Once upon a time, I, too, wore “I don’t need no man” as a badge of honor. At that point in time, the naivety of my immaturity arrogantly strutted its stuff, which consequently sent my marriage spiraling headfirst towards total collapse and destruction. The truth is, I was bitter from the unhealed hurt that had barricaded itself within my soul.
I, too, once swore that “I don’t need no man” with my words; however, the truth is I was terribly afraid. Afraid that the profession of such yearning would mean that I, once and for all, would have to relinquish the ties to the stronghold of unforgiveness I’d been harboring since childhood.
You see, it is a fact that I was bullied by my father. And the seven switches that he individually whipped me with, within the confines of the bathroom at my grandmother's house, as I wailed for rescue from one of the people just steps away who could have put an end to the extreme abuse I was experiencing, but no one— not one of them— came. Not one of them put an end to the unwarranted torrent of rage my 7 or 8-year-old self was enduring. And it crippled me; hijacking my ability to put words to the fact that I still longed for someone—a man—if I’m honest, to be a soft landing after experiencing such pummeling by a man. So, you see, I was just too afraid to allow myself to be vulnerable enough to admit that though I’d experienced such a deep pit of hurt rendered by the man I assumed would be the standard bearer of how his daughter should be healthily treated, silently I still longed for a man’s protection, yet I had little hope for its appearance. And when it did appear, I didn’t know how to handle it, and maybe not with my fists but with my words, he was subject to similar unjustified rage that little me was forced to endure.
I, too, once swore that “I don’t need no man” with my words; however, fast forward and I had to come to grips with a confrontation with myself that many of the men whom I desperately gave my virtue away to, were placed in such a position as a result of my own fault. Time and time again, the entry into my body and inevitably my soul was unearned, and yet they were given full access. The truth is, I have been in the process of healing for over ten years, and yet I’m still on the mend. In my memory, I can see little girl Janet exiting the bathroom that day with her face washed with tears and overwhelmed by shame; it has taken me a long while to recover from shame. That day, after I was assaulted and no one came to my rescue, my innocence was whipped out of me. So, it was easy for me to use my body to attempt to earn validation. Consequently, before I ever had the opportunity to erect the courage to BE, trauma and self-hate reduced my valuation of self-expectation to hopelessness.
But then a man; a man named Jesus invited me into a relationship with Him; One where my history would no longer define me, but instead be woven into a tapestry of redemption to become a banner for other women.
I get it. I, too, was once too afraid, too shame-filled, too angry, too bitter, and too unhealed to allow myself to feel safe enough to admit that there has always been a need for a man. If I’m honest, on some days, I still have to resist the urge to once more tie myself to such a wounded point of view.
However, being a boy mom, coupled with an imperfectly loving husband and the great pride that I have about being God's-girl, I proudly shout that… I always have and always will NEED A MAN!
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