Not misogynistic

I tried to analyse my hostility against certain women, but I’m not a misogynist. I admit that I’ve been a hypocrite because I agree with Schopenhauer on many levels. Hell knows what I’m still denying. There’s so much spite going on, which I don’t want to share. This is to avoid you turning your back on me.

It all started when I went to my paediatrician for the first time. All those years, I had been trying to repress this memory. She was my first physician ever. A woman. I remember her having short grey hair and the facial expression of a dumb badger. She lacked patience and kindness. You really didn’t have the impression that she liked children at all.

I haven’t thought about that bitch for a long time, not until my gynaecologist (a man!) had started asking me for my vaccination records. The problem was that I had lost my vaccination certificate, and therefore I’m not up to date about my past vaccinations. I remember vaccinations at school for which we received no written record. So my gynaecologist said, “Consult your paediatrician.”

I felt numb for a second. I suddenly remembered that grey-haired bitch, who, to me, was a personified witch—a female child abuser. She was the first woman to trick me. She once distracted me to inject me or insert suppositories up my arse. That, in my eyes, is child abuse. She was also the first woman who told my dad (with me present) that I had some serious mental problems because I didn’t speak to people. My dad believed her. That was when he first felt ashamed of me. He was embarrassed at parents’ meetings.

It didn’t get any better, though. I had to deal with female teachers at the kindergarten and nursery school. My first primary school teacher was female, so was the second. They all pretty much gave up on me and sent me to the school psychologist every time they thought I was weird. (The school psychologist/counsellor was a woman too.) All those bloody fucking women were cunts and hollow as their fucking hearts. My first teacher at secondary school was a woman, also. But by the time I attended secondary school, I was more able to think for myself and began to realise what was really going on around me. It was unnecessary to think that I needed help. The only person who was able to help me was me, me alone.

My mother used to be very detached in the past. I always felt that she was not satisfied with her life and the choices she had made. Therefore I don’t resent her for being detached. I’ve always used her as a punching bag. And I still do. The difference between her and the other women is that she cares about me.

You probably won’t understand me if I say that I don’t ever want to become a mother myself. It’s enough to be a woman.

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