IM GONNA GONE GIRL MYSELF

By Mariah Hernandez

But I’m not going to. Oh no, baby, let’s unpack this, because I promise I don’t possess murderous tendencies (or a cheating husband). And by “gone-girling myself,” I mean framing my husband for my own murder/disappearance.

It’s not like I don’t have my reasons (being done dirty by every man I’ve encountered, experiencing trauma I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, begging to be respected as a young Latina woman, constantly having to fight for a place at the table amongst a sea of white people here in university). If I did do it, would you blame me? Could you blame me?

You probably would and could. “What an extreme response,” you must be thinking. “Why would she do that? She’s an insane, evil bitch who deserves to be poked and picked at by demons *down there* for the rest of eternity.” [But would I really deserve to go to hell for retaliating against getting poked and picked at by the earthly human demons? Funny thing is, I don’t actually believe in hell, so my motivation to not gone-girl myself and commit other atrocities isn’t rooted in the fear of being tortured. It’s much more simple than religious morality. I could be burnt to a crisp, but I never found pleasure in setting fire to the world.] Even if my religious morals didn’t prevent me from gone-girling myself, I’m a forgiving person — it’s not like I’m totally unreasonable. I do bad things sometimes and I know that it’s not because I’m a bad person. Hurt people hurt people; I say that all the time now. For those I do believe to be beyond redemption, my energy is not directed on plotting their downfall because they don’t deserve the energy. Plus, secretly, I trust that the fucked up things you do will haunt you and consume you until you find a way to make true peace with your soul. We deliver our own misery better than anyone can, so I refuse to lift a finger. Gone-girling myself would be too much work.

Sure, like any other woman, maybe it does feel a bit cathartic to watch women take violent revenge on men by placing their paralyzed body in a bear skin inside a burning yellow building, by axe-murdering the movie theater employee who has a crush on her, or, of course, like our beloved Amy Dunne gonegirling herself. But I will not be celebrated amongst these blonde white women holding the bloodied knife with remnants of the innards of their lovers.

I can’t say this enough: I don’t want to do it. I don’t. But with these violent role models, no wonder why I’m at a loss. I’ve tried the traditional healthy way, communicating my anger, my hurt, pleading with someone to hear me out. But yet, I am the crazy one.

I don’t have a singular cheating husband, but I do have repeating patterns within the men I encounter. I tell them in bed that I’m crazy — in the sense that I will confront him if I feel disrespected and in the sense that I have 3 separate prescriptions for my psyche on my nightstand. Innocently, they look up smirking saying that they know. With the glimmer of opportunity in his eyes, I know he’s thinking that it’s so cute and freaky. Yes, it is so fun when we’re in our honeymoon phase. But I know it as well as any of you, that it never lasts: they unzip the nice guy exterior to reveal a sociopath who pretends that I never even existed.

You can try to kick me off the cliff of obsoleteness to your own personal graveyard full of women you got bored of, and sure, maybe you’ll succeed. I sure as hell won’t go down without a (nonphysical) fight though. I tell them it’s hurtful or act out until my voice gets raspy from screaming. I get crazy. Wouldn’t you? Being betrayed by a person who I talked to about family and bell hooks and questions that made me feel like I was knowing them deeply, you expect me not to be crazy? No, that’s when craziness isn’t so cute anymore, when I remind them that I’m an actual person with feelings and not the manic pixie dream girl. “I have no idea why you’re acting like this.” You know. You just never listened.

That’s but one of the many repeating cycles of torture in my life. I’m losing my sanity out here, I can’t help but hear “I WANNA GONE

GIRL MYSELF” screaming bloody rage in my intrusive thoughts. You don’t know how hard I’m trying.

I’ve tried the therapy thing too, but do you know how futile it feels when no one else cares to? Everyone agrees that yes, I need and should go to therapy, but never seems to ask themselves if they should as well. It’s so passive, and yet that’s what makes me feel like my head is being held under water. I lose my oxygen and patience, and bitterness and deadness settles into my bloodstream. This is really when gone-girling myself seems valid. No amount of training for this marathon of misery, no amount of therapy, no amount of forgiveness can truly help. All I can do is accept that I can’t do a thing about it and pretend that’s peace, but everything hurts just the same. That’s how I know gone-girling myself would not accomplish anything.

You know what happens when I’m virtually screaming for help and for someone to end the pain? I’m told to forgive people for the hurt they’ve caused me. I’m told to just remember I’m more mature and I’m above being bothered by this. That’s what drives me the craziest, maybe the most irrational a person can get: the expectation that I am to send a white dove of forgiveness just for remorseless people to squeeze the delicate little body until its head pops off and white feathers run red. I am crazy and cruel enough to refuse to senselessly send them to their deaths.

So “IM GONNA GONE GIRL MYSELF” continues to echo through my enraged soul. It started out as a tolerable spiky weight that floats in my stomach acid, but now everything has gone nuclear with all the toxic shit forced down my throat. Hit me and I might explode, guts flying on everyone I love and hate with no sense or rationality. And the worst part? My externally-inflicted destruction leaves me with nothing.

So, for now, I’ll keep taking it. Some scabs have healed and faded into lightning shaped scars, and some are still being clawed off to bleed underneath my fingernails.

I don’t want to gone-girl myself. Don’t make me do it. Please just tell me that if I were to gone-girl myself that you might whisper, “I understand,” or maybe even “Good for her.”