Posts tagged “abuse”

  1. Recently, another story played out in my life the way it always does. A man in the periphery who I assumed to be good, or at least neutral, and a story from a friend that proved otherwise.

  2. This time last year I called the cops on my husband. I can’t completely remember the path that led to that, not the medium-term path. Long-term, he’d been prone to violent, scary fits of temper and self-harm on and off for years. Short-term, I’d gone to bed on an evening when going to bed looked like—was meant to look like—an act of war.

  3. When I was 12 years old, I got head lice.

    I waited for my mother to notice. I waited for what felt like weeks. It was disgusting, and I was disgusted with myself; they were crawling everywhere, falling off my head onto my school books, fat with my blood. But I never took any action to deal with it myself. I waited for my mother to notice.

  4. Though I have not spoken to my father in almost four years, I still talk to him all the time, in vivid technicolor and exaggerated emotion. The landscape of sleep has always been visceral for me; my dreams often follow me into my waking hours, so real that I feel sure upon awakening that the things contained within my sleeping subconscious have been manifested into fact. The dreams I have about my father

  5. Lately I’ve been taken with the Basic Bitch. I didn’t really notice her until last year. She’s catching on, this girl; she is everywhere. Kara Brown, writing for Jezebel, explains that she really caught on after the hit song “Gucci Gucci” (Kreayshawn). It’s a great song, catchy and canny. Probably my favorite line in this song is Bitch You Ain’t No Barbie, I see you work at Arbie’s. In Kreayshawn’s Gucci Gucci, the Bad Bitch…

  6. Caroline says, as she gets up off the floor, “Why is it that you beat me? It isn’t any fun.” -Lou Reed

    Last night I dreamt I was with my ex’s girlfriend, and I was trying to explain it all to her. She was tiny, so tiny I could pick her up, Pietà-style, one of my arms under her back and the other under her knees. As I carried her around, I

  7. My mom endured emotional abuse at the hands of my alcoholic father for 13 years. She secured a restraining order after the only time he hit her, a scene I watched while clutching the cordless phone, my fear of him dwarfed by the fear of what might happen if I were to call the police as my mother had instructed. I was 11 years old.  I was paralyzed, so she grabbed the phone, ran outside,…