I mutilated my body to stop men from using it.

(I know I am a bit dramatic, but just hear me out.)

I'm always the adventurous one, so I wasn't expecting my new hair choice to affect me the way it has. I told my ex I didn't like going out because people would stare at me, and I felt hideous, and he laughed. Cause he knew I cut my hair so I would stop looking pretty. He found the idea that I got what I wanted and still hated it amusing.

"So you both want to be pretty but also not pretty?"

I chuckled and said, “You know me and my indecisive ass,” But I kept thinking about it. I don’t like going into stores, I hesitate to leave my RV, and I know it’s because of my appearance. I look sad and broken; the outside finally matches the inside. But why does it bother me? It’s what I wanted, and that’s when I realized. I’m not, though. I didn’t want to be “ugly” I just wanted to look “ugly” to men. I wanted to force my hand and stop myself from getting involved with the wrong guy again, and I was willing to cut off a part of me to do it.

I keep feeling myself wanting to fall into someone’s arms as I break, and then I go into the bathroom and look at the mirror. And it’s this bucket of cold water to see my hair gone and be reminded to stop. Stop looking for someone to pick up the pieces; stop looking for someone to protect you. I have to pick myself up and survive. But I’m both so desperate to be loved and so terrified to be used like an object I took away a part of me that would facilitate that. The hair doesn’t bother me. It will grow back. But the realization that I mutilated my body just to stop men from using me like an object has shaken me. I never thought I would fall this far. I thought I was stronger than this. I thought I was smart about the people I bring into my life. That idea is now laughable. How many times do I get to pick up these pieces?