Michelle McGlynn: I've been thinking about how to keep myself safe from men my whole life

It’s rare for even a week to go by without being confronted by a story about a woman suffering at the hands of a man, writes Michelle McGlynn

A person lays flowers near to the scene after primary school teacher Ashling Murphy was killed on Wednesday afternoon along the banks of the Grand Canal at Cappincur, Co Offaly. Picture: Brian Lawless/PA Wire

I woke up yesterday, and I was tired. It was a bone-deep exhaustion that lives in me every day, but I feel the weight of it on some days more than others.

I knew how the day would go, because I’ve lived it so many times.

Social media would be filled with women baring their pain and grief, screaming into a void of people more interested in performative allyship than listening and doing the actual work.

#NotAllMen would trend on Twitter with as many men eager to let everyone know that they would never utter the phrase as those who actually believe it.

My friends and I would check in on each other hoping to offer comfort, but knowing ourselves that none can be given.

We would all look at photos of Ashling Murphy, a 23-year-old who was kind, giving, passionate and filled with hopes for what her future could be, and we would try to make sense of something that we know we never could.

Ashling Murphy.

Something must be done, people would shout. Things must change. Every hollow statement I’ve heard each time the life of a woman, a person of colour, or a member of the LGBTQ community is murdered.

I’ve been on this road for a long time. It leads nowhere. I know that sometime soon we’ll be back here, and the view will be just as bleak.

People say I’m exaggerating, dramatic, defeatist, but honestly, how could I not be?

The world and my own experience have taught me little else.

As I grew up, I checked off the places where I was no longer safe — outside late at night, outside early in the morning, outside during the day, online, public transport, taxis, doing my job, with strangers, with friends, anywhere on my own. I did this until there was nowhere left.

I don’t remember a time in my life when I wasn’t thinking about how to keep myself safe from men.

When the first lockdown began, I half-joked that there was a silver lining to it, in that I wouldn’t have to share space or interact with any men. I could relax for a couple of weeks.

Of course, that feeling didn’t last long, because there’s always the internet.

The constant need to protect yourself is truly inescapable.

In this job, it’s rare for even a week to go by without being confronted by a story about a woman suffering at the hands of a man. It’s near-constant, and I don’t get to turn away and pretend it’s not happening.

Women attacked, abused, assaulted, raped, murdered. Men acquitted, found not guilty, let out on bail, getting a suspended sentence, allowed to donate a couple of hundred euro rather than face jail time.

It’s everywhere and it’s all the time and they are just the ones that are reported — a tiny fraction of cases.

I’ve been a journalist for a few years at this stage, and to say that the number of hours I’ve spent at work trying not to cry or scream over these stories is well into the triple-digits wouldn’t be an exaggeration.

I added another eight hours today, and I’ll clock up several more over the coming days and weeks.

I will sit and do my job with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and tears springing to my eyes every time my thoughts drift to the women who have had their lives stolen from them and their devastated families.

Selfishly, I will think of my family and my friends, and pray that I never experience the unimaginable pain that Ashling’s loved ones are going through now.

As I do, the feeling of hopelessness gets deeper and deeper.

I would like to be writing something more comforting, or issuing a rallying call to rage against it all, and I remember being a woman who had that fight in her, but she disappeared a long time ago.

I’ve tried, I swear I have. I have had the conversations and arguments, I have gone to protests and vigils, I’ve cried and I’ve pleaded for people to listen to us.

But now I’m empty. I’m hollowed out. I’m just so tired.

If you are affected by any of the issues in this article, please reach out to someone. Women’s Aid 1800 454 454.