The F Word

According to my husband, the F word is the bane of his —-and the world’s— existence. I sit here adjacent to him writing about an argument we just had over “chivalry”. The F word is feminism, and it’s akin to nails on a chalkboard for him to hold a conversation around it.

I cannot tell him how I feel, how frustrating it is to be woman with a man like him, not without his rage and emotions overcoming him. His tone and volume go up very quickly and it escalates into a barrage of harass and accusations.

He prefers to care for me in the ways he wants to: ways that reaffirm his masculinity. These are specific efforts to show dominance over other men, while I’m used as some sort of key holder. I’m really just a scapegoat.

Maybe my mouth should have stayed closed and not said anything in the first place. Because by making complaint, I’m asking for help.

My husband believes I’ve no experience in dealing with conflict or male confrontation. Decades of mosh pits, living in Minneapolis ghettos and squatting gave me all the experience and memories I need to pull from. Thank you very much. Proof that 15 years of marriage does not automatically create a bond or a true picture of someone. Not if you don’t listen. Not if you constantly talk over your wife to recall your own life. There will be no learning or connection. She will remember how it feels to be ignored and overlooked. Her guilt will melt away one day after she realises her place, in this place. She will learn to take as much as she can, because for many years her effort to create an equal bond in mutual respect will go unnoticed and fade into obscurity.

She will learn to stay quiet and hold back, resentment will build and contempt will burn.

Then, she will start a blog to put it somewhere.

In Women We Trust,

VELL