Too often we see essays, diatribes, against the “cult of womanhood”, as women writers often speak of heartbreak and emotions; of feelings and pain and hurt — the undertone is that this is a weakness, it is a recessional of the weak, about the weak, and for the weak.
They are wrong. Men, men with their “battlefields” of work and politics, of governments and history, they treat their narrative as something of power, as if their discussion of “power” in it’s externally-driven forms are somehow powerful in and of themselves.
This is the lie.
Men have it easy and I speak from a place of knowledge and truth because work? My work? My career? The options I have to traverse the paths of “power”? That is easy. I can, and I do it, with my eyes closed, sleep-deprived, drunk and indifferent–it is as easy as breathing.
But relationships? Love and emotions, feelings, the draining of your heart’s blood into the cavities of your feet, the numbness of loss and the grief that comes from the cooptence of your joy and desire by someone else is nothing short of a devastation that makes nuclear war and the salted quiet winter thereafter a mere pittance.
I would rather face the savagery of an actual battlefield than open myself up to love.
I would rather tear this world apart than admit attraction to any object of my affection.
I would rather enact the grand ravages of corporate delusion and desolation than to ever say again “spend some time with me; I want to get to know you.”
Because the former things are easy; the latter things, the “weak” things of this world are the things that bind soul and spirit to body, that force gravity to kneel and release its bonds — these weak things are of a primal power; they are the primacies of life and they are not to be messed with idly.
And that, there, is not a truth, but the truth.