Musings of a Crazy Black Woman

After a brief personal social experiment, I have decided that I will no longer accept males as friends or anything else in my life. I have two guy friends, both of whom I met in college, and one brother (cue Best Friend by Brandy). However, as of today, and for an indefinite amount of time, that is where my personal relationships with men end.

Amidst the constant social media “not all men” cries, I've realized that every single man I have met platonically and romantically, aside from the aforementioned, has been a bad person. I never encountered a decent boy in my childhood, and I have yet to meet a good man in my adulthood. In addition, I have never met a man who hasn’t regarded me sexually. So, it’s time to be honest with myself. I’m tired of men.

I’ve been ghosted, lied to, gaslit, cheated on, manipulated, coerced, abused, assaulted, raped, and discarded by men. I can’t even stand to be looked at by them anymore. I know what they’re thinking. I recoil at their touch. I’m sickened at the notion of smiling for them. Pretending for them. Being for them. My belief system, which regards love as ultimate, makes me hesitant to say I hate men. But refusing to say it doesn’t make it any less true.

Men have tried to ruin my life for fun. Even men who I thought were good people — men from “good” families, social justice warriors, men who taught consent classes to high school students, men who raged against rape culture via tweeting sprees, men who verbally rejected misogynoir and preached the falsity of white supremacy. Men like one of my former boyfriends, who raped me just because he didn’t agree with me being a virgin at that age. Toward the end of our relationship, I would jump if he touched me, out of surprise and aversion.

Those same men sleep soundly while I have lived, awake, in anguished silence. Maada, christopher, nicholas, omar, lucious, dashaun (dead by suicide), laron — sexual assaulters, who meant to destroy me, but to no avail.

I’ve fought the tides and made it to shore time after time, only to be sucked back in by the wave that is man. I’ve breathed more water than air, but I won’t die. I’ve been drowned so many times, I’ve become drunk off salt water. Now I’ve made it back to shore again, and I’ve rushed inland this time; without stopping to take a breath or thank the gods or kiss the land. And I no longer believe my drowning is my own fault for having been so close to the sea. As much as I believe in self-reflection, I finally understand that it isn't me. I am not the problem. I am not the bad guy. I was taught that “not all waves will drown you.” Now, I see that every wave that I have ever encountered has indeed drowned me and I can’t base my beliefs off of encounters that other people may have had with the sea. I must use my senses, for once. My eyes, my ears, the feel of comfort I experience away from men, the fresh taste of air and water that isn’t tainted with bitter salt and lies.

Never again will I be harmed by a man masquerading as a friend. Never again will I be assaulted by a man impersonating a lover. I won’t smile at strangers who are men in hopes that they won’t murder me. I won’t give men on the street my phone number in hopes that they won’t murder me. I’d rather they just kill me — or give it their best shot, because I won’t mold my life around another man.

I’m unwilling to keep living my life in hopes that if I give love and kindness and sincerity, I will get it back. I now know that I won’t — not from men. I’m unwilling to allow men to call me “crazy” or “burdened” after their fellow men have attempted to tear me apart; shred me from the bone.

I’m going to continue to love me and love my friends and I won’t let another man interrupt that. I’m not going to make myself small to make a man feel comfortable ever again. I’m not going to tone it down; and I’m not going to feel bad! I’m going to be me; I’m going to be large. I’m going to be. Black woman — loud, proud, honest, joyful.