Behaviors and expectations relating to partnership… which snuggle right into patriarchal societal views.
I thought to be a good wife, I had to do what he wanted, be what he wanted, have what he wanted…
I thought to catch a husband, I had to be at his beck and call.
His mother. His mistress. His secretary. His slave. His salope*.
I thought a good wife had to plan and organize and manage… in order to fit into his dreams. His schedule. His agenda. His fantasy.
I’d learned young about accepting what men wanted when they asked for it. And learned to anticipate their needs… before they used force.
It had never occurred to me though, that I could have my own dreams, my own life, take care of my own safety.
I had never realized that men didn’t have to take up all my space and all my time.
I had no idea, until now, that I could prioritize myself, even in a relationship.
Who was I? Who was myself? I had never explored me.
Never grown me. Never searched for me.
I had lived my whole life for each him, each time.
For Him: my birth father. Him: my abuser. Him: my boyfriends. Him: my husbands. Him: my lovers. Him: my lawyer. Him: my savior. Him: my employer. Him: my safety. Him: my pimp.
And me the pute**.
Me the woman who could have done anything… but hadn’t. Me the pretty blond girl. Me the shiksa goddess.
Me the Midwestern girl, the Valley girl, the Beverly girl.
Me the smart girl, the lucky girl, the popular girl.
Me the American in Paris.
Me the white privileged girl.
Me the girl who could go anywhere. Do anything. Fit in anywhere. Talk to anyone. Friend everyone. Be anyone. Convince anyone. Fall in love with anyone.
Me the pute**.
But what about what I’d wanted? No one ever asked me. And I never insisted. I never expressed what I really wanted to anyone.
I’d never even asked myself. Never prioritized me.
I hadn’t thought it mattered. Who would have cared? What would it have changed? Hadn’t I been happy… Enough?
Me the submissive girl? Me the victim? Or me the survivor?
I had said yes once. Was it actually domestic abuse… if I hadn’t wanted it the time after?
I had been raped once… why would it have even mattered if he’d forced me again?
How was it abuse… if he wanted it?
Wasn’t he just getting what he deserved? What he’d earned? What he had paid for?
Who was I to get in his way, to refuse, to deny him his desires, to strip him of his fantasies?
Who was I?
Me the good wife? Or me the pute**?
Translations from French to English.
Salope* : slut. Pute** : prostitute.
