Severing the Conection Between Yourself and a Friend Can Be as Painful as Any Romantic Breakup

Nothing is more heartbreaking than the end of a relationship. There is a grieving period, and a need for closure which may never come to pass. When this affinity is romantic in nature everyone is there to help you and give you their advice. Support is endless. But what about when a platonic relationship breaks up? Who do you turn to when the person you are separating from is the usual place you would find solidarity and support?

Breaking up with a friend can be life shattering. You still have a grieving period, you still may never have closure, but there is much more to a friendship bust up than that. You lose the person you went to for support, you are no longer on good terms with someone who knows many, if not all, your dirty little secrets. If it was a messy break up and you are out to hurt each other you both know all the buttons to press to get maximum reactions. If you've been friends a long time there will be mutual friends involved as well, and they won't want to take sides. Your other friends are telling you to get over it and move on and stop talking about it, but just like a romantic break up, you need to talk about it to process what happened, how it went wrong, and how you will move on with your life without the other person.

You go through all the same emotions, blaming the other person, being angry, being sad, feeling alone and finally accepting it is over. Yet to the outside world it isn't something of great importance. For the two people severing friendship though, it can be a catastrophic event. As someone who is currently going through the tremendously painful experience of ending a close and once sacred friendship, I thought I would share some of the wisdom I am garnishing from this tragic life event.

Some friendships come to us for a season, all friendships come to us for a reason!

It is much too easy to re-write the past through anger, bitterness or hurt. Making the other person out to be something bad and someone you are glad to be rid of. It is much harder to see the relationship as the blessing it was. the fact of the matter is what you had was real. The support and help you gave each other was real. If we really do look at a relationship as something with seasons then eventually what has been sown needs to be reaped. This is not a bad thing, by moving on we can actually plant new seeds and grow as a person and allow the other person to do the same.

Moving in different directions is not a good or bad thing, its just a thingwhich happens. Friendships are born from having things in common, they are sustained by emotional and spiritual needs. When this emotional and spiritual connection becomes unbalanced a few things in common is not enough to glue the friendship together. 

So how do we find out we have an unbalanced connection?

When balanced a relationship is give and take, one side may give more or take more but there is a general cyclic flow to the nature of emotional, physical and spiritual support. When one person stops giving it the friendship will wear away over time. Eventually the relationship becomes lopsided. You may think this is the fault of the person who is only taking, but it isn't.

In every tango there is two people. If you are willingly giving to someone who never returns the energy you are just as complicit in the unbalanced nature of the relationship. If you have fed someone over time, without demanding an equal exchange, the friendship is given an unspoken acceptance to continue this way. If you then suddenly stop giving, and want to take something back there is no room for this in the relationship and so the friendship must either weather a storm or end.

Some friendships can weather any storm, and in these instances the connection comes back with time or hard work. It may not be the same connection it once was, but it is still two souls who see each other as sacred. Other friendships can not weather the storm and the two souls pull apart. It can be messy, hard, scary or it may be acrimonious. The friendship may be only a barren season, or it may be forever, only the universe and her Fates can possibly know at the time. No matter if the break up it is mutual or messy, it is going to be painful. Let yourself process the loss and grieve, explain to your friends how you just need to talk about your feelings the same way you would if it was a romantic break up. Keep in mind how special this person once was in your life and let the kinship be remembered as the sacred experience it was. 

Move forward in your life by thanking the universe for the lessons and experiences you received throughout the time you shared as friends. Have the grace and integrity to let go of the hurt and anger without letting it paint a good thing with hate and spite. When you lash out at the other person you are hurting yourself more than you hurt them.

Most importantly though, forgive yourself for eventually moving on without the other person, it is the right thing for both of you, no matter how much it hurts at the time.

The Confession They All Hoped I'd Never Make

No one in my family will be happy with what I am about to write. Those who believe my story and have heard it whispered behind closed doors will wonder why, now, after 30 years I want to put it out there for the world. Others, who already tell their lies and gossip about me will believe this is just another prevarication made up for attention or to personally hurt them. To the former family, if you don't understand why I need to speak up and try and share my story with others, I'm sorry. Its something I need to get out, I need to talk about this as part of my mental health journey. Whispers and secrets make my story incomplete and if I ever want to help others I need to be open about the experiences I have lived. To the latter family members, I have nothing to say, you will continue to warp reality as you see fit, my truths won't slow down your tide of hatred.

For me childhood was a sad and hectic experience, my parents separated and while my father retained custody he was unable to take care of us. For a number of years we moved between staying with an aunt or our grandmother. I can not speak for my sister and brother′s feelings through these years, but for me they were lonely and esteem crushing. I spent my "home" time looking out for my siblings, I was respectively 5 and 6 years older than them and felt it was my job to show them love and affection. I tried to shield them from the harsh reality of living with out parents and feeling like a burden to others. School holidays were a fun time as we would go "out bush" with an aunt, uncle to stay in a gorgeous bush shack with them and their children.

We lived in hand me downs and school ports which were old and ratty. Told more than once how lucky we were that any family member wanted us and how we owed these people for caring for us. I cooked, cleaned and took care of my cousins in an attempt to feel useful and pull my weight. I worried about my siblings, almost obsessed with their well being. At school I was quiet, shy, and when I did open my mouth something weird would no doubt come out. I made very few friends, and was the easy target for name calling and exclusion. By the time I hit prepubescence victim was all but stamped across my forehead.

I may have been timid and scared but I was however, also an absolute master at hiding my feelings, my secret was to eat whenever I felt sad, mad, frightened, nervous. Because of the tendency to eat my feelings I was over weight, which gave another blow to my self esteem. My aunt often went to bingo with our nan or else retired to bed early. I was older than the other children and allowed to stay up later, my uncle worked late and would eat dinner after the other children were in bed. Everything started very innocently, my uncle would ask about my day, school, friends, I eagerly opened up pleased that someone seemed to care. He let me raid the pantry for chips and lollies, it was our secret, my little late night treat.

Eventually he asked about boyfriends, I didn't have any, he told me I was pretty without saying it was a shame about my weight, something no one ever did. The first time I remember feeling uneasy was when I hurt my knee at school. My uncle insisted on rubbing it to make it feel better, his hand massaged my knee for a few seconds before starting to move up my thigh. I muttered that wasn't my knee, my uncle told me the muscles were all connected. He massaged high up on my thigh but convinced me it was no where he shouldn't be touching.

His touch had made me uncomfortable, but like any well groomed, emotionally starved child I didn't want to upset the one person who was nice to me. I wasn't even sure if he had done anything really wrong. This seemed to be the moment everything changed, no not changed, escalated, I don't know if my uncle knew now I would keep quiet and got bolder or if he just couldn't resist the pretty but chubby emotionally wounded girl who was unconfortably wearing her first training bras. 

Suddenly I needed to flash my boobs to get my little late night treat, my uncle would follow me to the bathroom when I needed to go to the toilet, or need to come in and get something while I showered. I even once saw him in the backyard staring up at the window while I showered. Boob flashes turned into boob feels, I didn't even want the treats anymore but I took them and I ate them because what else could I do. If I told anyone would they believe me? It was probably my fault anyway right?

The bathroom door didn't lock, I was so proud when I worked out a way to open the linen cupboard to prevent the bathroom door from being opened. This lasted a couple of weeks till my aunt told me I couldn't keep locking the door that way as I would ruin the cupboard. I began to make sure I showered before he got home from work, and even tried going to bed early. I began to feel a little safer, thinking if I minimised the alone time with him all was good. Then one night I awoke to my uncle standing there watching me sleep in the top bunk, "shh go back to sleep" was all he said.

Now I wasn't even safe when I went to bed, in a room with his own children or my siblings in it. I would wake up many nights with him standing over me, sometimes just watching, sometimes he would run his fingers over my pubic mound, mostly over my panties, but sometimes inside. I was up late one night playing computer games, my aunt was home but I didn't realise she had gone to bed. My uncle came into the lounge room and approached the chair I was sitting in from behind. I knew from my peripheral vision something wasn't right but I was too scared to actually turn and look.

When he was standing beside me he told me to turn my head and look, I did as I was told and saw his erect penis, he wanted me to touch it, he forced my hand onto it then asked if I would put it in my mouth, I said no and got teary. I'm not sure what broke the spell for him, my tears or the fear of being caught but he quickly put his penis away apologising and begging me not to tell his wife. I was so scared I promised not to tell. This is the worst of what happened to me, I learnt to look out for myself. Sleep light, the sooner I woke up the sooner he would stop touching me and go back to his room at night time. Never putting my hand up for a room with no one else sleeping in even though I was the oldest. I even encouraged my youngest cousin to share a bed with me feeling safer when someone else was there with me.

Once while family was visiting I gathered up enough courage to tell a cousin a little older than me what was happening. We at the stereo, choosing music I think, we were alone in the room and I took the chance to open up. I'm not sure if I thought she would be able to help, but I didn't want to be alone in knowing this secret anymore. "XXXX shows me his penis, he asked me to put it in my mouth." Her response was to laugh and tell me it was no big deal. I felt betrayed, and this was when I realised I really was all alone in my nightmare.

In time Dad got himself together and we went back to live with him and his new girlfriend not long after I started high school. I was relieved to be living somewhere else, no longer needing to be vigilant when I went to the toilet or sleep under sheets even when it was too hot to be covered. I still didn't tell anyone what had happened to me, instead I started finding ways to skip family events and embraced being the weird fat girl with low self esteem, you know the one no one wanted to kiss.

I was unable to avoid a cousins birthday party, it was one of my uncle's daughters, in silent protest I turned up late, very late. My uncle dragged me out onto the front stairs and admonished me for having no family spirit. I stood there in fear stuttering answers as he told me how selfish and rotten I was, as soon as possible I ran away to wish my cousin a happy birthday. After that I attended family events, staying as physically far away from my uncle as I could.

I was nineteen and living out of home before I told another person, this time I told my mother, in a drunken midnight on new years eve phone call. I don't remember how the subject came up, but I do remember her asking if anyone had ever touched me inappropriately, so I told her. She told my father and a few days later (even though they had been divorced for years) the three of us sat down and talked about it. My father was furious and close to violence, I however did not want to upset my grandmother, so we decided to keep it quiet.

While the sexual abuse I suffered is not as bad as it could have been, it has still left behind a highly damaged person. It took years for me to view sex as something attached to love and affection. It took me years to learn I could say no to men. It took me years to trust being alone with a man. There were men who I thought were friends who took the first opportunity to get me in bed, proving once again that men were not to be trusted. I was hyper vigilant around those of the opposite sex, I still am, I don't feel safe around men I don't know and I am often uncomfortable around those I do.

I am scared to sleep at night, tossing and turning, waking at every noise, I suffer night terrors, severe anxiety and major depression along with emotional dysregulation, the first few symptoms are a culmination of a tough childhood and hectic life. The last one appears in those of us who have not been shown emotional security and healthy ways to express ourselves as children. My uncle isn't the only hardship my childhood or early adult life saw, but he is one of the big ticket items. What he did is unacceptable, abhorrent and wrong. He has left me with scars on my soul which I may never be able to completely heal. 

My grandmother can no longer comprehend the world around her so I know my childhood confession can not upset her. My father has passed but I am sure he would stand behind me as I finally feel brave enough to tell my story. I don't know if anyone took the time when I was growing up to find out why I acted out, I don't know if other adults in my family knew what was happening (though I truly hope not), and I really don't know how he lives with himself. Did he ever see me as a person, a child? Did he care about the damage he was causing? Will everyone run to his (unnamed) aide? (I expect they will).

Those are all good questions right? I deserve the answers right? You know which question I really want answered though, the one that keeps me awake at night? Well its pretty simple. What exactly made me less worthy of a happy and safe childhood in his eyes?

Why Making an at Home Roster Is the Best Thing I Ever Did for My Mental Health?

Wow, it has been over two months since I last posted anything here, I'm so sorry for the huge delay. I've been busy doing so much, I always seem to run out of energy before getting around to blogging. That's the problem with mental health, as we feel better we keep on trying to do more and more, eventually something has to give. If you are interested in where my time has gone, you can find out here, here, or here

Anyone following my story would already know, its been a hard struggle for me to get back on my feet after a massive, life-as-I-knew-it, destroying episode back in April and May 2017. Part of the struggle was coming to terms with those things triggering my anxiety and causing depressive episodes. A traditional work life is one of the major causes of my panic attacks and heightened anxiety. The thought of putting on a uniform is enough to cause me real discomfort, trying to put one on actually makes me begin hyperventilating.

So I needed to let go of the well paying job I had with a company who cared more about money and metrics than people. I've also moved away from trying to find a job which would see me leaving the house multiple times a week, I am just not able to do it. Instead I found ways to make money while at home, and with the assistance of my amazing mother in law and gorgeous, ever supportive husband I am slowly starting to see an income with what I am doing.

It's hard work though, working from home is not all fun and games and no where near as easy as getting up and going out to work. In a traditional job, you take off your uniform and sit down to relax at the end of a hard day. Working from home however, is almost never ending, its exciting to be building something, but every day seems to involve working towards a sustainable income.

My tendency is to go and go until I can't and then sleep and sleep because (like so many of us with chronic or mental illnesses) I forgot to count my spoons. It is never my work that suffers though, rather I stop writing my blog, don't watch TV with my husband, take the dog on shorter walks or no longer bake for pleasure. I make my occupation (whether self or company employed) all consuming and I only come up for air when I am drowning.

Something had to give, my husband, and our dog was suffering, I was suffering, though as a Taurean I was far to stubborn to see it until it was too late. As my husband pointed out, working myself into the ground is how I ended up missing all of the warning signs of an impeding, catastrophic, breakdown. I needed to do something to slow my pathological overworking persona down. The conclusion we came to was so simple, I have no idea why it wasn't obvious before. I needed a Roster.

Years of working hard, has left my brain (and yours too I bet) wired to follow a schedule. Without a roster, my brain is in free fall, asking itself "are we working or are we playing?" My anxiety is in over drive, "there are deadlines to be met and things to do and we have to do all the things now, now, NOW!" Then along would come depression, "I'm tired, this is too much to think about lets take a three hour nap". The home roster is the perfect way to calm my inner worry and avoid giving in to the nap.

It isn't as tight as a work roster would be, I do allow myself some flexibility, If there really is a deadline, I will work longer, I take the time off another day however, to make sure I am not overdoing the spoon consumption. So what does my roster look like?

7am get up take morning tablets, wash dishes, walk the dog

8am prepare and eat breakfast, do daily hygiene regimine

9am-12pm work (I choose between my photography, spiritual work, or writing)

12pm-1pm prepare and eat lunch, cuddle the pets

1pm-4pm work (possibly choosing to do something different)

4pm-5pm me time

5pm-7:30pm prepare dinner

7:30-10pm eat dinner and have Husband time

10pm-11pm wind down reading

11pm lights out

On the days I don't work, which is every second weekend, every second Tuesday and every Friday, I let myself sleep in and watch Netflix. It's not a perfect fix, I still break the rules, but I'm learning to work with a home schedule and it seems to be helping. After all, I've found the time and energy to write my personal blog. What do you think of a home roster, is it something which could help you?

Just because you could, doesn’t mean you should.

I’ve been learning a lot over the last year of my life, how to function in the face of over whelming anxiety and soul crushing depression is probably the greatest of all my lessons.

After suffering a particularly severe episode which saw me hospitalised over March and April 2017 I fell into one of the most common traps faced by those of us struggling to return to normality after major mental health episodes. I assumed normal would be going back to my day job and picking up my life exactly as it was before my breakdown.

Of course, that wasn’t possible and the more I fought to return to the status quo of my old life, the harder it became to function at all. It has taken me a year to realise, my old life was not good for me, in fact, it was one of the reasons I found myself so far down the rabbit hole.

Why was I fighting so hard to return to a way of life which would see me repeat the same cycle of ignorance, denial, self-harm and hospitalisation? This was not the actions of someone who had their mental health under control.

For someone trying to glue the pieces of their life together, trying to regain the trust and respect of family members, success is not returning to life you had. Success is building a life that works!

So, one year on from sitting on a toilet seat with a handful of pills, (begging my husband to take them with me so I didn’t leave him behind), what have I learnt about living successfully with mental illness?

Well, to start I need to be accountable for me, I need to speak up more when I feel myself starting to slip, I need to fight with doctors more when I know something is not right. I also need to let go of my expectations of other people and learn to deal with disappointment.

I need to accept, I am terrible at taking medication on a schedule and knowing when my scripts need renewing. My husband is helping with this these days because I will go a whole day forgetting to take medications and then wonder why I suddenly so dizzy.

Most importantly I need to realise just because I could do something does not mean I should. All choices need to be weighed against what I know I can cope with, this lesson is hard. I want the big bucks job, I want to see friends in larger groups and more than one day a week, but sometimes what I want is not good for me.

Luckily most of the time I have found what I should, I could.

In what ways do you cope with mental or chronic illness?

Sarah no longer works for the company!

I am quite open when it comes to my mental health, I advocate better treatment for those of us struggling with mental health issues. I try hard to do my part towards diminishing the stigma associated with mental health, especially the stigma attached to those of us who have spent time in mental health units.

I use the privilege of my education and ability to communicate clearly to give a voice to those who may not be in a position to speak out. I’ve used my blog to talk openly about my diagnoses, recovery and past. I give honest accounts of my day on social media. I have however been keeping a secret.

It’s not a huge secret, in fact it probably isn’t even that important to most people. However, I am worried about being judged harshly for this secret because I judge myself. For all the advocating, all the times I tell people not to be ashamed, I’ve kept quiet because I am embarrassed.

At the time of my hospitalisation last year I help a very solid, high stress job. My whole future was based around this career, moving up the company ladder, getting pay rises. I thought I would be there forever. After coming out of hospital I began judging my recovery by how many hours of work I could do.

Success would be getting my life back to how it was before my diagnoses and sojourn in a Mental Health Unit. I would not be beaten by my mental illness. For months I told everyone it was taking time but coming along nicely. I was lying, to my employer, my husband, everyone else, but mostly I was lying to myself.

After 3 months of trying to fit back into my previous life, I realised it just wasn’t working. I wasn’t getting better, I wasn’t making any advancement toward getting back to my full-time hours. My husband and I made the decision to move from our friendly little town to the nearby city. Not only was my family in the city but the mental health services available were far better.

I stepped down as a manager within my company and took a leave of absence. I concentrated on making a home in the new city and coming to terms with losing the mask which had made me such a high-functioning employee. Still I told people it was just a little break and I would be right back at it soon.

After my leave of absence, I did not return. I realised success is not recreating the life I had before hospitalisation, that life is the reason I ended up in a mental health unit. Success will be finding what it is I can do next. It will be putting together a new life, facing each day within the confines of what my illness allows me to do.

Success is counting my spoons and not using too many in one day. It is finding the unconventional ways to help bring money into the household. It is having enough energy to cook dinner for my husband or meet a friend at a coffee shop.

Most importantly however, success is coming clean and letting go of this secret. I left my career behind to focus on my mental health and I will not be ashamed by my choice anymore.

What is it like to struggle with depression?

***TRIGGER WARNING...SUICIDE AND SELF HARM***

Anxiety is my major demon, and so is usually the focus of my disseminations. Depression is my secondary illness and one I usually struggle less with. However, over the last week I have found the old black dog weighing me down.

At night I am unable to fall asleep, tossing and turning for hours and then in the morning I am unable to wake up. I lie in bed after I have woken up dreading putting my feet on the floor and facing the day.

I am finding less joy in things I usually like to do, art, gardening, photography are just not as important as sitting on the couch watching re runs of Law and order or Netflix.

It’s easy to tell you about the symptoms my depression shows the world, Comfort eating, lying in bed for 14 or more hours, sitting on the couch staring at the tv all day when the house needs cleaning. You can see these things in the dark circles under my eyes, the weight I gain, or my cluttered home.

I can pass other little symptoms off as quirks of my personality. I shudder for no reason so crack a joke about ghosts. I jump in fright too easily but that’s because I’m just highly strung. I turn up to work early every day because I love my job and want to be punctual, it has nothing to do with the overwhelming dread I have to fight every time I need to leave the house.

The hardest part of depression is trying to describe the invisible symptoms to people, the things you have never experienced unless you have fought tooth and nail with the dark morbid monster in your head.

Suicide or self-harm ideation is a big one. Yes, we all have morbid thoughts but for a person with depression these thoughts are much bigger, more constant. I used to walk past a crocodile infested river on my way to and from work. At least three times a week I would stop and think about jumping in.

At a don’t walk sign I always think about walking out onto the road. I lie in bed thinking about getting a kitchen knife and slitting my wrists. I wonder just how painful of a way drinking bleach is to die. Or how about if I swallow a balloon, will I choke to death? Is that plant in the garden toxic? Should I eat some of it to find out?

People close to me think I make these things up for attention, but to be completely honest with you there are times where the compulsion to harm myself is so strong it takes every bit of energy I have to stay alive. The only person who really seems to comprehend the severity is my husband, and unfortunately, he understands because he has seen me out on that dangerous ledge too many times.

Another symptom it is hard to explain is the pressure. Quiet often it feels like someone is sitting on top of me or hugging me too tightly, I need to take a deep breath and try and convince myself it’s all in my head.

Or how about the overwhelming self-doubt? Not just the normal humble doubt everyone experiences. No for someone with depression it is a soul-destroying doubt, it doesn’t just creep in, it rushes over you like a tsunami.

I have been convinced my husband doesn’t love and stays with me because it is convenient. I can be so sure my pets hate me, even as the cats sit on top of purring. I love my Mother in Law with all my heart, but I cannot understand why she could possibly love me. I can hold a good job with great money but be absolutely positive everyone thinks I am bad at it.

Even writing all of this, it still isn’t a good representation of what depression feels like to those of us who suffer through it.

During the witch trials a way to get a confession out of someone was by “pressing” them. To do this a person is laid across a hard surface and more and more rocks are piled on top of them, slowly crushing their bones and internal organs. One rock at a time until the pressure is too much, and they die.

That is exactly what depression is like, one black thought at a time until one day the pressure becomes too much, and you die.

Misandry is not feminism!

I have long considered myself a feminist, I grew up fighting chauvinism at home, at school, at work. In 1995 I was 19 and working as a waitress in an AFL club, a job which truly opened my eyes to male privilege and the societal blind spot toward the mistreatment of women.

I was 20 when I entered my first serious relationship, to a man (boy?) who wanted to tell me who I could see and where I could go. All he wanted was an obedient piece of arm candy, my brain was not needed. He was emotionally and physically abusive, when I finally ended the relationship more than one person expressed their displeasure as he was, “so good looking”.

At 26 I was sexually assaulted in a public toilet while out clubbing with friends. The first police officer on the scene questioned my choice of outfit, the second my sobriety. I knew then, just as I do now, neither of those things had any impact on the crime committed by the man who followed me and broke the lock on the cubicle.

During my 41 years I have personally experienced too many true moments of misogyny to count. Males who feel it’s their right to tell me I am too fat, too weird, too opinionated. Men have demanded I sleep with them, grabbed my ass, grabbed my breasts, forced my hand onto their groin all the while laughing at my discomfort.

Every single one of my female friends can tell you similar frightening stories. These are the reasons feminism is needed. These are the reasons women are demanding to be heard. Therefore, as a gender we should be standing together to say no more!

We aren’t standing together though, some women are tearing other women down, calling each other names, and treating each other badly. They hide behind the banner of feminism claiming females who disagree with them are part of the problem. Rest assured it’s very easy to disagree with them, all you need do is like men. I’m not talking about being hetro or bisexual, they find it perfectly ok to date men as long as you hate them.

According to these women who call themselves radical feminists (or radfems) all men are depraved, pathetic and without a single redeeming quality. They maintain Transwomen are still men and even greater deviants worthy of more scorn then cis men. Females who profess to be happily married or in a great relationship are liars or deluded.

Personally, I am unwilling to tar all men with the same brush, seriously, it’s no different to hating all Muslims, believing all refugees are looking for a free ride or saying all priests are paedophiles.

Generalisations are never something we should become comfortable with. It is this opinion which has seen me labelled as “part of the problem”, “a lib fem”, or my personal favourite “a handmaiden”.

How dare I respect and allow someone to choose to identify with their true gender, how dare I not label them perverted and mentally ill.

How could I possibly be happy in my marriage and defend my husband, calling him a wonderful and caring man.

I am apparently an awful example of feminism, a terrible curse to all women, because I judge men individually on their actions and not as a whole group based on the actions of many.

I know my opinion is not a popular one with radical feminists, but it is still my opinion and I am entitled to it. Funnily enough, it is not me personally attacking these women, rather it is usually them calling me names and labelling me unenlightened and uneducated.

I have fought for an end to sexism and equality of the sexes for most of my life, equality is the key word here however. As a feminist I know there is a culture of misogyny we need to address. I do not believe the current wave of misandry invading the world of feminism is the answer.

         
          Why can't I be a feminist if I have male friends?


          Why would anyone want to meet hate with hate?

How is replacing misogyny with misandry a solution?

Are we really, honestly confusing feminism with misandry?