How my hatred of men turned out to be about me.

When I was younger, I longed for a man who could truly meet me — someone strong enough to stand up to me and still stay. I believed men were too weak and fragile for that.

Looking back, I know I never truly saw the men I knew then. How could I see them when my own story about them was so overpowering?

Not surprisingly, I was single through most of my 20s and 30s.

When I was 42 I met a man like no other I’d met before. He was funny, irreverent, and irrepressible in his attraction for me. His life was a bit of a mess, but somehow that didn’t stop me from feeling attracted back.

The first time I got angry at him — really angry — he didn’t crumble. He didn’t get defensive. He stayed. He loved me anyway.

We only dated for six months, but I’m pretty sure that man changed my life. Because being with him created the first crack in the wall I'd built around myself. An antidote to the story that "men are too fragile" to handle me.

The foundations of that "men are fragile" story went back much further than I realized — all the way back to my teen years, and my relationship with my Dad.

I remember one Canada Day after my dad and I watched the fireworks from Parliament Hill. As we were leaving, the crowd thickened to squeeze through the Parliament Hill gates. My dad was ahead of me, still gripping my hand, but soon I couldn’t see him anymore because there were so many people squeezed between us. Then I felt a hand on my body. It was groping my breasts. I couldn’t move away because there were so many people around me. I couldn’t even tell whose hand it was.

I didn't cry out, and I never told my Dad. I didn’t want to shatter his innocence or expose his helplessness. I believed it was my job to protect him.

That belief — that men needed my protection — shaped everything.

I grew up to become a woman who would never have a problem I couldn't solve. Who would never need a man's help.

Later, after my father died, my anger finally surfaced.

I was 50 years old by then, but grieving made me feel like a teen all over again. After a lifetime of idolizing him for his “goodness” and his “kindness”, I was suddenly seething, enraged by all the ways my need to protect him had constrained me.

One day about a year after he passed, I was out for a walk, tears streaming down my face. What was I supposed to do with all this rage? How could I stop being angry at a man who was dead?

Then something extraordinary happened.

As I was crossing the street I heard my father’s voice, clear as day, in my head:

“It’s okay to be angry at me. I can take it,” he said.

And I believed him.

Finally, my dad was meeting me.

I still catch myself sometimes — holding back when I need to speak out. But I see why it’s happening now. It’s just the old story surfacing again.

And because I can see it, I can choose something different. I can tell the men I love when I’m upset about something. I can give them the chance to meet me. And more often than not, they do.

Healing my relationship with men has changed my life. It hasn’t made it perfect. But it’s made it more real. And more fun!

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If you're a woman who's struggled with anger, disappointment, or resentment toward men — and you're curious what that might be pointing to in yourself — my friend Marilene and I are leading a workshop in June:

Men, Ugh! www.bethjones.ca/workshop

We’d love to have you.