You Hate Men

January 3, 2009

I could almost swear that Will called me a “man-hater” this morning on his way out the door. He hasn’t used that exact insult before, but I know what he meant by it. He uses my rapes to deny the fact that I am angry at him. He dismisses my anger and complaints because he says I hate men. Usually, Will brings up my rapes in a concerned, loving way. He’ll say, “Kellie, I’m worried that you blame me for what those other guys did to you.” He then launches into a story about how I transfer my feelings for them onto him. That analysis comes from a man who does not “believe” in psychology.

I could understand a rape victim hating all men. It happens. But I don’t hate men. As a rule, I like men! The neighbor raped me when I was fourteen, and a soldier raped me right before I met Will. Both were technically date rapes and the second one involved a roofie – I’m sure of it. I didn’t report either of them, but for very different reasons. Two men raped me, not every man.

Will vehemently asserts that if I could just “get over” the rapes, specifically the one when I was young, all of our marital problems would go away. In the past, I’ve retreated into myself and examined those rapes, re-traumatizing myself in the process but coming out of it with greater insights. Nothing in my mind points to a possibility that I hate men. I think Will wants me off his back, so he uses that excuse knowing I will consider it for a while.

One of my insights regarding “hating men” is that most of the times I lash out at Will are because he put my back against the wall. I’ve done and said things to Will that I am not proud of. There is a story in my journal about a time I hurt him deeply. I felt guilty for it for a very long time, and used it as a way to prove to myself how horrible I was. I used it as a reason to believe Will when he says, “You are as bad as me! Don’t you dare deny it!”

I’m going to tell you the story, but I deny being as rotten as Will.

Cruelty

Journal Entry from 17 years, 1 month, 6 days until the end

I was so cruel in what I told him. He was cutting into me about something and he snidely commented on how good of an actress I was when I wanted to get my own way. I cried, “You believed my performance last night!”

I said it to make him hurt as much as he’d made me hurt when he called me those names and said such terrible things. I told him I acted like I’d enjoyed sex last night. It was true. I faked it. But I wish I hadn’t said it.

He was stunned. He cried and hid in the bathroom. I wanted in and he would not let me in. I slumped to the hallway floor and told him through the door that I didn’t mean it. I am sorry. I explained that I made love to him sometimes when I didn’t really want to because I wanted him to be happy.

He will not do that for me though. Sometimes, no matter how much I want to, he won’t do it. I want to cry right now. The last night I was home before coming out here to train, he would not make love to me. It hurt me so bad that he didn’t want to. It wasn’t that I didn’t get my way, but because he didn’t want to be near me. No desire. He let me lay there and cry to myself. Maybe he’d rather not make love than worry about if I were enjoying it or not.

Maybe he does it to hurt me. Maybe he wants me to be scared of him for some reason. Afraid he’ll leave, afraid he’ll hit me again, afraid he’ll call me “whore” again. He wants me very dependent on him for some reason – so he has control.

He married me to fight me, it seems. To beat me down and make me less than I am. That infuriates me. THAT is what scares me. What if he does win? Where will “I” go? Will I disappear into the mold he has laid out for me?

I don’t think it will come down to that. I think he’ll come around before that happens. I don’t want him to change; I want him to understand me. I hope he still loves me when he does understand.