The patriarchy has scarred us all, and sometimes when I am hanging out with my female friends, we like to compare them. We talk about one of my friends, who is afraid of ride shares, because one time an uber driver came back to her house to harass her after she refused to give him her snapchat info. There’s a friend who doesn’t drink anymore, because ten years ago she was blamed for her own rape because she had five beers at a party. There are friends who avoid walking around late at night, who are afraid to be alone in the same room as their bosses… or their professors. There are women who have physical scars, from times that abusive partners grabbed them. There are friends whose scars are invisible, but just as tangible, in the ways you can hear the hurt in their voices, from the way they post loving tributes to their mothers in May, but never ones to their fathers in June. The ways that the patriarchy has harmed us criss crosses our bodies, like the ragged lines from lying down in the grass for too long.

The older I get, the more aware I am of the increased burden of trauma and pain that I carry from men who have harmed me. And I’ve slowly surrounded myself with more and more with women, separating myself from men because I find the constant energy needed to support them emotionally, to educate them, to comfort them when they feel guilty for hurting women, exhausting. I see the separatism happening, and how my female friends avoid spaces where men might be, simply because it's easier than having to deal with the onslaught. And I see men frustrated, lonely, feeling bitter because they are trying to have genuine relationships with women, but don't know how, or are met with a cold and defensive front. How do we heal the divides, how do we acknowledge the pain and the hurt that women have to carry, while making space for men who are trying their best to resist the patriarchy and the violence it enacts on the women they want so badly to care for?

As I've gotten older, the pain goes deeper, and it's hard to find places on my body or on my heart that haven't been scarred. I read memoirs by women who I see as stronger than me, about the ways they rose up and overcame, and were able to use the pain and trauma inflicted on them to have transformative experiences. I listen to feminist podcasts where women confidently and openly talk about their sexual trauma or abusive relationships one minute, and then next they are talking about their stable relationships, their children, or their successful nonprofits to help women in situations like them. I wish I could be them, and I feel guilty that I am not. I see how they've taken their pain and used it as a tool to grow stronger and I wonder why I can't do the same. Instead of rising up against the tyranny and ever present violence I find myself getting whittled down.

The skills I've learned as I've gotten older have saved me from more and more trauma. I've learned to say no, to set boundaries, to not settle in my sexual or romantic relationships. I've learned to identify abusive tactics and gaslighting. I can recognize and avoid narcissists now. I regularly stand up to male coworkers who downplay the contributions of women, or ask us to make their coffee or debate men in my writing group when their fictional depictions of women are sexist or objectifying. And maybe it's because I've done so much of that labor to build up my defenses that it hurts even more when I find men who still slip between the cracks.

Less than a week ago was one of those instances. A good and close male friend of mine confessed to me that he had purposefully broken one of my boundaries to find out information about me that I had specifically told him I wasn't comfortable with him knowing. I was hurt and in disbelief. We had been really close, and while I had been open and honest with him about everything, there were details and specifics that I didn't want him to have. I felt bamboozled and betrayed, but more than anything, I felt stupid. I kicked myself for being vulnerable, for being too trusting, when it was he that broke the boundary. The pain was acute, as I found myself in a familiar place of deleting things off the internet. I buried myself, anonymized myself, and hid even deeper than before. I felt cheated out of a friendship, and angry that I had left myself open to exploitation.

I am tough, because years of living in a patriarchal society as a mouthy, outspoken, and angry feminist has made me that. But every time I am harmed by a man, it seems to take me longer and longer to bounce back. I wonder if it's because I'm becoming more jaded or cynical. I wonder if it's because I'm more careful about the men I allow into my life, and so when they do hurt me, it hurts more than I can imagine. It feels like every time I reopen myself, I feel more tired, and more broken. I am less able to have frank and open conversations with men about feminism, I am less willing to give them my labor. My friend and I would chat for hours about sexism, about how men need to be better, and with petty intent, he deceived and betrayed me.

I have to be open because it's a necessary part of being human. I need to be open because I want to love and be loved. I crave being vulnerability because trust is essential to healthy human relationships, and so I have to risk the hurt and betrayal of potential partners and friends. And while that can happen with anyone, I find myself time and time again having to defend myself against men.

How do we break this cycle? Male friends of mine complain that it's hard for them to get close to women because the systematic trauma of sexism and patriarchy has permanently closed some women off to believing that they can trust men. But the burden of being vulnerable and open cannot just rest on women, to 'put themselves out there' and do the labor of being fragile, when men aren't doing the labor of becoming better at being caring and respectful.

I think this is what I am going to examine. For now, I believe it's too late for my friend. I lack the emotional capacity, and frankly, the will, to try and fix his need to exploit female vulnerability. But I'm still learning, and maybe next time, I will have the strength to rise up and out.