‘That was his speech?’ Joshua whispers in my ear. ‘Seriously? Just that? On his wedding day? I thought you said she was looking forward to this bit?’ He shakes his head, clearly as disgusted for her as I am. ‘Bloody hell. Your poor friend.’
I look down at our held hands, then up to his face.
Maybe you are different, I think.
I wait for Gretel’s reply. Her warning. Her snark.
I get nothing.
Maybe you are different, I think again, as I lean over to kiss Joshua’s cheek – which could be the making or the undoing of me. I will not know for some time. I may never know at all.
Maybe you are different.
And it begins.
Whatever it is. It begins.
One year later
I hate some men.
And you know what? I don’t think that’s over the top, considering what some men do1. The ones who hurt and push, the ones who see you as decorations, the ones who are so sad and so messed up that they take and take and take and still feel empty. I hate that they refuse to admit that they hate women. I hate that they still blame it on us. I hate that so many of them seem so far beyond help, and all the damage they’re going to cause as a result of that. I hate the ones who laugh at our anger, who diminish our pain. Who want to keep their slimy hands tightly clutched on the reins of this world, riding the rest of us and whipping us like horses.
I hate the men that did the things to me that made me hate men. I think that’s appropriate. I believe only I am allowed to decide if forgiveness is something I’m willing to give them, and I choose not to. I will not turn the other cheek to the men who damaged me. I don’t owe them anything.
But I love some men. I love the men who try to be different. I love the men who listen more than they talk. I love the men brave enough to hear what we have to say. I love the men who then talk to other men about it, even though it goes against everything they have been taught not to do. I love the men who want to break the cycle. Who want to be different from their fathers, or their brothers, their friends or their colleagues. I love the men who can confront the uncomfortable truth that it is their fathers and brothers, friends and colleagues who are doing this to women. Who have to admit maybe women see a different side to them, one we are not lying about. I love the men who don’t need sisters and daughters and wives to make us human and not want us hurt. I love the men who cry.
I love a man.
I have managed to find a man who, for now, is worth loving. I love a man who has stopped and listened and tried to understand, even though he is a man so he can never truly understand. But he tries. The important thing is that he tries. I love a man who holds me when I cry and is there, but who is making me build myself back strong rather than letting me use him as my strength. I love a man who annoys me so much sometimes that I honestly, seriously, sometimes think I hate him too. I love a man who finds me equally annoying at times but who still chooses to love me anyway.
I love a man, and it has not solved all my problems. It has not made my entire life slot into place like I thought it would. It has not saved me from the huge amount of work I need to do to save myself from things that never should’ve happened to me. There is no ‘the end’ we can hide behind after we found out that we loved each other. There are still two complicated human lives to lead and no guarantee that we’ll make it.
Some days are pure magic, some days are pure hell. Some days I feel like we’re soulmates who perfectly fit, other days I wonder what the fuck we are doing together when we’re so incompatible. Sometimes he gets it, sometimes I can’t even handle how badly he doesn’t.
Some days I believe the hard work is worth it, and other days I don’t.