Be A Son Or Insane Woman

 

Born the elder of two girls, I thought,

"Be strong, be wise, for who else would take care of them?"

So I studied hard, played sports to build muscle,

Not for joy, but survival.

Yet someone's son says I was always an insane woman.

I ignored the indecent touch,

Kept my skirts in the drawer and wore cargo pants instead,

Silent, because I couldn’t risk losing my freedom—

The freedom to complete a school project.

So I collected A’s, never rants,

But someone's son says I was always an insane woman.

I became a shield, a safe haven,

Protecting those who sang in their innocence.

Yet someone's son says I was always an insane woman.

I befriended men others scorned,

Thought kindness could mend wounds—

But instead, I was wounded.

Sexually assaulted by one I tried to defend.

Still, someone's son says I was always an insane woman.

At 25, exhaustion clung to me like a shadow.

Couldn’t even learn the violin without

That middle-aged man stealing my dignity.

Yet someone's son says I was always an insane woman.

I gave compliments, harmless words to see others smile,

But they twisted them into invitations

To their porn-fed fantasies.

Still, someone's son says I was always an insane woman.

I never leaned on them,

Never groped or claimed their bodies as resting posts,

But someone's son says I was always an insane woman.

When depression called,

I spoke of psychology, piecing together my trauma

And theirs too, in quiet understanding.

But someone's son told me,

"Focus on chores, not thoughts."

Yes, I am insane because I believed

That loving one of you would protect me from the rest.

But even then, you turned to me,

Said I could never do better,

And that your growth was your triumph alone.

I remain the insane woman

While you walk away, better because of me.

Not for pity or for revenge nor for fake empathy,

This is just for me…

THE INSANE WOMAN.