Wednesday 28 April 2010

Misandry.


Oh, Amanda. You are so cool. I wish I could be you. Because you can voice how you feel so much better than I can. And I'm struggling to scream.

"Misandry (pronounced /mɪˈsændri/) is hatred (or contempt) of men or boys. Misandry comes from Greek misos (μῖσος, "hatred") and anēr, andros (ἀνήρ, gen. ἀνδρός; "man"). It is parallel to misogyny—the hatred of women or girls. Misandry is also comparable with (but not the same as) misanthropy which is the hatred of humanity in general."
It all started with Amanda Palmer. She's the one who's become the trigger, the 'casus belli' within me. Thoughts and feelings can only bubble under the surface for so long. And it takes the most simplest of articles to send one girl raging over the edge. And I'm angry, so fucking angry.

All my life, I have been constantly let down by men. I have constantly been abandoned by them. The man who should have been my father walked out without a goodbye and shut me out of his life completely when I was only five years old. Too young to understand what he was thinking, but old enough to know I was not wanted. And since then, I have not had a father figure in my life. Grandfathers have been the closest thing I could have. But I wanted a father.

I was a Daddy's Girl as a child. And like any daughter, I wanted a father to be the one to chase all my fears away and be my hero. But my name is Cheryl Anne Dixon - carrier of the name of a man who abandoned his two young children - I am not allowed a hero.

Although too young to understand the true concept of hate as a naive and insecure child - I began to feel it toward my male classmates. They teased me. They pushed me over and stamped on any part their feet could reach. They pushed me into rose bushes and chased me home. I was used by them. I just didn't understand. I understand now and I block it out, unsure about what happened. I was too young, but I could feel a rage within me. And it grew. I became such an angry person. Underneath the clothes, the childish obsessions and strange ideas - there has been nothing but rage.

And because of this, my teenage years have suffered. Because of men, I am scared of being in a relationship. I fear intimacy. I'm scared of letting myself be happy because I know that one day, they'll leave me too - just like my father did. And so I shut myself off. And when I tried to force myself, I ended up doing more damage and end up curling up into myself - dying a little more inside because I know I can't do it and never will.

I get older and find out what men are truely like. What I excused to be the selfish and silly ideas of teenage schoolboys became something much more dark and horrible. And it scares me. Men use us as playthings - they want nothing much than to fuck us and leave us. Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen. They play with our hearts and heads and we're nothing but pawns - we are here to be their pawns. We're put on pedestals to be adored and worshiped - to be perfect and clean and everything they want us to be. It disgusts me.

And this is where Palmer comes into play. Go fucking Amanda Palmer. I love you.

It really comes into the image of women that men seem to want and it makes me fucking sick because it's fake and it's not what a real woman is. Apparently, we must be perfect. We must be flawless. And if we don't shave every inch of ourselves, we are unclean. The general idea from men over this pisses me off. It's like the ordinary girl has to look like the sluts in all the porn you watch. Get a fucking life and a real fucking woman. Like Amanda. She is a real woman. She had ups and downs, she was unsure - I guess. But to me, she is real.

And it is because of this belief I'm destroying myself just to be so fucking perfect for you. I don't know why I've ever bothered. I've probably felt so low and desperate that in order to belong - I have to conform. I feel uncomforable with myself, like this skin isn't mine - it doesn't feel right. And who's fault is this?

Yes. Yours. Fuck you.

Thank you for destroying me. I hope you're fucking happy.

I am not your plaything. I am not perfect. I am far from it and will never be perfect. I am a girl. A one who's been fucked up thanks to you. I will always be a girl, an angry one. I hate men, for what you've all done.

Because I know what you are inside. I know every inch of you, every inch of your being. I know what you are. You are the blood and the bones of your mothers, rejected. You are the violence. You are the screaming void. You are abandonment, the perverted, the bastard. You are the betrayer of my sex.

And I hate you.

I don't know how long I'll feel like this for, probably for the rest of my days - maybe until I can come to terms with myself and find the right person to accpet me for the self-loathing fuck up that I am.

But I'm tired, so fucking tired.

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