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.

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  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.

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  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.

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  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

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  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…

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  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

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  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,…

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