Socks

Maybe this is an overreaction. I don't care. It's my reaction.

The boy looked at me when he wanted to, touched me when he wanted to, hurt me when he wanted to. I wasn't real to him--I was some cartoon character that didn't actually have feelings. The kind of feelings that would cause him to think twice about his actions.

No, I didn't have those kind of feelings. Not to him.

But the truth is, every one has those kinds of feelings. Even those cartoon characters you see on tv or on apparel. They cause feelings in others.

In this specific case, it caused a feeling in me. Of objectification, of abandonment, of being downsized to a cartoon that doesn't have those kinds of feelings.

This wouldn't be such a big deal to me had it not been for the boy. But the boy exists so so does this reaction. I hate it. And I hate that you bought it. Mainly because I hate him, and the whole male-dominant world I live in. But still. It's not okay with me.

I was a sock to him. I was something low to the ground and easy to step on. I was effortlessly replaceable and I had no value.

And I was also that sock to him. I was something to look at and touch and hurt whenever he felt so inclined. I was something to laugh at. Objectify. Mortify. Criticize.

I want you to decorate me with tokens of adornment, and to heal me with cures of fondness, and to take delight in just the thought that I'm yours. I don't want you to objectify and mortify and criticize me. If you do, you won't have me for very long.

I know that that's not what you're doing. But you're doing that to the sock version of me--and all women--and even though that isn't your intent, that's what I'm receiving.

Like I said, this might be an overreaction. But it's my reaction.

I want to be your wife. Not your sock.

-Beaskie