From a weekend special, to a Fussy bitch: A Godly woman’s tutorial
Does your boyfriend only message you on a Friday, but barely says hello to you during the week because ‘work is hectic’?
And regarding the above question, do you still see that he is posting on Facebook and replying to others? (We both know you’re stalking him, while nursing the butterflies in your stomach).
Do you pay for all the fun, exciting and romantic things you do together?
Are you the only one in the ‘relationship’ who ever makes plans?
Do you feel elated on a Monday because you guys had a fun weekend of sex, but feel anxious on a Friday that he has no excuse to call again this weekend, so you design an entire event as an excuse to see him?
Does he forget your birthday, your last name, or to pay maintenance?
If you didn’t contact him this weekend, are you 90% sure he won’t make contact with you either?
Does he ask you to do ‘favours’ for him during the week, and then is super nice to you, but once the favour is done, you still don’t get much attention from him?
Do you make all the money, but he decides what you do with it?
Does he drop you off at work, in your own car?
Even though you aren’t religious, do you still feel empty after you and him have consensual sex?
Are you not sure if you just had consensual sex, cos even though you wanted to.. you didn’t really want to?
After sex, is his charm gone?
I bet he doesn’t ‘do cuddling’. But you knew that from the start right? You guys aren’t catching feelings’, even though you have been sleeping together for a year?
Have you seen questionable things on his phone, social media etc, but then accepted his very shoddy excuse and explanation, because you’d rather believe his lie and feel uncomfortable, than admit the truth that both of you are aware of, and feel heart break?
That was a mouthful.
I could go on..
But you get it, don’t you?
If you answered yes to any of these questions, then this blog/train of thought/essay is for you, my friend.
On Saturday I bought a box of pears from PnP. When I got home, I was excited to sink my pregnant teeth into the juicy goodness I expect pears to deliver. Alas, when I sat down to eat the fruit, I bit into what I can only describe as pear-shaped chalk. It was almost dusty.
And this, I would like to use as a metaphor for life.
Pear with me.
In my teenage years, when the opposite sex became a factor, I remember pondering on the simple rules I assumed everyone followed.
You have to be attractive. There really is no choice in the matter if you are going to have any chance of survival.
Pear-shaped is best. Apple-bottomed will suffice.
The rest of us who resembled watermelons, oranges or anything round were left to perish in the fruit bowl. Yes. Surrounded by flies.
Pineapples were only popularized with the naturalist movement.
And fat-kroeskoppe (Like myself) had to pick a struggle, before being liberated circa 2014.
Rule number 2, where I think it all went pear-shaped for me, is that it doesn’t matter whether or not you are actually attracted to a boy, if he likes you, especially if he likes you more than he likes the other girls, you win.
What do you win, you ask? Well. At life. You win at life.
Boys are there to validate girls.
At least, this was the universal mindset I prescribed to at the time.
I would bet money that all of us, now reaching our thirties (Or leaving them…)can look back at a certain man we ‘dated’, and can cringe at how we ran after them, no matter how many times they blatantly showed us that they weren’t interested.
But the worst rule of all, in my opinion, was that when a boy is mean to you, ignores you, or physically harms you on the playground, he really, really, likes you.
But you see, this playground isn’t specific to primary school.
Oh no, my sister. The playground in question is life.
Now, this week isn’t about physical abuse. I have written thousands of words of the men who bruise, batter and kill women on the daily.
I chose in 2014, to put my entire life on the internet, and emphasize the damage done by being beaten, raped, spat on, peed on and choked into a coma.
What I haven’t touched on, was the other side of the abuse spectrum. The side in which the abuser doesn’t really know that they are abusing anyone. Where the abuser is both the perpetrator and the abused at the same time.
The one in which we, as women, abuse ourselves.
Now, before the Femi-Nazis have a conniption, I am not excusing the behavior of men.
Yes, I do think that they (men) are lesser emotionally intelligent beings, but that isn’t an excuse to be vile to women.
For now, I want to just exclude the part of the conversation in which they are mansplaining fuck-tards, and I would like this specific blog to center on the things we allow to be done to us as women…
And why I think we allow these things.
Let me take an extract from my life.
Boys didn’t really like me. At least, not the boys I wanted.
When I would visit my cousin in Eastridge, the boys from her road always whistled and made me feel very, very beautiful. But when you come from a higher economic area, and you visit poorer places, it’s like the boys in the road can see you don’t belong, and suddenly you are fresh meat. I guess I was a little less vaal than the local kinnes.
Regardless, when I was in my side of the hood, with the boys and people I idealized, I was merely a chubby, loud girl who made too many jokes. And I think, due to being very very sheltered by my old school parents, I didn’t really understand social norms and cues, which made me seem very, very awkward.
Oh, and I also had a big head.
Now, none of this bothered me until my teens, when I saw all my other, prettier, worldly friends being swooped up by boys who had jobs, and cars and groups of friends who went to Tokai forest on weekends.
The cool kids were always at braais, and drinking beers together, and saying that they were all so “close”.
I really wanted to be one of them.
The girls who went with those boys always looked so comfortable in their skin, no matter how fat they were from the kuste biere thay drank so nonchalantly. They were always trusted with skinking the dop, and holding onto everyone’s sunglasses, caps and car keys.
They didn’t seem to have curfews, and their parents always trusted them to be out with “Sean” or “Jerome” or “Jody”.
I don’t think I would have been able to explain to my mommy why a boy was fetching me with a car. It seemed so taboo.
But I was lonely. I had no connection to God. I wanted all things worldly, regardless of my many lessons in chastity:
“Moetie vir jou groot hou nie”.
Unfortunately, instead of making me celibate, this only made me lie to my parents, and let boys finger me in inopportune places and positions, with very dirty hands, till I had to clock in at 10pm.
Any form of interest in me was enough to make me immediately smaak you.
If I discovered that a boy liked me, I would immediately imagine how each of our conversations would go, and even plan my explanations to my mom about who they are and why they were visiting me.
And all this before this boy even said hello.
You see, I was building expectations.
I was actually always like this, in my head.
When Bradley came to our school in grade 9, I immediately deemed him out of my league.
A spikey haired, troubled youth, he was everything I knew I wanted to hide from my mommy. But he immediately clicked with the cool crowd; the girls with straight bobs, and the boys who played rugby.
But, he noticed me.
Or perhaps he noticed my desperation.
In the afternoons, a group of us used to walk to Tamara’s house and smoke cigarettes. Tamara’s mom was pretty cool with us hanging out and she was allowed boys in her room.
Obviously, Tamara was white.
One day in a game of truth or dare, Bradley leaned in to blow smoke into my mouth. I thought he was gonna kiss me, and I stuck my tongue in his mouth… for the longest five seconds of my life, he didn’t reciprocate…
Then, he quickly licked my mouth… and pushed me away.
I realized what had just happened and pretended I didn’t notice.
I wasn’t deterred though.
Mortified, yes. Deterred.. no.
For the next six months, the more he ignored my advances, the more I asked my friends to talk to him about me.
“Make reg, man?” was like a vocabulary staple.
I know, this is painful to listen to (though, probably not as painful as it is to write it out loud)… but at the time, I was completely oblivious to how he couldn’t be into me… He greeted me, which means I was in his league right?
One Friday midyear we ended up in the same detention room.
I was ecstatic. My vagina felt tingly. I was oddly brave and knew that if I didn’t make my move immediately I would regret it.
He sat down next to me.
The next few minutes aren’t clear in my memory, but I know I ended up handing him a piece of paper:
“Will you go out with me?”
I saw him sit and stare at the request for the second longest five seconds of my life.
He started to write his reply..
To be continued.
(I took up this subject, because while I was praying the other day.. I truly believe this message was placed in my heart. I was actually planning on speaking about my present, but this message is meant for someone who needs to hear it. So, this three part look into my life, and the struggle I faced while finding my identity and navigating the world is here as a lesson. If it is for you, wonderful.. if not, please feel free to share it with someone it may resonate with. Love You.)