That’s not a prize.
It’s how to ruin your life.
‘I let go of this,’ I say out loud, to my shitty cracked ceiling. My heart is closed for business. And not in a when-I-meet-the-right-guy-I’ll-take-it-back way. I’m honestly done.
I’m not just done. I’m angry.
So. Fucking. Angry.
I mean, aren’t you?
I hate men.
I hate how annoyed they get when you dare show any negative emotion – usually triggered by them. Acting like you’ve let the side down with all your pathetic emotions and ruined the fun. How they secretly think you shouldn’t be upset because they wouldn’t be. The judgement that lingers like putrid BO whenever you confess an anxiety or sadness.
I hate how they don’t believe you. That if you’re ever stupid enough to tell them about something another man has done, how they look for the holes in your traumas and widen the hole until you doubt it really happened – sometimes without even saying a word, just by pulling a face they don’t even realise they’re pulling. How sometimes they just ignore what you’ve said. Block it out because it ruins their day that you dared to get yourself violated by one of those nutcases who definitely isn’t them or anyone they know and now you wanna talk about it, goddammit?
I hate how sometimes when they tickle you in a play fight, they hold you down to show off their superior strength and you squeal like it’s funny but also the threat is there.
I hate men because the threat is always, always there.
I hate men because they’re so lacking in exhaustion from not constantly feeling in danger. They walk with this general easiness, like they’ve earned it, rather than taking a moment to examine their luck that they’re not terrified of violent rape whenever they leave their house.
I hate men because they only ever want you for the idea of you – all the good, sexy bits and not the messy, traumatised bits. Bits that are traumatised BECAUSE OF MEN.
I hate men because they’ve made me hate myself. I hate men because I could’ve been someone so much better, and greater, and cooler, and comfortable if it wasn’t for them. I hate men for not loving me when they’re the ones who made me unlovable. I hate men for making me hate myself for wanting one to love me. I hate men for the amount of time and energy they take from my life in the quest for it.
I hate.
I hate.
I hate them.
I don’t want them to love me any more.
I want them to feel as powerless as I’ve always felt.
I want them to pay.
I go out the next morning and get to the shops just as they open. The air con of the book store is so welcome that I want to pitch a tent and live in there. Though, after the pitying look the bookseller gives me ringing up my purchases, I’d be too embarrassed to stay.
‘Where have you been?’ Megan asks when I return home, sweating. ‘You seem happier.’ She’s sitting in a nest she’s made on the sofa – her favourite thing to do. She drags all the covers off all the beds and arranges them around her like a spiral of puffy candyfloss while watching Dawson’s Creek and doing impressions of Joey Potter’s wayward mouth expressions.
‘I am happier, thank you.’ I dump my heavy shopping bag down on the table, lean into a back stretch, and wince as I smell my already-smelly armpit. ‘Isn’t it a bit hot for the nest?’
‘I need the nest,’ she says. ‘My manager just told me I have to arrange the freaking launch event for our new jewellery line in only six weeks’ time. Because, you know, emailing your employees with giant projects on a Sunday morning is totally normal.’
‘Hon, that’s amazing.’
‘It’s terrifying and stressful, is what it is.’
‘So you thought the best way to tackle this challenge was to wrap yourself in my duvet and watch an episode of Dawson for the eight trillionth time?’ I perch on the edge of the sofa.
‘I’ve given myself this sacred Sunday to pretend it’s not happening, then I’ll have the nervous breakdown tomorrow.’ She looks up at me from her array of blankets and taps a space next to her. ‘Joey’s about to slouch her way through a horrific rendition of “On My Own”, care to join?’
I do. I’ve seen the Beauty Pageant episode countless times before, but I flop down next to her, though not under the blankets. We wince our way through her cover of Eponine, Megan pausing it at random intervals to yell ‘ERGH DAWSON IS THE WORST!’
When it finishes, she’s up right away, digging through my shopping bag.
‘Megan! No!’
‘What did you get? You never buy books! Oh my God, April,’ she digs one out and holds it like it’s contaminated. ‘What the hell? Is this a joke?’
I grab the book off her. ‘No.’
Her mouth drops open, and she digs into my Waterstones bag to unearth worse books with even worse titles. I try to stop her but I can’t. Megan gets them all out, turning each one over and reading under her breath and then staring up at me. ‘Is this what Simon has done to you? I didn’t realise it was this bad.’
‘No! It’s fine. It’s nothing. I’m fine, honestly.’
‘Yeah, you’re clearly totally sane. All these books are signs of such high self-esteem.’ She jabs at them with her finger. On the floor lie six books with the following titles:
Why Men Love Horrible Women
How to Win Him
Calling in Your Soulmate
The Laws of Love
Make All Men Want You
How Not to Scare Off Your Soulmate
All of them have various grand claims on their covers. Things like ‘Find the love of your life within 30 days’, or ‘Use the law of attraction to pull in lasting love’. Even Oprah has endorsed one.
‘I’m just trying something out,’ I tell Megan. ‘I’m doing some research.’
‘For what?’ She picks up Calling in Your Soulmate and holds it upside down, like it’s a dead mouse. ‘Are you method acting in a play called The Importance of Being Basic?’
‘Ha. Something like that.’
‘Honestly, what’s going on?’
Do I tell her?
Because I know what I’m planning is mental. And mental in a way that’s so mental that even your best friend isn’t going to pretend it’s OK.
‘Nothing’s going on. I’m just interested, that’s all. In all this stuff you’re told about how to meet guys. I thought it might help the relationship advisor part of my job.’
‘So it’s nothing to do with getting dumped yesterday?’
‘No!’ It’s to do with getting dumped consistently throughout my entire life. ‘And it’s just for work.’
‘I don’t believe you and neither would the most gullible person in the whole of gullible land.’
I shrug and pluck the offending book out of her hand. ‘Please, just leave it?’
She must see the pleading in my face. ‘OK then,’ she relents. ‘As unhealthy coping strategies go, reading is better than doing smack. That stuff is all bullshit though, you know that, right?’
I nod my lie. ‘Total bullshit.’
She looks up at me with wide, kohl-lined eyes. ‘Are you OK though? Seriously? You’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?’