Bitter pill: The first experience of fighting sweaty hands is always too early. Bashny.Net

The topic I decided to raise today is not pleasant. Yeah, it's gonna be scary. It's a bitter pill you're trying to swallow. Sixteen plus, as is customary to write in the newspapers.

A man says to your face (virtually, is it real) that you have forgotten what it means to be a woman. Emancipation is all brainwashed, and about the female essence and sealed. Behaving like men, I'm sorry, Lord!

And I say, We are never allowed to forget what gender, clan and tribe we are. We are constantly reminded of how we are different from men, and sometimes even insist.“We don’t always want to, but we always can.” I'm talking about violence, physical and psychological. And in order not to be subjected to it, you have to... Pretending to be a man?



I read this quote on a blog. I give it literally, keeping the spelling and punctuation.

“I know what that is, too. My friends know what it is. Violence, both physical and sexual, is very common in our Palestinians. Violence is the adult uncle, the father of the family, who locks you, a schoolgirl, in the office and begins to molest, and you just go numb and numb with horror, because you are just a child who was taught to obey the elders, that is, to be submissive. It is difficult, unbearably difficult to beat a briefcase between the legs of a person whom I always called by name.

Violence is a man's hand in transport, greedy and merciless for your twelfth birthday. This is the bus driver who promised your mother to look after you and drop you off in the village with her grandmother, and instead chuckles, "You'll come with me to the end." This is your running, your hare fear, your frantic heartbeat, your horror of an adult, incomprehensible world.

Violence is the boy Igor, with whom you are in love and who first invites you to a slow dance, and then, taking a little away from the entrance to the club, hits in the face in response to your frightened “Don’t...”

It's The tears of Tanka, who was not just raped, but also stripped in the park so as not to run away, the cavalier went after a friend. It's a taxi driver who won't let you out of the car. This is a friend of your boyfriend who wants to take you home first, and then he gets to his place, and you jump out of the car on the move, not realizing how much risk you're taking. It's Yuli's voice in the phone: "Just... Near the house... Something in a hat. I pretended I liked it so he wouldn't kill me. Just don't tell anyone.

It's The words of your friend Dima about how a grown man guarded him, a boy, at the garages. This is a nice intelligent man who, out of impotence and malice, “Oh, you don’t want to?” begins to strangle you. This is the boss who threatens to be fired if you don't give in. This is a drunken policeman who, having received his resignation, comes to Sveta’s birthday and aims at her with a gun: “Did you decide to abandon me?”

These are dozens, hundreds of male, youthful insolent hands, fists, threats, slaps, kicks, slaps, punches that accompany your youth and the youth of your friends. And don't tell me that doesn't exist. No, you dare. Me. This. Talk. Fear makes everything dry in your mouth, you know that? Do you know how frightened girls are, who were just children that summer, and this summer are already targets of sexual aggression?

They were not taught to defend themselves, they were only told to remain silent when their elders spoke. And all their experience, all their skill, is to be silent.

The reason is that most women know this is the case. We're silent.. None of the raped men I knew ever went to the police. I didn't say anything to my parents. Disguising bruises and abrasions. I pretended everything was okay. So that now any fool in LiveJournal could say with complete confidence: "Yes, you make everything up."

What is the reason for this silence? It's not just about self-flagellation, it's not just that the victim of the crime doesn't trust the professionalism of the investigators. The victim simply knows that people are more likely to blame not the true culprit, but her. Somehow they feel better. Even the closest ones tend to think in the key: “She must be her own fault. I'll think this way or my brain will explode.

American Alice Siebold described it in an autobiographical novel: It was about the weapon of the rapist. Perhaps I mentioned myself that the police found my glasses and his knife in almost one place, near a brick paved path.

“You mean he didn’t have a knife in the tunnel?” he asked. "Well, yeah," I confirmed. "I don't get it." How could he rape you if he didn't have a knife? If your father can’t figure out what’s going on and practically accuses you of wanting to be beaten and raped, what about the others? Don't expect understanding. Wait for oblique glances, whispers behind your back: “This is her, the same one.” Did you hear what happened to her? - and even bullying.

"Raped" is a label. You're not the one, you're lost, you're spoiled, you're leper. Have you ever lived in a dorm? You know there's rape in there? Often. Lonely provincial, small and frightened, who can she complain to? She just continues to live where obscene pictures are painted on the walls depicting her with her legs wide apart, and next to her there is a line of male figures.

And the inscription: "Lenka gives everyone." As long as the public reacts in this way, violence will not diminish. We just don't want to know about him. And all those who have faced it, shame and stigmatize. It hurts. With great enthusiasm.”



No, this isn't about me. When I was six, my brother saved me. Some kind uncle called me by the garages, offering to eat candy, and my nine-year-old brother told my uncle that my mother was coming, and the uncle, frightened, left.

When I was eight, my girlfriend and I ran away from a strange uncle wearing glasses. By that time, the parents had already held explanatory conversations with us on the subject of maniacs who like to kill children, luring them into the corners with offers to pet a kitten or taste a cake. The man turned to us and said, "Girls, do you want some ice cream?" and we turned around and gave a shit.

This mysterious topic caused us, the little ones, a storm of emotions, a veil of secrecy and a desire to somehow clarify something. In an innocent childhood, my brother and I undressed and studied each other, and even touched each other. That's what kids do. It's a shame to think about it now.

And in school interest in secondary sexual characteristics did not weaken. The boys were always trying to snoop or pinch, so I walked with a heavy shift in my hands and hit without talking. A group of teenagers would come up and ask, “Girl, what if we rape you?”

At the age of ten, I ran away in time, at eleven I broke out of strong hands, and at the age of 12, in the pioneer camp, I walked one day near the fence, and a man drew up behind the fence. I look at him and I know he has a sausage sticking out of his pants. "Girl, come, come, touch." I turned around and ran to the police station. I thought I was screaming for urine, but then I was told I was running in silence.

At 14, she cried at the funeral of a friend killed by a maniac.

At 15, all eyes were broken about me in the dacha by a gray-haired manager. For a long time I tried to talk about how pygmies make love. Thank goodness I couldn’t stand my mother in front of me.

How many times have you lied, twisted, run away, jumped out of the bus? I was very glad that I was not too beautiful, so I avoided another trouble – I never tried to “take off” my brothers on tinted cars. But still, I had to be constantly alert.

At the age of sixteen, she carried a knife in her pocket. Just in case. At seventeen I had to take a gun. I thank my guardian angel that in general managed to live to adulthood in our criminal district.

In the field practice, once in our girl's house, local drunks broke open the door, rushed with knives at the girls. They ran to our boys, was a mahatch. I slept through the whole thing, woke up to the end. But the gun under the pillow continued to squeeze.

By the age of majority in the arsenal of self-defense already had a knife, a gun and a gas can.

I tried to “walk” with the guys, but became disgusting. Thanks to sexual education, I knew that having sex with an occasional inexperienced partner in the bush would not bring any pleasure, but it could add a lot of problems.

However, thanks to what happened at that time, I did not even consider such options for communicating with the opposite sex. Therefore, the first relationship ended quite quickly – I could not overpower myself and “give” him. He didn't need the right one. Why?

Suggestions of different levels of abomination came regularly, especially when it became more or less decent to dress. Taxi drivers, colleagues, "Nazmen" and Tatars, especially the old ones, constantly made indecent requests. I went to the market for groceries, and the old butcher said to my face, "Will you be my mistress?" Yes, the mistress was often called, but never married. Neither "churched" nor secular.

Raped classmates... Girls from school, engaged in prostitution, fifteen-year-old teenagers who “live” with adult men. None of my classmates lost their virginity with their peers.

For a very long time I was disgusted to even think about “this.”

At a conscious age I decided to go to karate. I have always been involved in sports, but here it became elementary scary for myself. Since then, by the way, pestering has become much less common. Perhaps she stopped looking like a victim, the character began to be read in her eyes.

I noticed that since then I have not let myself be hurt. No one. Of course, things happen.

Although I have been taught by life, I still find myself in a situation where the strength of my hands and the speed of my legs, as well as the look with which I can kill, can save my health and even my life. But some of my friends never learned this wisdom. Therefore, sometimes you have to console: “I was lured and raped by the Armenians”, “How could he do this to me, I thought he was from a good family”, “I thought that he loved me, and he only wanted sex ... I broke out, and he gave me a snout...”

Yes, and catch yourself thinking that “all men are assholes.” After all, among the “believers” there are cadres who go crazy from abstinence, and they lose all ability to control themselves at the sight of a woman and offer to immediately proceed to actions, because they can no longer “walk by the hand.”

I had to master the simple science of “dynamo”, masterfully learn to refuse. I firmly decided that “without love, and mutual, nothing will happen.” Sorry for the details. But this is all true, this is life.

You read sometimes sweet love novels and realize how far they are from reality. Too many of them, incapable of tenderness, treating women warily as predators who only need money. And marriage is like a trap into which these females are lured.

I have a lot of friends among men who treat me like a woman-friend, excluding romantic relationships. You know, it's like they have such a tumbler that a woman can be either a human friend or a sexual object. They don’t seem to be friends and lovers at the same time.

I look around, and it seems that any sexual relationship is neurotically colored. There are many reasons, and one of them is the peculiarities of raising boys. They're feminized!

Women's society has gone crazy, too. From the age of twenty-two I began to adjust that you can “have a child for yourself”, out of marriage. There are so many single mothers around me! Someone accidentally got pregnant, but did not have an abortion, someone out of despair conceived a child from a loved one who was not going to get married, someone just gave up on the idea of marriage and gave in to these persuasion.

So, dear men, we will never cease to remember that we are real women. And even if we want to forget, we will be reminded.

And I am sure that all frigid women, frightened women, afraid of intimacy, indifferent to men women, snow queens who scare off too cold behavior, shun you on the streets and are constantly afraid, afraid, afraid, not from scratch. It's your fault, by the way!





Calling it betrayal is too flat.

High expectations



No wonder on the zabugorny dating sites write that a Russian woman is like frozen strawberries. To taste it, you first need to “heat” it.

This sad diary has a happy ending: I still have a normal man. But that’s a different story...published.



Author: Elena Balashova



P.S. And remember, just changing our consumption – together we change the world!

Source: www.matrony.ru/pervyj-opyt-borby-protiv-potnyx-ruk-prixodit-vsegda-slishkom-rano/