‘Couples can communicate without words,’ you said and you were right. I knew for instance that a raise of your eyebrow meant I had overstepped the fine line of being generously open and embarrassing myself… and you. A curl of your lip set me on edge wondering what I had done and where I had gone wrong. Our non-verbal communication grew until that night I didn’t understand that my refusal to participate in a foursome you’d organized without telling me, would mean that you would punch me.
We undermine our children’s powers of consent because we know better the repercussions of their desires. Which mother might not consider a threat or worse, to prevent something which we could conceivably justify as ‘for their own good’? Where is the line?
Abusive? Oh no, I said confidently, and still believed it even then. But I stayed in my apartment, fearing to go outside because I saw you waiting for me across the street.
I have a son and a daughter (with a man who is as far removed from being an asshole as it is possible to be). If either of them were ever caught up in a situation where they were the perpetrator or the victim of such a situation, I don’t know how I would contain my vitriol …or my guilt. Because in both positions, my children would be operating out of a place of low self-esteem. One who needed to feed their ego by taking power to control and manipulate. One who felt they were worth very little and that this was the only relationship they deserved.
The guilt of who I am, what I have done and now what I continue to do is so shameful that I cannot face the pain. It is better to display no remorse. There is no point in holding an image together that is shattered and worthless.
I met my biological father when I was 21. An adoptee, desperately seeking the face for an identity she had yet to form. Our meeting was hidden from my adoptive parents and facilitated by my biological mother who had yet to realize the reality of the man who was my father. The man who would become my rapist. And as …
I don’t know whether the roaring was in my head or from his throat, but it felt like I had gone mad.
I went to university in Plymouth. Home of Ritzy’s nightclub, Plymouth Pavilions and sailors. Sailors are notorious for their promiscuous habits and it seems very unsurprising to me now, that my biological father was a sailor. I was headed back for the second year of university; away from the trauma of meeting my father for the first time, to more, …
At the time I didn’t know there was such a phenomenon called Genetic Sexual Attraction; if I had, I might have been able to intellectualize what was happening. But I doubt it. Because at 21 although legally an adult, I still had the naive mind of a child. A child who simply wanted love and acceptance, and who’d been searching for it her whole life.
Louisa was gorgeous and pouty with jet black hair down past her waist. She was ‘imported’ from Romania, but her boyfriend who was also the club owner said she was first generation Italian because that was better for his reputation. She stood every night in the corner of the club sipping rum and coke, dressed in satin blacks and high …
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