BEGONE

CHAPTER IV

The dim light in the poorly lit room flickers along the walls like ghosts of the past, eerie reminders of the horrors that may be found there. I waited for the impending storm to hit me again, curled up in the corner, my body shaking with terror. The vicious cycle has been happening to me for as long as I can remember: the sexual abuse, the physical attacks, and the constant assault on my body and spirit. I was a shell of the person I used to be, emptied out by the never-ending suffering that defines who I am. I had grown numb to the hurt. While the bruises on my skin may eventually go away, the wounds that have scarred my soul remain a continual reminder of the trauma I have experienced. Every noise could be dangerous, every look could be deceitful. I tread carefully in life, not wanting to raise any noise for fear of attracting my tormentor once more.

Yet, I am aware in my heart that I am not at fault. Regardless of what they may have done, nobody should be subjected to such harsh treatment. However, self-blame lurks in the shadows of my heart, a relentless companion that refuses to be silenced

I  watch as the world casts judgment on me, slandering me behind closed doors and glancing aside. They perceive me as ruined, tarnished by the wounds from my past, and I am powerless to resist internalizing their disapproval, soaking it up like a sponge until it becomes an integral part of who I am.

Every decision I make and every curve of my body seem to be scrutinized by society because I am a woman as if my value came solely from my capacity to meet their limited definition of beauty. They label me with their hushed accusations and critical looks after observing the things I wear and how I walk around.

I hate being a woman.

But what they fail to see is the child I once was. The innocence that was taken away from me before I ever got a chance to learn what it meant to be a woman. Before my ambitions and goals were dashed by people who ought to have been watching out for me, I was simply a girl like everyone else. 

I hate being a woman. 

This idea stays in the back of my mind like a poisonous vine, coiling and twisting around my thoughts until its deadly grasp suffocates me. What does it mean to be a woman in a society when I am viewed as little more than a sexual object and a means of gratifying masculine fantasies? 

I hate how they sneer at me, their eyes following the contours of my body with a voracious expectation. I hate how people whistle and catcall me as I'm walking down the street, as though my presence invites their unwelcome attention.

But most of all, I hate the way they try to silence me and minimize my value based only on the gender I was assigned at birth. They tell me to shrink down to fit into the mold they have created for me, to smile more, and to be less aggressive. However, I'm not going to let their expectations limit me or make me into someone I'm not.

I refuse to feel ashamed of my identity as a woman. I will not apologize for my independence, intelligence, strength, or ambition. I refuse to let their bigotry and hatred define who I am or how my life should go.

How I hate being a woman because of society's relentless scrutiny and objectification. How I despise the way they diminish my worth, reduces me to nothing more than the sum of my physical attributes.