Young woman finds freedom

Femcel pt. 2

• Femcel pt. 1

So there I was, 18 years old, in London, alone. This was the beginning I had waited for all these years locked away at home. My parents were far now, and I could finally live like everyone else does. Go out for a walk by myself, have a group of friends, hang out with them. Find out what I like to wear, what I like to do. I love going to the movies—I only got to do it a few times back home. More than anything, I was excited about wearing nail polish and letting my hair down. But the initial excitement was short-lived. Very short-lived.

I was too scared of everything. A terrible sense of impending doom would overwhelm me every time I engaged in anything I was previously not allowed to do. A lump had moved into my throat permanently. I hated my major and couldn't change it. My father screamed at me on the phone when I told him about it. Of course he did. I started getting homesick for a place that wasn't even home. It was a jail that had amputated me from any ability to enjoy living as a free person. I wasn't even able to make friends, my mother had instilled her social anorexia deep in my spirit, and every time I'd try to hang out with some people, I'd feel sick and guilty.

Hanging out with people would also exacerbate how alone and out of place I felt.I drowned in absolute loneliness and a terrible major. It lasted six years. By year two, I had gained around 15 pounds and found out I have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. It explained the body and facial hair, the stubborn weight, irregular periods. That and acneic skin, which I had inherited from my father, the unibrow from my mother's side, small diastematic teeth, large and shapeless nose; God had said no beauty for you; find something else to do.

By year three, I got prescribed antidepressants. Year four, I increased the dose and got my degree, and some weight off my shoulders with it. Year five, I increased my dose again and went back to school. Year six: I'm in my room on a hot summer night, the night of my twenty-fourth birthday. I had just submitted my resits and was lying on my bed, staring at my legs raised against the wall to get some relief from my burning feet. Antidepressants can cause peripheral neuropathies, resulting in burning sensations in your feet or hands, especially at night.

I had shaved my legs, which I rarely do because the skin is too sensitive and the hairs are too coarse; the growth results in hellish rashes, ingrown hairs, and strawberry skin. Like I said God said no. But it was summer, and I just wanted to feel like women do when they wear flowy sundresses. I was feeling free and relieved from university, so I just went for it and shaved. One of the things I had grown to love more than anything else was going out by myself, walking around various shops, getting coffee or tea with lots of ice, headphones in, enjoying the freedom of roaming in peace. The streets are safe here; I don't have to ask or sneak out to do this. I can buy stuff, have dinner whenever, go home whenever. There's nothing better than this. It even makes me feel beautiful. Wind in my long hair, music in my ears. I had started tweezing my eyebrows—to my mother's great displeasure—liked to put on some makeup, and my skin had started to improve with a diligent use of prescription skincare. I have some agency. I have a hard time maintaining eye contact with people, but it's okay. I'm free right now, it's summer, I'm good.

But on the night of my twenty-fourth birthday, I thought about the distant prospective future where I'm young, beautiful, and in a relationship with The Ideal Man, who'd love me for being The Ideal Woman—me because I'm funny and creative, but not me because I'm neurotic, anxious, weak, and not pretty. Not naturally pretty. Pretty is too expensive, painful, ephemeral on me. Almost not worth it. That's why it wasn't as bad as it could have been for me to be an unattractive woman. Love and sex were just foreign. Sexuality, men, romantic and erotic endeavors—it was unreal for me. It was on screens, in books, in my best friend's anecdotes, in young couples on public transport. But not in me, not with me, not for me. It was in my fantasy of a future that was comfortably far, far enough to be both safe from my current reality, and to keep me safe from drowning in the despair it contained.

My libido was non-existent for long periods due to my constant anxiety, and when it was there, I'd read some Wattpad, watch some porn, preferably lesbian or something romantic, orgasm, and keep it moving. I didn't like touching my pussy because I hated the hair down there. It was spreading beyond the panty line. The first time I had it waxed, the aesthetician ripped some of my skin with the paper and then sprayed Elnett hairspray to stop the bleeding. I left the salon with a lacerated groin, shaky legs and a harsh lesson: even this much pain couldn't get me beauty.

But after that night, I was going to be twenty-four, and the chronological padding insulating me from the future of my romantic dreams had eroded all at once. Was it the humid weather or just my time at university that had stealthily chipped away at it, one semester at a time? I tried to sleep but was horny and worried at the same time. It was time to put myself out there and try to meet someone. But was terrified of real sex. Hell, I had never even held hands with a guy before.

A few days earlier, my flatmate had confessed his feelings to me, and it made me feel terrible. He was younger than me, and it made me feel guilty and dirty, like I had done something wrong, like I should have acted more appropriately around him. I hated rejecting him, hated that he wanted me, and hated that I had let this happen.

It had happened to me once before—a shy guy in my class wanted to hang out with me a couple of years ago—and it felt the same: guilt and disgust at him and at myself. And sadness, a lump of sadness in my throat. I feel that when people act really nice and careful with me because I confuse love and pity. Probably because displays of affection and tenderness were only offered to me to talk me into something I didn't want to do, or when something really bad had just happened to me. So the sadness and anxiety I feel towards someone's tenderness or desire is, at least in part, a Pavlovian response. The rest is people-pleasing, empathy, but also resentment for the guy and for myself, for putting me in the position of those who made me feel so bad about myself to begin with; to reject someone, knowing first hand how it feels. That and repulsion, because if you want me, then it must because all the pretty women rejected you. Or because you concluded I must be an easier option or something of the sort. I knew all these sinister heuristics were part of the problem. Now how do I fix this and find love? Urgent. So, I decided to download Hinge.

Femcel pt. 3