To the men who want to silence us - A letter

You, oh, you,

When you came into my life, all I saw was light. I thought I would never be afraid again. I spoke and I heard my voice—so sweet, powerful, and excited. I heard your laughter and thought it was the best music in the entire universe. I touched your skin and felt you were a part of me. When you said you loved me, I felt so certain that we would be the most wonderful pair. But then I found out about your lies, your masks, your fabrications—that was the first time you yelled at me. Inside, my voice started to suffocate while trying to scream, “Run!”

When I felt unseen and sought inappropriate attention, it took me some time to own it. You just waited for the right moment to reveal you’d hacked me. My voice became a whisper, burdened by guilt, shame, and the overwhelming loyalty to the promise that I would always take care of and devote myself to the one I loved.

Then, I got used to the yelling. Violence is also an act of passion, right? Right? I thought I was going insane. I was right. The night you yelled in my face that I was ridiculous and unworthy of love, I did not try to defend myself—I believed every single word, like whispers from ghosts that have haunted me since I was a child.

When you insisted on having rights over my body, and I yelled “No!”, you kept going. I washed my hair and pulled out the strands you had already yanked from my head. I cried until I saw white, and then I drank vodka for breakfast. Still, I did not run.

On the night I told you to leave, finally grasping at the last bit of dignity I had, you wrapped your arm around my neck, pressed my face against the red sofa, and I saw the lights going out. When you slapped me across the face with your jeans, I found the ugliest version of myself. But the savior in me still lingered, as my mother cried in the hallway because you decided to sleep in front of the building.

When you were in the hospital, I missed my brother’s funeral. I let go of my entire career just to take care of you. After you tried to kill me, I rescued you, because I had made a promise of deep love. I took you to the psychiatric hospital, and you were there for days—until I had to rescue you again. I didn’t realize that I had stopped being the hero of my story and become a supporting character in yours. You promised you’d go in there and come out as my love. But you didn’t, did you?

When I saw what I had become, I was petrified. My body was gone. My health was gone. My support system was gone. My career was gone. All that was left were the breadcrumbs you offered me. And still, still, I stayed—because I made a promise. Because you said you loved me. So I asked for more—for what I deserved. I asked for respect, dignity, and the same quality of life that I had offered for so long. And what was it that you said again? That I was a spoiled child who refused to hear “No.” Still, that “child” was the one responsible for the bills, the meds, the housekeeping, the emotional support, the everlasting luxurious disposition. But you said you loved me, right?

When I built a bit of courage to deny sex, you called me frigid. Said you had impulses. That you were sexually frustrated. That you didn’t even ask for sex, you just wanted to touch my body and make out. I talked about psychological coercion, and you responded with a definition from the Vade Mecum. But you loved me, right? So I gave in to sex. I gave in to every request, because it was just affection, right? Right? Or maybe I did go insane.

On my last attempt to communicate how I felt coerced and disconnected, you refused to have a conversation. All the responsibility, once again, was mine. The guilt. The struggle. All because of me. But you loved me, right? So you accepted this lesser vessel, this lesser version, my lesser money. You said you needed to regulate yourself, and went back to your videogames while I cried and created my escape plan.

You never shed a tear when I announced I was moving out and the relationship was over. There was no attempt to repair, no kindness, only imposed silence. Again, everything became my fault. I lay in bed and cried some more. I looked at myself in the mirror and did not find my power, my beauty, or my glimmer. My light had been put out like flame into water. But wait... You loved me, right?

Yes, men, you loved me. Like a cheetah loves a gazelle. Like predators love the hunt. Like a wolf loves a flock of sheep. Like a bat loves blood. I looked at myself again, and I was covered in blood, alone, crying in desperation, without any clear path ahead. I couldn’t understand the world or all the pieces of me. Right then, sitting on the toilet, whimpering and covered in tears, I finally understood: I was not destroyed—I was being born again. I had to birth myself, and start building again. I had to love myself again.

There will be no more meat, no more blood, no more massacre. There will be no more screaming, no more yelling, no more pain. There will be only one thing. Only one promise that remains: Never love men like you again.