She Rose Revolution

Why wasn’t I enough? It’s the question that constantly lingers. Through all the heartache and exploring, I always circle back to why I was never enough for these men who came and went as if they were just passing by. Growing up, I was constantly made aware of how “perfect” my figure was; it distorted my own self-image. I thought it was the only thing of note about myself. It became so internalized that I believed I was worthless without my body. That the only way to fall in love was through capturing a man’s attention with my body. I weaponized it. I thought there was power in owning myself, in being free and sexual, and I was right to an extent. I learned so much about myself, my body, and my likes and dislikes, but the intention was never right.

I don’t ever want to see you drunk again. When you’re sober, you’re the perfect man. You’re everything I ever wanted. Nine out of ten times you’ve been drunk, you’ve been completely fine. But that night was odd. I’ve been embarrassingly drunk before; I’m not judging you for that. But the person you became that night was different. And what’s weird is moments before, you made me the happiest I’d ever been. At ****’s house, you were sweet, thoughtful, romantic. You didn’t switch up until the party got relocated, and we moved on to the next house. And it wasn’t just me who saw it. You weren’t aware, or maybe you were, but you received a lot of looks of concern that night.

I didn’t have a proper crush on a real boy until I was 17. Instead, I favored older, un-real guys in boybands and high school TV shows, and Nicholas Sparks movies. The younger me couldn’t even talk to a boy I was crushing on without blushing a hard shade of rouge. Forget sex; my first battle would be learning to converse like a human without acting like a mute. And anyway, I’d consumed enough romantic, fairy-tale fiction to know that I wanted to wait. I wanted it to be special, whatever that meant, so I figured I’d wait until I fell in love or got married. Older Shani would deal with it all at a much later date.

I recently received an invitation to an event hosted by the worst person I have ever worked for: a straightforward bully. The idea of spending one hour stuck in a room with that person made me sick to my stomach. My initial reaction was a simple and resounding “no.” Since I hadn’t seen her for months, I thought perhaps it wouldn’t be so triggering. But with one tiny email, it was as if I was right back to those dreadful winter months when, for weeks, I told myself that ignoring all the insults and backstabbing would further my career.