Obsidian: The Dark Side of Healing

Part II: A Woman Hater

We have established that two things can exist at once. Still don’t believe me? Well, the world is both beautiful and terrifying. Light and dark exist in a tumultuous dance. You could look around and see the pain and let that consume you. You could look around and see the light and be deceived. Or you could look at both for what they are. Do you need another example? Fine then, I am a woman who hates being a woman, while loving women helplessly. That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t make any sense.

I played with the barbie dreamhouse, but I preferred the boys. I liked their clothes better. I liked their hair more. The girls looked nice to me, like something to eat.

As I grew older, I began to like video games, nerf guns, and Dragon Ball Z. In fifth grade, I watched the boys in their skinny jeans and snapbacks. I wanted to be like them. I preferred their manner of dress. I envied their swag and would do anything to have a girl look at me the way they looked at them.

I liked to play with the guys. I loved basketball and didn’t care much about cute boys. Of course, I did it to fit in. I would’ve said whatever I had to back then to fit somewhere. Anywhere. It didn’t take people long to realize that I was different. It didn’t take them long to make fun of me about it either. Especially the girls. The guys didn’t give me any problems but on a few stupid occasions.

A while ago, there was a TikTok going around that made me wonder. Am I masculine because I want to be or am I masculine because the world told me I wasn’t pretty enough to be feminine? Perhaps, I am masculine because I believe that that is what women want. That is what girls look for.

Perhaps it is because the first girl I ever pursued taught me how to behave like a man. She wanted me to slap her ass and treat her poorly. I was expected to treat women like conquests and ventures more so than people.

Perhaps it’s because I hated pretending to be boy crazy to fit in. I hated pretending to be obsessed with makeup and boy bands. The girls at school didn’t have much in common with me. I liked Yu-Gi-Oh cards, and they liked playing princess. I went as Chris Brown to a Halloween party and the girls went as — well princesses.

My mother used to dress me in girls’ clothes to the nines. I had matched outfits and a head full of barrettes. I always thought I looked like a Christmas tree. I despised those bows. I hated purses because I like to walk hands free. I never wanted to carry around lip gloss and was never curious about makeup.

I had two girlfriends growing up. One was just like me. She was alternative and odd in her own right. That was in elementary school. The other one I met in eight grade. She was pretty and loved makeup. However, all she ever wanted to talk about was this boy. I grew tired of hearing her chatter about him. We stopped talking after a few months.

Girlfriends and get togethers were not something I was raised with. Not to mention, I grew up watching how treacherous women could be. My first bullies were girls in my class who hated me because I was smart. They would beat me up daily after school. It got so bad, my Mom moved us to a different city.

I thought perhaps it would be different there, but it wasn’t. The girls in my new school formed an alliance that outlawed speaking to me. If you were caught talking to me, you would be the newest victim of their cruelty. No one wanted that. So, everyone stayed away.

Now that I am older, I sit with these incidents and ponder. Despite having a few decent girl friends in recent years, I still find myself feeling safer with the guys. For a long time, I wondered if this meant I wasn’t a lesbian. I wondered if I was trying to simulate the few happy memories I have of my father.

We were boys more so than he was a dad in my earlier years. I would go on car rides with him and his homeboys. We would eat and I would watch them smoke. It was fun. I felt safe there with all the guys. They treated me like a little sister, not just their homeboy’s daughter.

When I did make friends in middle school, I was closest to a pair of cousins. The girl was much younger than me, and she reminded me of myself. She wasn’t super prissy and didn’t wear makeup. She liked jumping fences and being odd. The boy was my age and I enjoyed having a homeboy.
Now that I look back, the most meaningful relationships I had when I was younger were with boys. There was P, from the back of the bus, A who I met in middle school, L whom I met at Taco Bell, B whom I met working at Dairy Queen. I always felt odd with women friends. I had very few and grew comfortable being surrounded by guys.

I wonder now if other lesbians have the same issue. Do they find themselves not knowing what to do around women whom they are not romantically interested in? Do women have any other value than being a partner? Does every friendship turn into a crush or is that a sign that deeper healing needs to occur? Do I hate women?

I don’t think I hate them. I think I don’t understand them. Billie Eillish said it best; “I’m still scared of em’ but I think they’re pretty.” I don’t know where I stand as far as female friends. Perhaps this entire essay is a commentary on how I’m still uncomfortable with my own femininity.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized a few things. I am interested in makeup, but not so much full glam. I like getting my nails done, but with designs that remind me of art. I don’t favor long nails, though. When I am finally okay with my body, I would love to wear a dress and crop tops. I would love to explore that side of me.

I have always believed that you had to be one or the other. Women are to be soft. Women are to be shaven. Women are this. Women are that. Fuck that. Woman is me.

Woman is whoever I decide I am that day. Woman is me in my boxers and my baggy jeans. Woman is me, in my big t-shirts and no pants because I like the way my thighs look. Woman is me when I am naked. Woman is me with or without hair. Woman looks like whatever a woman decides she wants to look like. Nothing more.

These preconceived ideas, traumas, and learned behaviors caused me to hate myself. I feel guilty being too masculine. I feel like I am incorrect by liking men’s clothes. I always felt wrong. Like I didn’t fit in with the girls. Therefore, I began not liking girls.

This is my internalized misogyny. I’ve believed that being a woman was one thing and one thing only. Soft. Delicate. Feminine. Being loud was unfeminine. Dressing in baggy clothes was unfeminine. Being “other” in a room full of girls who wear pink and like kissing boys felt wrong.

Being a woman dating women who treat masculine presenting women like men lent a hand to this. I remember being softer with one girl and her telling me to “never do that again.” As I stated before, the first girl I ever pursued wanted someone more masculine than I was. I molded myself to her wishes, believing that’s what all the girls wanted. But I have always been soft and delicate, just in a different way. I previously thought it was a boyish way. However, it’s just. Me. I am enough in my boys’ clothes. I am enough in girls’ clothes. I am enough stripped down to my soft, brown, skin.

If you were anything like me, you are worthy. You can be a bad bitch in boxers. You’re allowed to express your femininity regardless of what you wear. You are still a woman. No one can take that from you. No one can take that from me.

Just so we’re clear. Two things can be true at once. I am feminine. I am masculine. Men can be both. Women can be both. To be one and not the other is to be out of balance. Balance is the key to life