Don’t Look

I dreamt I was a lesbian. I was in this girl’s house when I realized I didn’t like the way she kissed. In that dream, I was into guys. But something didn’t make sense…why was I having nightmares of green, old men following me? Vegetating with each step compressing into the cold earth, their empty eyes rolling in their sockets as they dream of flesh.

It appears that this embedded fear of older men comes from an embedded fear that my mother stirred onto me. I recognize it from childhood. When I was about five years-old, my mother would make disturbing comments about my outfits.

“Those pants are too short, an old man can masturbate out of you.”

The idea of a gross, old man masturbating at the sight of me would cripple me with a fear, a fear that ejaculated onto my adolescence. At twelve, I refused to wear bikinis in front of my father. Too much skin. I would be afraid to be sexually attractive to men. This innocent fear grew to be a fear that would haunt me forever.

I had constant nightmares of men following me. I would run, and run. Run away so their joints would hurt and they couldn’t keep up. But then again, what was I running from? This fear is irrational, it’s not like my father raped me. That never happened.

Now I understand that my mother passed this fear onto me so I wouldn’t dress like a slut. So I would never attract these monsters. So they would never taste my skin.

“It worked. You don’t dress like a slut like those girls your age.”

 

 

By Isabel Consuegra

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