Why I Hate Being a Woman

I don’t always hate being a woman, but I can’t say I ever love it.

I don’t always hate it, but today I’m especially aware of how my brain relates being a woman to unhappiness. I just don’t know if I’ll be able to explain it or put it into words, which is exactly why I’m writing. I’m writing to see if I can put this feeling into words or explain it somehow.

Somehow this photo of a woman captures how I feel. Photo by Artem Ivanchencko on Unsplash

One obvious reason I hate being a woman is because chronic illness, or at least the brand I have, makes it hard to feel comfortable in your own skin. Problems with proprioception, numbness and weird pains and weird sensation throughout your body makes it feel just wrong.

But sometimes I think there’s more to it than just the perceptual and brain problems.

I hate being in a woman’s body. I hate having these extra feminine physical parts to me that serve no purpose because I’ll likely never experience love. They don’t mean anything to me, but they’re still there. I’m also not especially pretty. You’d hope someone with a feminine appearance could look pretty. Somehow, there’s something really unappealing about feminine traits that don’t look pretty. (It’s hard for me to explain what I mean, so you’ll just have to try to make sense of what I wrote if you can.)

Photo by Martino Pietropoli on Unsplash

To be fair, I also don’t find other woman’s bodies very appealing, even the ones that are everyone says are attractive. (I’m not sure why or what this means. Is it just because I can’t feel much because my system is so shut down? Is it because I’m asexual?)

How can I explain to you that I want to be something but I feel like nothing? The isolation, the quiet in my world and quiet in my head gets to me. I want to be able to express myself.

I question a lot why I’m alive. The nothingness can really get to me. But today, I felt such a strong need to express myself…. in the presence of others. I wanted others to see me. I wanted to be able to express myself not just in a quiet room with doors closed so I am expressing into the nothingness. I wanted to be able to share it with others.

I am quiet. My world is quiet. I play music, but still the air feels stale.

Photo by Mona Eendra on Unsplash

I went about my quiet day today and it hit me later in the day, how much I wished I could live.

Note: For those who don’t know a lot of different factors in my life led to me being virtually housebound and isolated. The only place I ever usually go is the grocery store. I don’t have friends that visit me. I haven’t been able to do much with my life and watched my 20’s and 30’s pass me by.

Today, I really felt a strong wish that I could experience something strong, something beautiful. I wanted to feel alive.

Maybe you could say I wanted to feel whole? I had the thought of wishing to have a bond with a man. I never really think like that, although the thought has crossed my mind sometimes. Somehow I feel like being able to experience a bond like that would make me feel alive, and would make me feel okay about being in a female body.

A photo of two people about to kiss. Photo by Joeri Bogaert on Unsplash

Somehow looking at pictures like the one above make me uncomfortable. At first, I can’t help but think of my controlling, narcissistic mother shaming me, just for viewing pictures like this. Even into my 30’s the idea of intimacy felt shameful. I never felt like she would be okay with me becoming a sexual being one day.

Once I forget about my mom, I imagine myself being in the position of someone in the picture and I get this feeling like I want to erase myself. I feel icky. I don’t feel like the people in the picture are icky. They can do what they want. But something about seeing myself in the picture all of a sudden makes the picture look disgusting and humiliating. I guess I never became comfortable with being… a person… a person of any sort. Something about the picture makes the people look human and alive. I don’t like seeing myself as human and alive…..with it comes a feeling of humiliating… I guess I just want to see myself as nothing, a quiet nobody. (I know a huge part of that feeling of shame comes from being around abusive people throughout life while never experiencing love from other people.)

I guess I’ve always kind of wished I could see a picture of myself, or an image of myself, and feel good about it.

I can’t feel good about myself. I feel icky. I feel am nothing. People tell me they like me. But then they ignore me. Or they act angry and annoyed with me anytime I do something. Actions speak louder than words. And the one time I was loved, it was actually sexual abuse. But some call that love. He said he was attracted to me and I guess that was supposed to make me feel good about myself. But it didn’t.

I don’t like being a woman. I guess it’s mainly because I don’t like me. Rather, I don’t like the image of myself. I don’t feel good in my skin. I don’t like my face. I don’t like these dead feminine parts. I don’t like feeling like a walking cadaver.

I wish I could experience something beautiful like love. It feels like the antithesis to my life and everything I feel. But maybe I just don’t know what I’m talking about. How would I know?

Nuns are supposed to be some of the happiest people. Or maybe they’re just so numb they don’t realize they’re unhappy.

Photo by Velizar Ivanov on Unsplash

How can I make living death beautiful? No birthdays. No smiling faces outside of the fake smiles of the customer service representatives. No one to hear me laugh or laugh with me. Just muffled sensations. For some reason, the whole world feels muffled to me.

I like it quiet. I don’t like too much excitement. I know that sounds contradictory after complaining about it being quiet. But in the end, “normal” life looks too excessive to me. It looks too colorful. It looks like a lot of unnecessary fluff, like a cake with too thick a layer of icing. Like a sitcom with non-stop laugh tracks that get tiring. Like too many fake smiles, too many meaningless superficial birthday cards, too many people asking “how are you” when they don’t really care, too many banal jokes that just aren’t funny. It’s tiring. It makes the mind-numbing boredom worse, mind-numbing overstimulation.

Published by illnessislife

Sick of being so sick I can't live life. But it's been so long like this that I accept it. Illness is life. I have no other life.

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