I fear and hate women.
The reasons? I won't go into them here; previous attempts to do so have only offended readers. Suffice it to say that they are not rational. No mentally healthy man has any reason to fear or hate women as a group. But I am not mentally healthy.
The anger has a life of its own. It seethes inside of me, pulsating, conniving, ready to lash out upon hearing a stray remark, reading an article, overhearing a conversation, anything that calls to light my own inner demons. At its heart is powerlessness, emptiness, the frustrated rage of the prisoner locked in a cell, the torments of being driftless, unable to control, swirled around by elements with no rhyme or reason to them.
Mixed with the anger is fear. Ultimately I fear women more than I hate them. It is fear that turns my lips to hard chaps and my voice to a dry monotone. It is fear that leaves me alone, helpless, terrified, devoured in a nightmare of endless navel-gazing and second-guessing.
Then there is the envy. It may sound senseless for a man to envy the status of women in our patriarchal society, and senseless it is. But I feel inferior to women, inferior to their beauty, inferior to the desires I hold for them, trapped by the helpless mesmerizations of my eyes and the insatiable passions of my hormones.
The anger is carried deep inside. I do not commit acts of violence; I do not lash out verbally. My rage is known only to myself, where it simmers, battling its imaginary foes, who stroll outside none the wiser. And there it remains. And thus do I remain, alone, now and forever.
alt.support.shyness, Jan. 5, 2001