The first time I felt like a sexual object was when I was thirteen. I was walking through the center of my dad’s hand when I realized that men weren’t looking at me like they used to and that the words they muttered were directed at me, no, not so much at me, they were directed at my body as a child thirteen years old.
Nine years after that afternoon, every day remains the same.
Sometimes more, sometimes less. Depending on who you are with, where you are or what clothes you wear, but they are always there. There are always the looks that intimidate me and unconsciously make me walk faster, there are always the words that are muttered and even laughter but that at the end of the day make me regret having put a skirt on, the undesirable friction is always there to make my eyes turn into waterfalls r and promise myself not to walk alone again.
As long as we cannot go outside without fear, we are not free, we are not free to dress as we want or to walk wherever we want.
But it is not just walking through the streets without fear but also being able to party quietly in a disco, in a bar or, in any other random place.
Since I started partying about seven years ago and even to this day, my mother keeps telling over and over again things like: do not receive a drink from strangers or to never lose sight of the glass where I’m drinking.
I tried to ignore her, but now after a lot of stories that I have not only listened to them but also to lived them, I had realized that unconsciously I started to do the things that my mother told me, and I found myself in the middle of every party smelling the drink before each sip and covering the glass where I drink with my hand while I’m dancing.
It just became clear that we are not free, neither in the street nor at a party with our friends.
I don’t think I’m wrong when I say that all women have a story, a story they don’t want to remember, some stronger than others, but we all have a story. And I am not saying that they are all men, I do not think that it is most of them, but they are enough. They are enough to be scared, enough that every woman I know has experienced it at least once, enough that it becomes a social problem and not just random stories.