The Word Rabbit

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This article was written on 30 Jul 2015, and is filled under Uncategorized.

Disowning

The men’s right’s movement (it doesn’t get capitals, I’ve seen what they post on Twitter) is holding a large megaphone to its own arse and making a terrible honking noise about the hideous plight of masculinity and the curse of being a twenty first century, strong silent man.

Tempting as it is to dismiss this with an airy ‘poof’ and before you tear me asunder and throw my genitals up a tree, there is a point in here, although it isn’t the one they think they’re making. Allow me, a person who, in that faintly hideous phrase, has lived experience of depression and is a vastly neutered mangina, to explain.

If there is a single reason why so many men are killing themselves – and I’ve been right up to the edge – it’s that we’re trapped in a prison of our own making. Nobody sits you down at some point and tells you that you’re not supposed to cry, that all hurts need to pinball around inside until it’s split all your organs in half and that the best way of dealing with pain is to wank, cry and then hang yourself. You just learn this along the way.

You learn, from other men, most of all, that talking about times when you were sad, when you hurt so much that all you could do was open your mouth in a silent scream that looked like you’d got your foreskin caught in your zip, isn’t welcome in any way. And more importantly, you learn that talking about tits and sexual urges that you last read about in Loaded are the only acceptable ways to be male.

Masculinity self-polices all the time, like having a thin and reedy Police and Community Support Officer on your shoulder saying that your reason for living is the size of your membrum virile. Talk about how you feel and you’ll be told you’re gay, a statement backed by such an intense homophobia that you could put a stick in it and stand it up. You’re there to have BANTER, a word so vile, so foamingly deluded that anyone who believes it has any integrity should be beaten to death with their own severed legs.

And here’s the thing. We, that’s men, do this. We do it all the time. I’ve done it, until I realised that it was the most intensely cowardly thing I could have done short of throwing my adorable old mother into the greasy maw of a huge behemoth. We check ourselves, stop ourselves and then look baffled when we turn up at an out of town crematoria to mourn a male friend and say stupid, rubbish things like I NEVER SAW THIS COMING and the all-time classic, HE SEEMED SO CHEERFUL.

This isn’t your problem, ladies. It’s ours. We built a society that fucks you up just as it sells you stuff to fix problems caused by fucking you up. And we wonder why said society is fucking us up as well. That’s what it was designed to do, chaps. Holding people to gender roles that suit 0.01% of the population and leave everyone else baffled, disorientated and at odds with their own emotions and genitals will do that.

Now the men’s rights activists see feminism and are afraid of it because it wants to take away those gender roles and let you live life how you want, far away from idiots like Martin Daubney and that bozo who does Dapper Laughs and their reductionist view of humanity and human sexuality. They’re in love with their own prison bars in something appallingly close to Stockholm Syndrome. Take these away… and what are they?

What we have is a tatty world made by fools to trap the frightened. And it ends, comes to a juddering halt, when it’s rejected and called out for what it is. Redundant, tired and a desperate rearguard against modernity. Onwards, outwards and let’s leave this nonsense behind.

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