There’s this plant called Japanese Knotweed. You might have heard of it.
It’s a relentless, invasive thing, with the personality of a horror movie monster. Its thick shoots can pierce through concrete, penetrating the foundations of your home and destroying everything in sight.
It grows rapidly during summer months of the year, packing on an extra ten centimetres each day. But you can’t just strim it, trim it or mow it, because if a single piece of debris is left behind, more will grow back in a matter of days. You’ll be like Hercules, attempting to cut off the heads of The Hydra, only to find for every one you cut off, two stinking more grow back in its place.
By this point, its roots will have nestled deep into the crumbling walls that once supported you, until you just accept your life is now ruined and you live with a sadist.
Now I’m not saying all men are like Japanese Knotweed. But as I reflect back on my twenties, I think it’s a fair comparison to make. I was the house falling to pieces—and the Knotweed just kept on comin’. Each one taking away a little more of my power than the last.
Japanese Knotweed Exhibit A
I asked him about a purse I found in his car once. He told me he found it whilst he was at the bar ordering drinks but he’d forgotten to hand it in.
“But you were at the bar,” I said, “why didn’t you just give it to one of the bar staff?”
“I don’t know Laura. I was a bit fucked by that point.”
I told him he should stop getting so drunk when he’s performing at these club nights in case someone’s there who could potentially sign him. He told me it doesn’t work like that. I asked him how it works. He told me to drop it. I told him he had an attitude. He punched his hand through the plasterboard just to the left of my cheek.
Japanese Knotweed Exhibit B
He told me to leave my makeup on before I got into bed.
Japanese Knotweed Exhibit C and D
C, a stranger, put his hand up my skirt in a nightclub and D, the man I reported it to, told me to wear trousers next time I go dancing with my friends.
Japanese Knotweed Exhibit E
By our third date, I’d already picked up on the excessive texting and asked him what the deal was. He told me she was a close friend whom he loved dearly and more importantly, platonically.
A couple of years into our relationship, I found out they actually did have a history. The realisation of how long this lie had existed left me so upset, that he packed his bags and went to stay in a hotel down the road for a couple of nights until I’d—in his words—pulled myself together. After 48 hours of silence, he finally messaged to say he would come back if I promised not to bring her up again.
I replied saying I promise.
Japanese Knotweed Exhibit F
“We’d love to offer you the job!” He said, placing his hand on my knee.
Japanese Knotweed Exhib—
Ok, that’s enough. You get the gist.
Each man’s actions—some big, some small, some so ridiculously banal you’d think I was making them up, and some I still can’t bring myself to write about—nestled themselves deep into my foundations. And much like Japanese Knotweed, the roots of those actions didn’t just quietly slip out the back door. Instead, their grip around me tightened, leaving me powerless long after they’d left. So I wrote off men, love and relationships, in a quest to protect the very little power I had left. Long gone were the days of sitting cross-legged and wide-eyed on sofas at after-parties saying things like “Don’t you guys think it’s mad that basically everything in life is a social construct EXCEPT LOVE?!”
I messaged the group chat, with three friends, asking them if they’ve ever chosen power over love. The first replied saying:
“Remember the awful end to that relationship I had? Well, that was a BIG turning point for me. It was a fucking horrific time and left me emotionally drained. But it was during the endless nights spent sobbing into my pillow, that I actually started to enjoy going to work because it kept me busy. So I decided to throw myself into it, not just as a distraction method but also as a way to get my self-worth back. It was a good reminder that I can achieve big things on my own.”
The second said:
“It’s Walt Disney’s fault. We’re sold this Prince Charming idea and are instead bombarded with men who complicate our lives rather than complement them. No wonder so many of us go through stages of giving up and writing it all off.”
I couldn’t help but wonder, (sorry, had to) is giving up on love and throttling up on power a woman’s rite of passage? Is it a place we find ourselves after feeling like all the strength we’ve ever had has been stripped from us? Every lie. Every remark. Every unwanted hand placed on our bodies. Yes, maybe.
This world can be a frightening place to navigate as a woman with little power. And the likelihood is that by our thirties, we’ve already lost so much of it. Power that’s been taken from men who said they loved us, who swore to protect us, who call us crazy, who don’t take no for an answer, who blame, who lie, who leave, men who make us feel like there’s no space for us.
Eventually, the soft shell of our bodies becomes hard and guarded and in a bid to gain our power back, we sacrifice love.
I messaged the group chat again a day or two later, chasing the third friend who hadn’t yet responded.
“You might not like my answer,” she replied.
I told her to send it anyway, then watched her typing for a minute or two until her message appeared on my screen:
“Can’t we have both?”
Loved this! I believe we can have both, once we decide our power can't be taken from us. It's taken me 43 years to get here, and I STILL struggle some days, but I've been "doing the work" and I can tell you, it only gets better (and more enjoyable) when you knock that man off the pedestal and put yourself up there! xo
Let's have both!