At this point I have just accepted that no one will date me or have sex with me, but I can’t seem to get over it. I feel like I get constantly reminded about my distasteful looks whenever I see a couple, I know I will be single for the rest of my life but I really need to get over it.
I don’t know if this is the right place to ask, but I’ve been working for a while on an art project about the life of a very well-known lolcow from my country, and I still struggle to give him a real conflict. I don’t know if that has to do with the fact that these types of men feel like empty wannabes, shaped by every piece of media they consume. I was thinking about using fatherhood as a source of conflict, but I’m afraid that doing so could make the narrative misogynistic. So I’d like to ask: what would be a nightmare scenario for this type of man?
At the age of six, I changed schools due to my parents' divorce.
Reflecting on this period, I often wonder what I may have done wrong or what about my character was so displeasing that other children could not look at me without calling me self-centered. I vividly recall an incident in which a classmate mocked me for picking a flower from the kindergarten garden. I explained that it was for my mother and that I wished to give her a nice gift. Suddenly, and without any apparent provocation, a group of boys began to chase and push me, demanding that I surrender the flower. At such a young age, I was overwhelmed by feelings of fear and confusion.
Nonetheless, I was captivated by the dream of finding my prince charming, as depicted in Disney movies, believing that the solution to the tumultuous feelings within me (akin to an endless pit) was through a man. Consequently, I grew up with an innocent perception of romantic interest, viewing boys as a sweet norm, despite the fact that throughout my life, boys have often treated me unkindly rather than with sweetness.
Unfortunately, neither sex seemed to want me around. I was always too much, too noticeable, taking up more space than was apparently acceptable, both physically and mentally. Looking back, I think I might have experienced childhood differently, perhaps even more hopefully, if I had not felt rejected by two of the most formative forces in a young person’s life: parents and social life. I know now that my intrinsic sadness did not emerge later; it had been with me for as long as I can remember. And with it came a deep, persistent shame, one that intensified as I began to notice what other girls seemed to have so effortlessly: friends, crushes, sleepovers, whole lives full of intimacy and belonging, and boys to talk about. I wanted that life desperately. I wanted a boy to be infatuated with me and not treat me cruelly. I wanted friends with whom I could gossip, confide, and finally understand what trust and friendship were supposed to feel like.
The first time I felt shame for my body was when I was getting dressed to go to the pool, when the girl who had invited me over came in with several others. She pointed at my naked body and said, “Ew, you are gross,” making it clear that they found my body repulsive, that no one wanted to see the fat on an overweight girl. Just before that, they had mocked me for eating a second burger, for eating too much, for taking up too much space, for being disgusting simply because I existed as myself. Even then, we did not stop being friends, and I kept forgiving her cruelty, believing that this was the only way in.
I have never experienced what I would call a neutral interaction with a boy, and even now, male politeness feels foreign and difficult for me to trust. When I was thirteen, in middle school, I came to understand what made me a woman. It was not my body changing, but the way boys began to look at me. I stopped being merely the target of ridicule and became the object of something even worse: projection, humiliation, and disgust. The idea of being with me was treated as a joke, as though any attraction toward me would be embarrassing.
One of the clearest examples was the boy I had liked throughout my childhood. Later, when we were supposedly friends, he told me, “I knew you had a crush on me. I just never wanted to acknowledge it because you are a bit repulsive to me.” I laughed and told him I understood, though that moment stayed with me, and I often think about it when I like someone. It was never just one moment. I could list countless ways men have hurt me, and the pattern feels endless. At different points in my life, I have been groomed, sexually assaulted, hit, strangled, and slapped. Now I am in college, and I still struggle to look men in the eyes. When one walks past me, my mind immediately fills with the assumption that he is disgusted by me, that he would rather do anything than look at me or touch me.
That belief deepened the first time I went to a club with my college friends. The man I kissed kept asking repeatedly about my prettier, skinnier friend. Experiences like that reinforce what already feels inevitable: it is never me, and I struggle to believe it ever will be.
I speak to men less now, though I can still interact with them politely. Even so, my mind has learned to associate them with pain and violence. It is difficult to imagine meeting a man I truly like who would not reduce me to some shameful, hidden fetish. I wish I could feel differently, but at this point, I have come to believe I have more in common with an incel than with Miss World.