An Open Letter to the Men in My DMs: "U Up?"

I Could Be a Scalding Hot Pepperoni Hot Pocket with a Facebook Page, and You'd Still Message "U Up?"

Photo of me at This is Mesmerize. Austin, Texas. Halloween 2020.

This morning, unknown man #6669 messaged me, “I hope my messages don’t make you allergic. LOL.” It was the fourth time this month I had received that message. Several months ago, I added the Facebook bio, “Currently having an allergic reaction to the DMs,” in a desperate attempt to deter unwanted attention. But clearly, men will message no matter what.

I’ve tried ignoring them, pretending to be married, a “vagina hat-toting lesbian,” or even discussing my “hungry, hungry baby eggs,” but nothing seems to work. Mediocre men live on the internet, and they’ll enter anywhere they’re not wanted.

I thought about deleting social media altogether, or just not buying a new phone the next time I drop mine in the toilet. But somehow, at 2 a.m., I ended up writing this instead—a letter to the men in my DMs, the men I once called friends, and those who just want to "get to know me." My inbox is now a toxic wasteland, and I’m either going to have to start over or do something about it because this girl is exhausted.

I’d like to clarify, I don’t feel like “hot shit” for having a full inbox. I could be a scalding hot Pepperoni Hot Pocket with a Facebook page, and I’d still get the “U up?” messages.

Here we go, but first, a quick detour:

Like everyone else, 2020 was a year of reflection and an unwanted deep dive into an ancient ocean of trauma. Trauma I thought I’d tucked away under a rug, rolled it up, and sold it on Craigslist. I swore I bypassed it altogether. Maybe I drank enough Deep Eddy Grapefruit vodka to push my emotional exit just far enough.

But, just like any hangover, the emotional hangover will always set in eventually. And that's exactly what happened this year. It started as anxiety and frustration building at the edges of my sanity. I was a shaken soda bottle, just waiting to explode.

Earlier this year, I decided not to lose one more day of my life to alcohol, and that meant there was no more delay for the onslaught of emotions coming my way.

When the emotions hit, I was riding my bike across an empty campus, lost in a playlist titled ‘Sunday,’ one earbud free as usual. Swoosh! A large man on a bike, seemingly from nowhere, appeared behind me, and terror flooded my veins. My heart raced, my ears rang, and I couldn’t see. A chill ran down my spine.

I knew the man likely noticed my sudden shift in pace and turned off before I could react. Still, the panic hit hard. And just like that, my body caught up with decades of trauma. I started sobbing uncontrollably. Nothing threatening happened, but that moment was when I realized how much I control my safety. Every move I make these days is about avoiding dangerous situations.

Before this year, I used alcohol as armor. It made me impervious. But now that I’m sober, the old coping mechanisms don’t fit anymore. Instead of seeking out distractions, I'm forced to confront the emotional aftermath of years of living on high alert.

That’s when I realized—dating? It’s not in the cards for me right now. I’m focused on healing and self-love.

It’s not that I’m judging men as a whole. In fact, I’ve learned that the key to getting through interactions with men is rewarding the good ones and setting boundaries with the bad ones. But I can’t deny the emotional toll that comes with interacting with men who don’t respect my space or my boundaries.

2020 has reopened old trauma, and it’s not the right time for relationships. I’m healing, and it's exhausting. The endless cycle of emotional labor required to protect myself from unwanted attention has worn me down.

When I see men supporting someone who has publicly stated his right to assault women, or when women vote for him, it’s hard not to feel defeated. The internalized misogyny is real. It’s exhausting to continue to stand by as men show us they think they can do whatever they want, that our bodies and rights don’t matter.

So, men, when you message me and I don’t respond, it’s not personal. I’m just tired. I’ve had enough, and I’m worn out.

When a woman ignores your messages, it’s not because she’s some sort of prissy, pretentious princess. It's because she’s exhausted from the constant bombardment of unsolicited attention, the judgment, and the expectation to entertain every message. She’s likely been dealing with these dynamics for much longer than you can imagine.

Please take a deep breath, realize no one owes you anything, and get a Tinder account where at least some women want to talk to you. And if you see a man harassing or disrespecting women, call him out. Especially, your asshole friends.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s hope for us after all.

XOXO,

Exhausted Girl