I wear the words men have said about me like they're etched into my skin. I struggle to see myself, my body or my sexuality without them. I see myself through their gaze, and I define myself by how I’m seen and desired by men. Unfortunately.
Put together, they constitute a surreal group message full of men I’ve slept with talking about my body, my smell and my appearance—a chorus of men in my head. I don’t reply. But their words sink into me anyway.
The first message has been running circles around my head for years. I’ve let it define me before I give anyone else a chance to. That I’m either sexual or intellectual. That I can’t be both. What happened to my head? Why is it so influenced by the words of one man? And where can I hide it (my head), so I can be considered as a sexual being, too?
Show title #43, 'What happened to my head?', by Stefan Brüggemann