Brw says I hate men. He says I haven’t even begun to deal with how much I hate men.

At first, I staunchly argued I didn’t. But within the minute, I was crumpled on the couch in tears. He’s right. I hate men. I hate them with a passion I’m uncomfortable with. I hate them like I hate Andy, because to me, most of them are Andy. Why else create this umbrella figure, Andy Humanstein, if not to tear away any distinction between between one man and another? Certainly, I don’t call all men Andy—not Sang or my boyfriend or any number of men in my life—but I have to admit, I fear them all. And fear breeds hatred.

I fear them because they’re stronger than me. They can overpower me. And they have. I fear them because they have peni that can penetrate and hurt me, and they have—several times. I fear them because they demean me in ways no woman ever could, and many wouldn’t even think to. I fear them because I was taught to build my self-esteem on their desire for me, and I still often do. I fear them because they’ve so often used that to their advantage.

It’s not all men, but it’s enough of them to keep me frightened.

Even the good ones, even my boyfriend, thinks and says things that repulse me or are meant to wound me. They demean so thoughtlessly, so quickly, with this “walk it off” mentality that minimizes the pain they just inflicted, minimizes the nature of their action. And the blame always comes back on me. “Well, then, you shouldn’t have….”

I’m tired of them. I love my boyfriend. I do. But every day is accompanied by an emotional wound that festers into resentment and anger. With him, at least these wounds are resolved, they aren’t deep, I can deal with them. Yet he also reinforces some of the opinions I have of men, opinions I had hoped he would debunk. I think, if the nice guy says these awful things, too—if the nice guy also makes these backhanded comments, emotional slaps across my face to remind me I’m weaker than him—how am I supposed to regain confidence in men?

I’m trying, here. I’m really trying to see the good in them. And I understand that women can be just as cruel. I know it from my experiences with Clara, with Nyte, with friends and partners alike. But not like men. Those women could not possibly hurt me like men have, in the ways men have. They don’t give me nightmares. They haven’t forced me against my will, nor would they dream of it. They never sent me to the hospital. When I argue with a woman, and I ask to have a clean fight, I get one. I don’t like to yell, so there we sit, talking and listening. When I tell that to Brw, he waits for a weak moment to attack. He continues to attack, locates my insecurity, and he says the words he knows will defeat me. For him, it’s always about winning. For women, at least in my experience, it’s always been about understanding, learning, coming to an agreement. There’s nothing to fear in compromise, but when I ask for it of Brw, he sees it as a personal assault against his very way of being. It’s exhausting. Emotionally, psychologically, he wears me down, and he knows it.

So, yeah, I hate men. I don’t wish them ill. I just wish they wouldn’t be so cruel, so mean, so underhanded and play such dirty games. Why can’t we be honest with each other? Why must you hurt me? What satisfaction is there in damaging our relationship, whatever its nature might be? Is winning really more important than me? Do I mean so little as a human being?

I understand it’s socialization. I know it’s this culture and this patriarchy. But goddamn it, we’re thinking beings. We’ve mastered communication. Let’s use it. Let’s talk. Let’s not hurt each other in these purposeful ways that only break down the human connection. No? It can’t be done? Then don’t wonder why I hate you. Don’t wonder why I cower from you. I don’t want to hear about how much it hurts you when you see me get scared of you. Of course, I am. You may not be a monster. You may not force me to gratify your desires. But when you hurt me, when you say these things that size me down because you—you—are just as scared as I am, you rape me, too. Don’t ever think that a penis is the only way to do it. Don’t ever think you don’t have the potential to become an Andy very quickly, or that you’re better than him. You’re not. You do other things. You hurt me and others in other ways.

So please, please, let’s sit down calmly, and let’s talk. I don’t want to hate you anymore. I don’t want to feel dirty or little anymore. I just want to be okay. Okay? Can we just be okay with each other? Please? I just want to be okay.