Call Me a Bitch

By Diego Marin

I came home crying and wrote in my journal because doing nothing felt unproductive. Evidently, being drunk and upset can be more stimulating than a second cup of coffee. While perhaps theatric, it is the most real and sometimes writing has to be conveyed more dramatically in order for it to be honest and vulnerable. I relayed the events as they happened because thinking about them alone was too much for drunken tears. Fighting the onset of the dreadful spins, and holding back the urge to make a regrettable finsta post, fraught with nausea, I sat up in bed and wrote: 

”I’m having trouble sleeping. Once again, I was disrespected last night. All the unwanted touches of the sweaty and slimy, now tainted, make me want to rid myself of my own skin. That might be a bit much. But, the grabbing and groping is enough to make me want to shower thirty times, and cover up with the frompiest sweatshirt and sweatpants. 

Too often I can’t just say no, but last night I did. It took dozens of times. He asked if I wanted to “Uber back,” and I gave him what I thought were clear enough “no”s. But eventually I just came out and said it after he took my crop top to be an invite to clutch my waist. He tried to make me feel guilty for my disinterest in leaving with him. He kept saying, “I’m not trying to force you to do anything.” I hate when people contradict their words with their actions. What I hate more, though, is when guys don’t listen to what I’m saying, or what my body is saying because I mean what I say. My actions correspond with my words. Had the idea of rejection been so absent, so seemingly impossible, that me pulling away, or saying I just wanted to go back to my own room, would only be taken as a sign of flirtation or a game, not a sign of disinterest or discomfort? 

My lack of respect for myself makes it so hard to say no, to not please, to go back to self-deprecation because it is easy and deflective. But, I’m learning to say no, despite how uncomfortable I felt. I am relearning how to say no because I don’t want to. It is funny, either way a woman is supposed to feel guilt... one is just more immediate than the other. If you say yes, go home with the guy, or are a victim of naivety and believe the attention is not about sex, you are wronged. There is a switch from attention to neglect as quick as their successful conquest; you leave, your purpose done and respect gone. The drag of your body and its disuse trailing behind you. If you don’t go home because you have decided that giving all these guys that might seem nice (but a little pushy) a try, it ends in the dumbing realization that they were just another horny asshole. Or, saying no because you simply don’t want to, you’re a bitch. That phrase “no,” the denying of satisfying that asshole, is power. All those men that stand by the bar waiting for some drunken girl to go home with are looking for that selective yes. They look for you to say yes to them, but no one else. Those are the men that like to own and possess. Your acceptance of their offer (or force) to go home is belittled if you show that you could as easily say yes to someone else. Oh, the fears of lacking masculinity; a rejection, the overrule of saying no, is enough to make them feel that emasculation they hide between their legs… (which is falsely identified as disrespect because it hurts their fragile egos). What bullshit! At the same time I’m being called a whore, others called me a prude, playing hard to get... a BITCH. There’s no get out of jail free card, no escaping some negative judgments or name-calling. 

F*ck you and your “I was planning to go home with you.” I never asked to be a part of your plan. My rejection wasn’t even considered a possibility, like I was penciled into your happy-ending-night. Ugh, your arrogance is showing, and it’s about as cute as you are.” 

The next morning, I read over the words my past self, not far from my current but in a forgettable stage, had written. Expecting some drunken gibberish of a language that only drunk Devin spoke, I was pleased to find a somewhat cohesive personal statement. 

Reading it over, I celebrated with the drunk Devin for the victory of saying no. My therapist applauded me too, even calling me a badass which I thought was a stretch just for a word. At that, a word my friends know is not hard for me to say… to them. And somehow it is harder to say it to someone I am not close with. My discomfort in ‘rejection’ is rooted then in a desire to please others, to not let someone dislike me. But as drunk Devin said, there’s no way to not offend, to have respect, and to not feel like a piece of shit. Worrying my “no” might imply a superiority complex that makes me unlikeable (when truthfully I am just not interested) is pointless! If I’m ridiculed either way, then why am I letting my actions and words be dictated by what I think other people will want when I really should have been focusing on my own best interest in the first place? 

That’s the point: I shouldn’t be focusing on the needs of others, their insecurities and their upset. No, I should be focusing on myself and my needs. From now on, I will do what I want. If I say yes, it’s because I want to, not because I want to please. And when I do, you can call me a whore. But in those times, which are most times, when I want to say no, I am going to say no. I am saying no because I don’t want to go home with him. Because I do what I want to do. Because I respect myself. You can go ahead, call me a bitch, but I can save some time for you and do it first. I’m a bitch. That bitch. A bad bitch. A bitch that is gonna continue to love herself.

Xoxo, Devin Yadav

Call Me By Your Name obsessed, wannabe Bowie groupie, and off-brand irl Moana