Claimed, but you don’t own me

Ever since my birthday, I have been noticing things. It started when I posted a selfie. A picture I liked. A picture taken at the right angle, in the right light, making me look beautiful. However conceited it sounds, it’s the truth. I wouldn’t post a picture I don’t like.

And then the messages started. Men slipping into my Instagram DMs, saying they want to be friends. Good friends. As if friendship is something you can offer a stranger like a cup of coffee. But we both know why they are here. They saw the picture. Not my words. Not my mind. Just a moment where I looked a little less ordinary. And that was enough.

Most of these messages come from men. So I say it right away. I am married. I have three kids. A simple fact. A shield. A way to make them go away. Sometimes it works. Other times, it doesn’t. Happily? one asked. What am I supposed to say to a stranger? Of course, happily. And if I wasn’t? I’d be even happier married if it meant I didn’t have to engage with him. The assumption that my happiness is theirs to question, that my life is theirs to measure, makes me uncomfortable.

But it happens all the time. A test. A challenge. As if they believe persistence will wear me down. As if no is an invitation to try harder.

I have my usual answer ready. I am not a nice person. I am rather rude. I am not looking for new friends. But most don’t take no for an answer. They ask more questions. They dig.

And here’s the thing. Even though I claim to be rude, I am not. I reply, but only in short sentences. Only when I feel like it. I try to be boring. To make them lose interest. But rejection is hard for me too. I know what it’s like to be ignored. To be met with silence. And yet. That doesn’t mean I owe them my time.

Tonight, a young man was angry. He told me I was disrespectful for seeing his messages and not replying. The messages were simple. Hi. How r u. I didn’t have the time or the interest. So I moved on. That was disrespectful, he said. As if my silence was an insult. As if I had wronged him. And for a second, I almost agreed. Almost.

But I never invited him into my life. Never asked him to message me. Never promised a reply. I told him from the start that I am not a nice person. That I am not looking for this. That I do not want this. And yet he persisted. And when I didn’t give him what he felt he was owed, he got angry.

It keeps happening. People conflate visibility with accessibility. As if sharing a thought or a picture means I belong to them. Means they have a right to my time. A message is not a key. It does not unlock a door.

And as I overthink, I notice something else. I am ranting about a tiny thing. Attention. And isn’t attention why we post on social media? Why we update our blogs? Why we share our thoughts at all? Shouldn’t I be grateful for every visitor? Every person who sees me? Do I owe them something? Anything? I give them my words, my poems, my thoughts. My wisdom – that’s probably too strong a word, but it fits anyway. What else do they want? And what do I deserve?

I sit here in my little bubble, complaining about nine messages. It’s not much. But it’s enough to preoccupy my mind. Maybe that’s the real problem. Not the messages. Not the men. But me. The fact that I let it bother me at all. The fact that I let it take up space in my thoughts when it could have been ignored completely.

I don’t think I am important. I don’t think I deserve your attention. I am grateful for it, but I don’t expect it. And yet, I write, hoping someone reads. Hoping someone stays. Because isn’t that what we all want? A sign that we matter?

And isn’t this where it all comes full circle? Who am I to demand your time, your likes, your comments, your views? And who are they to demand mine? Maybe none of us deserve attention. Maybe we all do. Maybe that’s the whole point.