Healing My Abusive Relationship With Romanticizing Aggression From Men
I had nothing to lose but my panic attacks, my relationship trauma, my many years of mistreatment by strange men, and all of this sexual and verbal abuse I endured due to fear.
Just a few moments ago I decided to go against my body’s natural cues to lay down and relax on my period and take a short walk around my neighborhood. As I stepped outside my door to be greeted by mist from the grey clouds that cooled the earth I felt a lot better.
Interestingly enough, my relaxing walk that was supposed to serve as a few moments for me to be alone with my thoughts amidst the beauty of dew-soaked fallen leaves, wet spider webs, and tiny lizards scrambling to protect themselves from the weight of my feet transformed into a trigger I couldn’t recognize clearly at first, because I haven’t felt this trigger in a long time. Years, even.
The anxiety that shot up into my chest, which initiated a freeze response from my nervous system, began once I reached the entrance to my neighborhood, which is guarded by a gate.
Before I crossed the street I observed a glossy red pick-up truck drive up to the gate to enter the code to be welcomed inside. While I live in the south and I view pick-up trucks all the time, what had my mind on high alert was that the men in the truck were rowdy and loud. They were enjoying each other’s company and minding their business, of course. But there was something about the noise they were making amidst the peace and quiet of nature that freaked me out.
My conscious mind tried to calm me down immediately. “Sanni, they’re not bothering you. Relax!” it told me. But my subconscious mind, my feminine mental seat of the soul, knew I wasn’t accepting what my conscious knowledge was telling me.
Sure enough, the men in that truck passed me to head home. And I followed suit. I walked back home, still confused as to why I reacted out of fear at a display that posed absolutely no threat to me at all.
But remember, the subconscious always knows. She has more wisdom than we can give her credit for. So once I arrived home I decided to open TikTok. And the first reel I watched came from a young lady that runs a business called Nikki’s Field Trip (handle: nikkisfieldtrip) who posted a clip titled, “Black women desensitized to aggression.”
It was no coincidence that I came across this video. Because Nikki’s wise words brought up so many repressed emotions to the surface that accounted for the confusion, fear, and frozen state I experienced just a few moments ago when I encountered that pick-up truck. So those men truly were a blessing in disguise, because their rowdiness triggered my body into feeling and energetically moving the traumatic memories out of my subconscious that I never processed.
The business owner discussed how so many black women are very accustomed to aggressive behavior from black men because they reside in or frequent environments where this aggressive behavior is normalized.
I can certainly attest to this: I grew up in the suburbs of Washington, DC in a close-knit, strict, Afro-Caribbean community stemming from my home church where boys and girls were taught to have manners. Us girls got to dress up and attend chaperoned events where the boys held out our chairs for us to sit down. I was used to seeing women being escorted by men whenever they had to walk up or down the stairs leading to the pulpit, and of course I received this same treatment growing up.
So once I started college and I eventually broke ties with my church, and with Christianity in general, I was thrown into a jungle-like reality where men were not as gentle, loving, and kind. They had to resort to aggression as their default program to receive anything beneficial because their environment was based on survival, and so any woman like myself they encountered received the same hostility.
I had to mentally and emotionally adjust to men stepping to me as if I was an enemy of theirs, only for them to angrily demand privileges from me like my government information such as my name, age, and phone number. I felt compelled to smile and say thank you against my will whenever a man invaded my peace to tell me I was beautiful, even though his words sounded more like an invitation into my life so that he could “hit it and quit it” rather than a compliment. Because why do these men always ask if I have a boyfriend after I thank them? What other reason exists?
I have even experienced male strangers refusing to maintain a safe distance from me because they had to get in my face and let me know that they wanted to fuck me because they were horny, or they were looking for someone to give them head.
Now the trigger with the pick-up truck was based on my past experiences with being frightened whenever I was walking by myself, whether during the daytime or nighttime hours, because these men would follow me in their cars and try to talk to me. Some of them even got out of their cars because they thought that would make me more comfortable. I always ran, because my mind was not at all connecting safety with a man who follows me while driving his car and then stepping out of it. I was running because I could only perceive that they were trying to kidnap me!
It got to a point where I was so scared to leave the house to do anything. My ritual before stepping outside of my apartment to grab groceries was to cry and have a panic attack. I hated going to work. I hated being outside in public. I hated seeing men. They were everywhere. Always…existing. Always talking to me. Always bothering me. Always scheming a crafty way into my life and eventually into my panties through their “Hey beautiful!” compliments. Always subtly threatening my safety by standing too close to me, touching my arm, doing anything to let me know that they were stronger than me and they could do whatever they wanted with me.
Because I was smaller. I was shorter. I was weaker. I was a woman, a black woman at that.
I hated it. I hated them.
My melanated skin was their permission slip to act like wildebeests because this is what the culture allows and permits: because black men are “not allowed” to be predators in the world they are given free reign to channel this aggression in their communities. So how dare I expect to be treated like a lady, let alone a human being? I am not supposed to desire this, and especially not expect this.
I tried to emotionally process the fact that being an adult means I cannot be a recluse for the rest of my life, and so I eventually programmed myself to romanticize this treatment as my way to cope with being treated as prey. I played their game to the best of my abilities to save my life and live to see another birthday that didn’t involve me being raped, or killed.
Three days before one of my birthdays I was raped by one of them. I called him my boyfriend.
I knew he was dangerous. I saw all of the classic signs of beast within him. And yet I flirted with danger until it caught me in its web and feasted on me through violating my body, because I forgot that I was a woman who deserved to be protected from any man she invites into her heart, her body, and her life.
All of these memories were subconsciously triggered this evening when I saw that red pick-up truck filled with men. I was expecting danger. I was expecting to be catcalled from a moving vehicle that was filled with men who could jump out of those doors at any time to do whatever they wanted with me. I was expecting another traumatic experience I would eventually have to process while they moved on with their lives like my ex did.
But instead I experienced the opposite of my expectations: safety amidst being in the presence of men who could actually witness a woman walking by her lonesome and leave her alone. When you haven’t had enough of these experiences it seems foreign to you, even scary.
This is why the subconscious exists. When you process those painful memories you reprogram your mind, which ultimately reprograms your life and your reality, to have different experiences and outcomes based on sifting through the muck of trauma to get to the treasure: the understanding that you are precious and you deserve to be treated with respect. You cannot get to this place by reciting “I deserve” mantras and yet pretending to be okay with being manhandled violently like trash cans on garbage day because you are in survival mode.
When you are serious about upgrading your quality of life to where you are in the presence of people who actually treat you like a human being, opportunities will open up for you to practice what you preach. That opportunity for me occurred during the pandemic. When I was laid off I realized that I could craft my life exactly the way I needed to. I had nothing to lose but my panic attacks, my relationship trauma, my many years of mistreatment by strange men, and all of this sexual and verbal abuse I endured due to fear.
So I left it all behind. I moved. I decided that cities, which are designed to be congested with predatory males, were not for me. And every time I find myself craving the excitement of city life I bring my awareness back to the fact that while life in the suburbs is slower, it is safer. I no longer have to run. I can simply be. I can finally fix my damn nervous system that has been programmed to work against me for decades.
My craving to run back to what’s familiar is me trying to emotionally and mentally adjust with existing in surroundings that not only feel safe, but are safe. This is unchartered territory for me, but the red pick-up truck filled with men who knew how to have a good time without creating fun out of frightening women helped me realize that I am where I need to be.
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