In the Shadows of Men

 “You’re always mean to me, and I’m always nice to you,” he would say more than once.

Patrick was cold. Let me re-phrase that. My body turned cold when I was around, and would eventually sleep with, Patrick. There was rarely eye contact. Little kissing on the mouth. I could not, still cannot define what our relationship used to be. 

 

I didn’t talk about our sexual relationship with anyone because I did not think anything was wrong. He wasn’t controlling or violent. But he was arrogant and manipulative. I figured we would have sex eventually, just not the way it happened on his parents’ bed with an unlubricated condom. 

 

Maybe he was the one who made me afraid of men. Maybe, he’s the reason I internally convinced myself that everything that happens with men should always be my fault. It would be easier that way, I told myself. Put their feelings first, put mine away.

 

He had this emotional power over me, even while living in a different state. He’s the kind of man you only want to speak to in one-word answers.

 

I was 21 years old the night a specific event in our history happened. I had been at my apartment alone chasing a pint of Seagram 7 whiskey with Diet Coke. I was nearly black-out drunk by the time he came over.

 

“Yeah, you were pretty out of it,” he would say the next day when I called to ask him what had happened the night before. I did not know what to call this. It did not, necessarily, seem like something that started with the letter R. Waking up naked with vomit down the side of my bed was concerning. My roommate, saying, “What do you see in this guy?” to the shrug on my shoulders. I stuttered, putting my hands against my aching forehead.

 

I would eventually see a counselor at my university because that summer, a close friend had died three days before her 20th birthday. I was sad and did not understand that kind of sadness. I told her about the night I slept with Patrick, whom I had already slept with before. I told her how confused I had been because we were friends. Because I had invited him over and I knew what he was expecting. I remembered him walking into my room and can still see him lying on my bed. That is all I remember. I do know not if I was unconscious when we had sex. I didn’t have to say yes because it was already implied. 

 

My counselor said, “You know what that’s called, right?” Date rape? Was she sure? I probably started to cry. It did not make sense. It’s a term I still do not know if I can use. What if I was really into it while blacked out? I will never know. Besides him telling me that I was “out of it,” the harrowing part will always be the not knowing. Why did I allow him so much space in my life?

 

I have put my happiness in the shadows of men I’ve dated because I was afraid to talk to them. I was too emotional for them, maybe, and had no way to express that. Fear of them remaining stoic or walking away. Would I lose something of myself as soon as I told them something about me?

 

I used to talk to Patrick on Google Chat when I lived in West Virginia for a year. He almost convinced me to shave off all my pubic hair because that is what he preferred. What I now know: he watched too much porn and he was a lazy, lousy goddamn lay. I told a male friend of mine about this one day, and much like my former roommate, he was like, “What the fuck? Why would you do that for him?” Again, I stuttered or made some excuse. Aggressively, avoiding calling him anything but his name. 

 

Nothing ever felt forced with him. It’s just that I could not say no. I would not say no. I did not have the language for our situation because, technically, he did nothing wrong. Maybe something was wrong with me. Maybe, I was the problem. As he would mention multiple times, I thought too much.

 

The problem was him. The problem was also me. I still had not figured out a successful way to like myself, and most likely, he knew that. I needed his attention because it made me feel better about myself. If a man says, “I think I might like you” with his back turned towards you, he does not fucking like you.

 

Occasionally, I will reflect upon something a boyfriend said to me ten years ago. 

 

“We have to find a way to make you less afraid of me.”

 

While his intentions were sincere, saying that out loud did not fucking help. It was like sitting at a dinner table with a group of people and someone saying, “You’re so quiet!” and then everyone turns to look at you, expecting you to say something deeply profound. Eat a dick!

 

I will acknowledge that he was the only man I’ve dated to say something like that to me. To notice that something in my past had caused me to be, well, cautious and guarded. He was also freshly divorced, so I was walking on more eggshells than usual. He was not looking for drama, so for six months, I closed off part of my heart. This was not healthy behavior either.

 

It has taken me roughly ten years to fully recover from both of these men. I’ve spent a lot of that time digesting self-reflection and the power of confidence, careful not to backslide into old tricks. Hopefully, the next time I’m attracted to a dark-haired-blue-eyed-penis-card-carrying human I will remember everything I’ve learned. 



Recommended Reading: Girlhood by Melissa Febos

 

 

 

 

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