You Call Me Crazy
You tell me I’m crazy.
If anything, I’d rather have you scared. At least then I know you won’t fuck with me.
You tell me my parents must be proud, proud of their cum slut no one respects.
You call me delusional.
I exhaust constant energy defending myself—defending my feelings, my thoughts, my boundaries. The first time we can call it a mistake. The second time you know better. The third time and I wonder if this has always been your plan or if you are programmed this way. A factory for humans socialized as males, preset to pretend they are dominant and controlling. If this, than that. This is how a male behaves. This is how a female behaves. Anything outside of this box is a threat. A confident and dominant alpha female is against the grain. How unladylike of me. How out of character to have such agency, such poise. You gaslight me. All of the times he and him and them gaslight me. It works the first few times. If you can pull the wool over my eyes, I fear what you do to others.
You say I’m manipulative and that I play victim.
Nothing remotely humiliating or degrading. Why would I desire this when I already receive it on a regular basis? Would you rather I cry in the fetal position after you fuck me? Would it be enjoyable for you to damage me further? It takes this long for you to understand the severity. It takes you this long to understand I do not create hoops to jump through, but a fence.
You respect this for all of twelve hours before you’re back at it, speaking of spanking and throat fucking me. Are you wired this way? Are he and him and them wired this way? I don’t understand the difficulty. I have many sexual and nonsexual experiences with submissive and dominant men alike. I am able to enjoy myself while still respecting their boundaries. Not once has this posed an extreme issue where I got “carried away”, or debated their justification.
We don’t know what women want! They’re impossible to understand!
Yet when I tell you what I want, what I don’t want, when I’m as transparent as cellophane it is too much. It’s always too much. Is that when I’m crazy? Is that when I’m delusional? Once you are given a line, there is something tangible to cross. The grey area is your favorite hiding place, after all.
This is the second time you cross my boundary. A line clearly drawn in the sand is now cement. Despite this, it is you who pulls the victim card. I need to calm down. I need to relax. But this constant fight, this constant shield and defense is just that: a defense. What good can come if I defend my personal boundaries, my thoughts, my feelings, while also defending against your actions, your words. Careful not to step to close, tread too light, or I may drown. If I let it slide what is next to slide? Your dick into my DMs? Your tongue into my mouth? Your hand into my skirt? I’m no longer playing victim. I am on the offensive.
I go out of my way to eliminate the grey area. You don’t seem to like that. You is more than just you. It is he, him, his, them. I tell how, why, and when you make me uncomfortable. But you didn’t intend to make me feel that way. I shouldn’t feel bad when you didn’t intend for me to feel bad. It will be fine until the next time you decide to not intend on making me uncomfortable. I’m sorry for my frustration when you flirt with my insecurities. I’m sorry I can’t decipher the difference between a joke and blatant disrespect. I’m sorry I’m not the cool girl. I’d rather be crazy than compliant.
Once upon a time an individual crossed a handful of my boundaries in a single sexual experience. This was not anticipated. After all, I was aware of my triggers, my boundaries, my voice—my very outspoken voice. I prepared like a girl scout. I had my merit badges of consent, of self defense and negotiation.
All the preparation in the world may never prepare you.
Nothing will prepare you when someone you know turns controlling and cruel. When they tell you they’d love nothing more than to see you cry. When they show little concern for your body and perpetuate the fears which you confided in them. When you confront their behavior and they run away. I admit to my own faults, his fault, our faults. He knows he hurt me, but I’m not sure if he knows why. He, too, thinks I’m crazy. Another drop in the bucket. Another clip for the montage. Another fuel to my flames.
She's a witch. Burn her.
My tower of cards grew higher and higher, it was only a matter of time before someone knocked them down without my knowledge. If it wasn’t him it would be another. I took the necessary precautions. I did my homework. I made lists which he read. No matter how careful I am, the information I provide can still be deadly. This individual proved that. I can never be too careful, too early. So when you ask me why—why I don’t trust you, why I have these boundaries, these rules—I try to make it simple.
I don’t trust anyone. I don’t see them long enough to establish that trust. Anyone will say anything to get into my bed, to get my guard down. Once there, they remove their clothes, they remove their masks.
When they remove their masks they show their weakness. These words do not cut as deep as you may think: Crazy. Delusional. Manipulative. Shrill. Bitch. Cunt. Whore. Slut. They strike and fall flat to the ground, collecting in a pile with the others. What did I do to deserve this honor?
Crazy is a word they like to use in place of opinionated or sensitive. Crazy is powerful. Crazy is strong. Crazy is intimidation. But why are you intimidated in the first place? What is threatening your manhood and wellbeing? Am I threatening a ‘good time’? Aren’t you also threatening a ‘good time’?
We both look to protect ourselves and seek mutual respect. At least, that’s what I hope. Do you find it ironic that your are threatened by my elimination and acknowledgement of what I find threatening? I can define and uphold my boundaries kicking and screaming. But if you don’t hold that space, what’s the use? If a tree falls. If I fall.
“You do not have to justify your boundaries. Release the idea that acts of self protection and self value need any explanations. Your existence is a reason. Your sovereignty is a reason. Your desires for more is the payment. Anyone that requires you to earn your humanity is not your equal.
Eagles don’t hang out with rabbits.
We eat them.” -Hilaria Goodgame