Confessions...

Being a second-class citizen started in my own home.

My brothers served before me.

Their needs put before me.

They were pushed in their interests.

If I wanted to try something it was dismissed.

As a girl, my interests were irrelevant.

Girls don’t do that!

Cook, clean, take care of the house, that’s your responsibility.

The kitchen, the home, is where you belong.

My entire future was presented on this well-meaning platter.

Accept and master this, after all it was in my best interest.

I watched silently, as my brothers, the men in the family, did not need to lift a finger.

When they tried you stopped them.

As, I was there to do it all.

They quickly learnt that their needs would always be taken care of.

For me? I learnt there was no one.

When womanhood knocked on my door, I had to hide it.

It was shameful, it was disgusting, it was not to be talked about.

I was punished for my developing body.

Hide it, cover it.

I was entirely responsible for others desires.

Make-up, hairstyles, dying my hair, experimenting with my look, 

Any form of self-expression was out of the question.

Respectable, good girls did not do this.

I couldn’t explore myself, or my own beauty.

The plainer, the baggier, no personality, the better.

Your seal of approval dictated me externally.

And slowly began to seep into me internally.

Even my thoughts began to not be my own.

If I got friendly with the opposite gender, I was labelled as, loose, a slag.

If no one paid attention to me, I was considered ugly.

If I did have a boyfriend then I had to be cautious. In the future he or others could use this relationship against me.

At the end of the day, all honour was hanging over my head.

It was fragile, it could shatter at any moment, serious consequences would follow.

For the men in the family, girlfriends were a playful tease, but a potential boyfriend wouldn’t dared be joked about.

You always had free reign.

Even though I covered, what was underneath still had to meet your standards.

Could I ever be thin enough?

The numbers on the weighing scale correlated with my husband finding prospects.

If I am not fair enough, not skinny enough, not tall enough, not pretty enough, you told me no one would want me.

Who would want to marry you?

I wanted to better myself. I wanted to study. I wanted to build a career.

In some form I wanted something of my own.

Why did you want to study? You’re only going to be a wife, a mother. Housework doesn’t need a degree.

If I did manage to create some independence for myself, be that academic, career accomplishments; this was a potential threat to the delicate egos of my future suitors.

I had to settle down before my best before date was over.

If I had a brain, I had to hide it.

How dare I be critical?

How dare I question what was going on around me?

I was the one always fitting myself into your life.

I left my family, friends, put my career, dreams, wishes, desires on hold and went wherever you asked.

You wish was my command.

I got lost in being a mother, a wife.

Sometimes I hoped you would ask if I was okay.

Sometimes I hoped you would put me first.

How naive of me to think this.

This was too much to ask.

You didn’t see me, you were to busy getting what you wanted.

If you mistreated me, 

If you abused me,

If you oppressed me,

Even If you stripped my identity, 

I remained silent as I was taught to.

I bore it all: for my children, for my family,  for what you all expected of me.

If I left you I would be the one left with nothing.

Seen as a burden for my parents.

Labelled as used goods, stained.

No one would accept me.

Throughout all my life, at every turn I realised you will always be better than me.

This was a bitter lesson I had to swallow with only innumerable tears as my company.

I tried to fight it, but there was no point.

I was permanently second and you, first place.

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