enjoy their frustration when they chase me for years and give up. For me, it is all a payback for what one of them did to me.