In My Own Words, Lifestyle

I Disowned My Parents So I Could Survive and Write

My parents aren’t a part of my life. Not for their lack of trying. I set boundaries again and again and again, but our perceptions of our own realities are not compatible. They are allowed theirs, but they do not allow me mine. They cannot listen with compassionate hearts or accept me as I am nor own responsibility in our downfall yet expect all of this and more from me. I might be a real adult, but I’m still their child. 

Life without my family is hard. I won’t lie. But it’s so much easier than giving up who I am to be who they want me to be. Fitting into a too small box and swallowing the truth, I couldn’t do it anymore.

I have chosen the unpopular route: disowning my parents. 

For so many reasons. This is not the first time. It may not be the last, but it likely will be. 

One of the biggest upsides to continuing my life without them is my ability to write. I am a writer. One who has always found real people’s stories to be far more interesting than fiction. The life I’ve been dealt and the choices I have made or were forced into making sure do make great copy. My life isn’t just interesting, it’s an example of how far we have yet to go as a society. I refuse to stay silent when I have a voice and the ability to use my voice. I know why so many people choose silence when they’re confronted with abuse or the ramifications of what telling their truth means after it’s over. As a survivor, sometimes the event itself isn’t the most traumatic part; it’s the after. Choosing what to say and to whom for fear of not being believed or worse being believed and told to hush hush. I have been towing the line for eight years, trying to be the good daughter, creating fewer waves. But the waves have always been my favorite part of the ocean, and I’d rather be in them than watching them.

For the first time since the last time I cut off my parents, I’m writing again with emotional depth, clarity, and vulnerability. I have spent eight years playing diplomat. Weighing every word I type to avoid hurting them because my story and, in many ways, my existence causes them pain. Though it may not seem like it, I am a people pleaser. In order to write what I do, I have to fight against every instinct in my body to stay silent, to save people’s feelings. The problem is trying to prevent pain. There is a moral component to telling stories and who owns a story. As a victim and survivor, this component becomes even more nuanced with power dynamics and silencing tactics coming into play all but immediately. In a great many of my stories, my parents were not direct players and fall into a category of affected bystanders. Though, I have plenty of stories to tell where they are active players and even abusers, but the majority of the stories I am ready and capable of telling have nothing at all to do with my parents. The only reason they hurt over the stories I tell is because they are adjacent to me and my stories are a reflection upon them as parents, people. 

Over the last eight years, I haven’t written these stories because I don’t want to cause pain unnecessarily. Except the pain is not unnecessary. This is necessary pain. I haven’t spoken to my mother or father in over two years, and it’s been within the last six months that words have started pouring from my soul again. I needed time to heal. I am writing my truth, my pain, the life I have lived. It has been a painful life. A beautiful life, but painful. And I’ve finally gotten to the point where I’ve gone beyond ambivalence. 

I’m not purposefully inciting pain, but I’m not going to skirt around it anymore either. I’m bringing a lot more fuck you energy to the stories I’m telling because I’m not making this shit up, and if I’m the only one who believes me, then fine. If my stories hurt my parents, then good. I was raped for years in their house. I’m not angry and I don’t hold it against them, but let it hurt. I have hurt for a decade and a half. They parented me for nineteen years and failed to do the one job they should have done above all else: protect me. Maybe I am and was as good at hiding behind a mask as I think I am, but I asked for help and was turned away time and time again. Precedents were set that I would not be believed, my safety was not a priority, my mental health was to stay hush-hush. They chose to not protect me, to not stand by me, to not pay attention to their daughter when I needed them, when I begged for help, when I was assaulted, when I told them I wanted to die. 

So what was I to do when a boy held me down and raped me for the first time? Or the second? Or the fiftieth? They had proven they didn’t care and I couldn’t trust them. So I found solace in myself and learned to depend on no one. Now that I no longer need them to parent or protect me, they want to do both and by doing so silence me, whether that is their conscious goal or not. 

I love my parents with all my heart. Truly. Though no one will believe me, family is the most important thing to me, which means it is so hard every day not caving in. But it is possible to love someone and not want them in my life. I am happier and healthier without them. I wish them well. I do not wish to cause them pain, but I will not stop writing the stories that matter. 

More than anything, I wish they would let me go. 

Experiences, In My Own Words, Lifestyle, Travel

Abandonment Issues Triggered Over Driving Myself to the Airport

I drove myself to the airport this morning. It’s not the first time I’ve had to park my car while I jetset. It definitely will not be the last. But I was not supposed to drive myself. I hate spending money I don’t have to, and honestly, there’s something really lovely about having someone care enough to do the airport drop off and pick up dance with. 

I masked up. I was just alone and drinking coffee.

I booked this trip two weeks ago, and for me, that’s some pretty good advance warning. I spoke with my platonic life partner and roommate and best friend, all one person, about driving me. I had picked flights that would work with his work/life schedule. He agreed. It went on our household calendar. Last night, he got home from work. I was working at the table. He’d been invited out with friends. Great! Have fun. Remember we need to leave the house by 3:45 am, so just be home by then. He gives me a hug and says he’ll be home by nine so we can watch a show before getting some sleep and heading to the airport. 10:30 hits, and I head to bed.

When I wake up and head downstairs to leave… No truck in the driveway. No ring notification. No man on the couch or in his bed or anywhere in the house at all. It’s 3:30. You know. Still time. Four calls straight to voicemail while I’m brushing my teeth. I eventually leave a voicemail. “I’m not angry. I’m not even disappointed. I’ve just come to expect this.” The petty asshole in me responds to his midnight-thirty “Love you!” text message with “Then maybe you should be home to take me to the airport…..” “But I guess not.” I did not take the high road. Grace was not given. Not my proudest moment. I let all the doggos out and said my goodbyes before hopping in the car and driving my independent lady ass to the airport. I did cry in the car. Not a breakdown cry. The silent stoic tears of a war bride waving goodbye on a train platform in a 1950s black and white movie. Probably not that pretty, but you get the picture. Hurt.

I’m taking this trip because I miss my best friend; I’m going through an intensely tough time and need to get away; the day after I get back my life will revolve around the out-all-nighter because he’s having his hip replaced, and I’ll be taking care of him. This is me being punchy about the fact I’ll be his nurse round-the-clock for six weeks and he couldn’t make it home in time to take me to the airport. Not sorry. I am also not sorry for airing this information. I’m a writer. He knows this. Life is copy.

Two quick things before I get to what I actually want to talk about. 1) This scenario is not actually a huge deal and was easily solved. The emotional aspect… Different story. Had this happened ten years ago, I would be a proper mess, but I’m so much more healed now. So I’m a slight mess instead. 2) If this were an isolated incident, I would be mad or disappointed. The problem, it’s not. So I’m hurt because it never feels lovely to be forgotten, and it’s pretty terrible never being a priority or able to depend on someone. 

Trauma is a huge part of my story. I have issues. I am excessively familiar with all of my issues and triggers and the coping mechanisms I’ve developed over the course of thirty-one years. I’m quite good at telling my people what I need from them to keep functioning as optimally as I can. These things are quite easy and simple because at the end of the day, they’re my problems and I hate being a burden. I wear my trauma on my sleeve; it just makes life and relationships easier when I’m not hiding things that impact me so deeply. So everyone close to me knew what they were getting into and decided to stay. To the extreme point that if I’m dating someone or getting to know someone as a friend I lay it all out there on the first date/hang out. Truly, all they have to do is Google me and so much is out there for consumption. I am old enough to know I don’t want to waste my fucking time on people who will judge me, not support me, are intimidated by whatever, think what I do is dumb, can’t handle it. Trial by fire. Their reactions say it all. 

Sad and hurt for too many reasons but ready for adventure.

When you have a relationship, platonic or romantic, with a person who has survived and lives with trauma, you have to accept that your actions, even the innocuous ones, can have a huge and sweeping impact. I struggle with worth, abandonment issues, being enough, and just feeling like an entirely forgettable human. Among other things. So when I was left to fend for myself this morning, the thought was “Alone. Like always.” Maneuvering the logistics of getting to the airport: so simple. Maneuvering the emotional toll of being forgotten and abandoned: not so simple. 

Trusting people is so hard for me. I’ve let people in and been hurt over and over and over again. Trust is built over time and in the little moments. Watching TV on the couch after a rough day. Text messages to check in after falling down the stairs. Sleepovers for funsies. Showing up on time or at all when plans are made. “Safe travel” texts before planes take off. Not canceling. Including people in conversations. Remembering how to pronounce a name. Randomly reaching out for no reason. Sending a postcard. Listening without judgement. All these little things are teeny moments building trust and relationship between people. Trust takes time to build and often so little to corrode or destroy. To protect myself and cope with a life of abuse, I keep people at a distance, don’t give them chances to build trust, and make it incredibly hard to get to know me. How I have any friends is quite the mystery at this point. I’m working on it. As shitty as it is to say, when one person lets me down, it feels like another tick mark against all of humanity. Like, welp, this person can’t be trusted, and they’re human, therefore all humans are ashtrays. Refer to the first sentence of this paragraph… I am aware this is a problem.

I’m not someone who needs, wants, or even craves grand gestures. (Maybe I am, but I’ve never had anyone remotely try, so I wouldn’t actually know. I do love doing them, however.) Little things mean the most. A ride to the airport is not life altering, but it’s a little thing. Love, true love, exists in those little things, the quotidian, the quiet moments, the in betweens. It’s not always explosions or fireworks. It’s life altering in fundamentally consistent, persistent ways of sharing joys and sorrows, every big and little moment. Love is showing up and bearing witness to a lived life. Those tiny moments mean everything. To someone with trauma, it means everything and so much more. I don’t ask for much. I don’t need much. I probably need more than I realize, but I’ve been alone and self-sufficient for so long, I don’t know what it’s like to lean on someone or ask for help. Maybe someone will force my walls down and make me realize it’s okay to need things. To that woman, I say, “Best of luck. I’ll be quite the challenge.” Until then if ever. Fuck that shit; I’m a strong, independent woman. I don’t need anyone. I got myself to the airport like I’ve done numerous times before. And I’ll take myself home. 

That doesn’t mean I’m not hurting. I’m not struggling. I’m not wondering if he forgot because I’m forgettable. Or he didn’t come because I wasn’t supportive enough of his night out. Or he didn’t think I was worth taking to the airport. Or that maybe I just don’t deserve someone to care about me. Or he just doesn’t want me in his life anymore. Or he never cared at all. Logically, I know all of this is untrue and it was an accident. But that doesn’t mean I believe it. Feelings and logic rarely coexist peacefully. 

When you decide to be in someone’s life who is dealing with trauma, you better be damn sure you know what you’re getting into and that your actions have repurcussions. Your accidents and mistakes carry more weight. Little things mean the most, for the good and the bad. I know what it’s like to be on both sides. Being the traumatized and loving someone with trauma. It’s hard doing the loving, but I also know just how worth it it is. Then again, I also know how to be there for them because I know. And when you love someone, you just show up. Trauma or no trauma. Show up. That’s the bare minimum, and it shouldn’t be a lot to ask for. Then again, my bare minimum was “This one doesn’t rape me!” for the longest time. It’s been upped to, “This one doesn’t make me cry every day!” I’m fucked up. I know. 

So I’m sitting on this fucking plane, crying my big, gay tears next to a man in a MAGA hat, trying to convince myself that maybe someday I’ll find someone who will ask if I need a ride to the airport and show up. (Shout out to Amanda, who offered, but I “had a ride.”) It should be simple. But it’s not for me. The idea of my having worth enough for anyone to take me to the airport let alone love me does not exist. The accident of falling asleep at a friend’s house after a fun night out is small, but to me, it carries connotations of so much more. 

11..., Lifestyle

11… Phrases People Have Responded With to My Writing

Last night, I pressed publish on a post about the fact being reminded I was raped seven years ago. This morning, I woke up to a notification from Instagram saying someone was concerned about my current well being and a list of resources. I couldn’t help but giggle a little bit. I greatly admire the existence of that feature, and also find it incredibly misdirected at me. 

Last night, I was sad. This morning, I was fine. I am a rape survivor. I am a rape survivor who talks about being a rape survivor. I do so publicly because doing it in private does not create change on a systemic level. Oh, and I quite literally made it my job. 

This is another example of my life looking better in pictures than in reality.

The fact that people are concerned about me is sweet. I do appreciate it. I receive at least one message from a follower, acquaintance, or random stranger telling me to seek help before it’s too late or letting me know about the redeeming qualities of Christ every time I write a post on my past or mental health. These are actually a bit comical because it comes from someone who does not at all know me and makes sweeping judgements based on very little information. Instead of looking at what my story represents on a cultural or global scale, they take it as a cry for help. What I do appreciate is when followers and friends reach out to let me know that my writing resonated with them or taught them something. That’s why I do what I do. I’m not here to be a martyr. My writing is not a cry for help. Pity is not welcome.

To write the pieces I put into the world, I have spent years processing, soul searching, and articulating how I feel. Then revisiting all of those feelings to see if they still ring true. The last time I was raped was seven years ago; there’s been some time for healing. I am at a very stable place. Stability is relative, just like mental health is relative. We all have our struggles. Mine are on display so others know they’re not alone and the world cannot claim to have a lack of stories and information. I’m here. I’m speaking. The knowledge is out there to be had, and a person’s own ignorance lies in their unwillingness to look for realities of the world. 

When people read my work, they are taking in a culmination of years of introspection and self-awareness. The fact that I am so forthcoming about my struggles and feelings is really quite a good sign. I wasn’t able to talk about any of this without dissolving into a puddle of tears at the outset, let alone write piece after piece for the world to consume and tear apart. I’m stable enough to know that I’m opening myself up to criticism and even threats. When my writing and experiences are criticized and torn apart, it’s more than the words and my ability to formulate them; people are going after me, the human, because in memoir pieces the words and the human are one and the same. Had I chosen to slam all the raw feelings I was experiencing onto the page as they first bubbled to the surface of my psyche in the beginning phases of my recovery, well that would have been an absolute rambling disaster. There would have been no cohesion or really anything for anyone to gain from reading it other than… confusion. I was confused myself. I still do not attempt writing on topics that I am not acutely aware of my feelings, experiences, mental state, and a preparedness to lay it all out there in written format.  

I’m not at all sure why anyone looking for positive affirmations or a rosy outlook on being a survivor is following me. I’m not here for that. I’m not here to tell you this shit gets better. I’m not here to be an inspiration of “look how far I’ve come, you can too.” My goal is and always has been to make people uncomfortable by forcing them to look beyond the pretty pictures that cover my Instagram feed to see the reality of what living a life fraught with violence and trauma looks like. At best I’m an existentialist, but most days, I’m a nihilist. I don’t approach life with an “all will be fine attitude;” I approach life with an attitude of “if I don’t die and the dogs are healthy, it’s a successful day.” I don’t subscribe to the ideologies that everything in life happens for a reason or what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. I was a fucking badass before I was raped, gaslit, and abused for years. I’m pretty cool now, but I’m not better because someone raped me. I use my past as a way to connect with people and open eyes to the harsh realities of what surviving looks like. I’m also not telling anyone else’s story. This is strictly my own, but the fact it resonates with so many from all walks of life and genders means this is a huge problem, and I am not unique. Because my story may seem extreme, but it isn’t unique. There are so many humans who can identify with my struggles in one way or another. You may not see them in the comments, but I see them in my inbox and when I’m approached in public and when I hear through the grapevine that my story helped someone’s someone. I’m here to rock the boat, make noise, create a space for people to feel safe, and most importantly impact change. 

This space is where I write on whatever I want to write on without getting paid; I wish I were getting paid. From the books I read to the pieces I write to the causes I support, this space has always been about equity and inclusion. The thing is: I’m a writer. Like actually for realsies. Writing pays my bills, puts food in my dogs’ bowls, and buys plane tickets to cool places. I’ll write on just about anything that pays the bills, but I specialize in social justice with a focus on gender and racial equity. I’m also a memoirist tackling violence against women, abuse, sex work, sexual identity, and all the things that have touched my life. 

My pictures look good. My words tell another story. My daily life is somewhere in between.

If you read my work, you know I’m not going to write about rape or abuse and pretend everything’s fine, it’s all in the past because it’s not. All of those events have a ripple effect that will forever impact the way I live, think, and interact with people. I go to sleep and memories play on my eyelids like I’m at the IMAX. I have an innate distrust of men. I avoid attachment. I’m careful when entering relationships of any kind. I’m overly cautious in everything I do. I have depression episodes and anxiety attacks and PTSD triggers. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! I am honest about all of these things because I am okay. If I were not okay, I would not be writing. If I were not okay, I would be institutionalized. If I were not okay, I would actually probably be dust because I don’t want to be buried. I’m honest about everything I live with and go through because it is quite literally my job, but I only make it public when I am in a good place. Just because I’m in a good place does not mean there is a lack of pain. That pain will always exist in tandem with every other feeling. If I hid from these feelings or pretended I am thirty, flirty, and thriving or told people it gets better, I would be an awful writer and a liar. It would play into the zeitgeist of all that Power of Positivity, manifesting bullshit. That may work for you, but I hate that crap. You will not find it here. You will not find it from me. You will not find it in my story. I’m here to be obnoxious. If you don’t like it, unfollow. I’m not phased. I won’t be offended. I’m not for the faint of heart. I’m not someone who half-asses anything. I’m not going to make my pain smaller to make it more palatable for the world. If it’s hard for you to know what I’m going through, imagine what it was like to live through it and keep going day after day after day. 

Today’s listicle day… So let’s add a listicle that is somehow related to this post… Umm… Lot of ellipses here because I’m thinking. Ta da, eleven phrases people have said to me after posting an article. 

  1. “I know you like books, so you should definitely add the Bible to the top of your list.”
  2. “I’m so sorry you went through that. I promise, one day you’ll wake up and it just won’t matter anymore.”
  3. “Have you considered meditating?”
  4. “If you’d gotten pregnant, then your rape could be something to complain about.”
  5. “You’re gay, we get it. God still loves you. Less but there’s always redemption.”
  6. “What were you wearing?”
  7. “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll show you what it’s really like to be raped.”
  8. “You’re really flirty, so I don’t know what you expected.”
  9. “Rape happens. I’m tired of hearing women talk about it like it’s the end of their life.”
  10. “You can’t write about being raped if you’re dead.”
  11. “Women don’t call it rape when it’s a real man.”

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

What Self Worth?

Worth has always been a concept I struggle with. Showing up and bolstering friends through their self worth journeys is easy. I can see how worthy they are of every amazing thing life has to offer. Applied to myself. No. Maybe there’s an alternate reality where I don’t struggle with mental health issues. We’re obviously not in that one.

Baring it all is easier physically than emotionally, but I wouldn’t be a very good writer if I didn’t try.

Existing in the world, all I want is to make every single person I come into contact with feel seen and respected, worthy of dignity, even if it’s for the briefest moment in passing on the street or the internet. If I let people come into my life, I love them so hard and show it in every way I physically and emotionally can. I will give until there is nothing to give. Part of this is genuinely who I am. The other part is because I don’t want anyone to feel the way I feel all the time. 

Worth was not instilled in me, ever. If anything it has been actively undermined for as long as I can remember. The only worth placed on me was in my body, my face, my aesthetic, but I’m thirty and have officially reached my expiration date. 

I came into adulthood having only been treated like an object to be used, abused, possessed, fought over, shared, showed off. Trotted out like a trick pony with an impressive resume. Fuck, did I work hard for that resume. I was a very impressive high school student, but it’s all shit from there. 

Throughout childhood and adolescence, my existence was a reflection of my mother (I can’t include my father because he didn’t take part, he didn’t stop it if he even noticed, but he was not like this). If I was anything less than exceptionally perfect, my existence was ignored, and I was quite literally locked in my bedroom until I could come out and be exactly what was expected. It wasn’t about teaching manners or behavior. It was about complete control, policing my identity, mind, opinions, and existence into a tight box meant to glorify her impeccable parenting and public/self image. 

The first time I heard ‘I love you’ from someone who wasn’t saying it to a carefully curated version of myself was the first time I was raped. The physical, psychological, and sexual abuse was constant and inescapable for two years. He shared me with his friends because I was just such a good lay. There was no escape at home. There was no escape at school; I was so isolated, I had no friends. I had no one I could trust, let alone to protect me.

At twenty, I finally escaped my parental control for the roomier box of sex work. Stripping was a means to an end, a way to pay for college and not be homeless. It gave me the freedom to explore my sense of self and learn to reclaim the selves that had been stripped away by my parents and my rapists. It simultaneously served as empowerment and solidified my existence as deserving of abuse, possession, and gratification to others. I can’t speak to stripping today or outside of my bubble and experience, but it was rough. To survive and succeed, being tough and a bitch was the only way to make it through. And I did it sober without dropping out of college or giving up a single major. 

I say my romantic relationships have been wonderful and healthy, but that’s not the whole truth. That’s the version of the truth I wish existed. They are wonderful men. They did their best under remarkable circumstances, but my relationships have never been healthy. Not perpetually toxic, but there was toxicity. Some stood firmly on the boundary between toxic and abuse, though that was never their intention, the line became very blurry at times. The problems were abundant and varied, but the fault was usually placed at my feet. I’m no innocent, but it took me a long time to accept that a majority of the blame was not mine to apologize for. 

I am the partner people search out when they want to be fixed or at least have a hand to hold while the fixing happens. Platonic and romantic alike, I am the support: emotional, financial, physical. I show up consistently as the same person without wavering or asking something in return. Leaving the person and the place better than when I arrived. I give everything I have emotionally and physically because if I have it and someone else needs it, it is now theirs. I cannot be disappointed or hurt if there are no expectations of receiving anything at all. I’m the embodiment of “I’m just happy to be thought of.” Not even included. Thought of. 

I want someone to love me and see me as I am. Just me. I want me to be enough for once.

My worth was always in my body. Never my mind, and I am acutely aware people do not look at me and think: smart. They will get to know me and still not think, ‘Hey, she’s intelligent.’ Fine, but I will be valued for more than the appearance of my body, so I compensated. I took on all the love languages and those that do not have names. I give them out as if they are as plentiful as air. I created a self worth contingent on the things I could offer.     

When everything in my life has always been treated as transactional, it’s hard not to internalize that. I started using my body, my time, my capabilities as currency to buy a shred of importance in the eyes of someone I care for. If I wanted love, I had to be a certain thing. If I wanted to not get raped, I had to do certain things. If I wanted to avoid a punch, I had to tread carefully. If I wanted the barest minimum of respect, I had to go above and beyond to be and provide perfection. Unproductive days where I put my work or, God forbid, my own mental health first, letting the house go messy; not making dinner; leaving a pile of laundry unfolded; not reorganizing the pantry for the seventeenth time while managing to care for the necessities of surviving and working two full-time jobs is shrouded in a thick layer of guilt because I’m not doing enough. If there is something to be done or a feeling out of place, I have not done enough and my worth is nonexistent. 

The problem is, transactional worth based on what I can do and give people is still objectification. It is still a lack of worth. My value is still rooted in possession, neglect, usefulness, and just a new trotting of the trick pony. I did this to myself. I needed to feel like I was worth something other than another beautiful body decorating the world. I grounded my worth in what I could provide to others, but no one stopped me. No one told me I’m worth anything just as I am. No one told me I could sit in silence without makeup on in sweatpants and still deserve dignity, autonomy, the right to exist, love. 

Internally, if I’m not giving everything I have all of the time, I feel like I deserve to be abused, raped, neglected, and unloved. Do not construe this with searching out those actions, I have spent my life avoiding them. But when people or partners treat me poorly, I feel like I deserve it. I don’t blame them. For more than two-thirds of my life, the world taught me I existed to be abused. A human punching bag. A vessel for sexual gratification. A lump of clay to be molded into whatever novelty the day and moment required. If I wasn’t perfect, I didn’t deserve anything at all. Even if I was perfection, abuse and rape were just around the corner. So much of who I am is firmly based in trying to scrounge for any infinitesimal amount of love I can get whether it’s love for me or an idea of me because at least I’m being thought of. I desperately want to love and be loved as I am. I want to be seen and respected. I want to exist without fear. 

I have spent my life alone surrounded by people who have shown me I can’t trust them entirely. I still feel so utterly alone. The battle to reclaim two and a half decades of a life stolen from me is exhausting. I’m doing it alone. At this point, it feels like there is too much to tell, too much to show, too much to explain, too much to defend to let someone else be with me. It feels like an unnecessary burden to ask anyone to take on even if all they’re taking on is bearing witness.

Thirty is still young, but I have lived a somewhat extraordinarily full life. Not full in the ways I once hoped it would be, but they have been experiences nonetheless. A shell with not a lot left to give. I feel like I’m too old, too bitter, too used, too mediocre to be loved, let alone valued. 

Books

The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh

Read Sure
Length 352
Quick Review Through the Victorian language of flowers, a newly emancipated foster girl finds acceptance and forgiveness.

DSC_0175-01.jpeg
I love my flowers from Amanda Bee’s Florals!

The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh was loaned to me by my friend, Amanda of Amanda Bee’s Florals. It’s a great easy read combining a few things I love: language, flowers, and books. I needed something light to interrupt the maelstrom of books I’m reading to catch up after vacation.

Victoria Jones is newly emancipated from the foster system. She had always been a problem child and felt no reason to change. Homeless, she found a job in the one place she could: a flower shop. Her only good foster home taught her about the Victorian meanings for flowers. Her years of challenging everyone and everything combined with the foster system and constant changes, she lacked social skills. Flowers were her only means of feeling whole and communicating with the world.

Diffenbaugh demonstrates a deep understanding for the struggles foster kids endure in the system. She and her husband adopted a son out of the foster system, and the co-founder of the Camellia Network. It is an endemic close to her heart. The Language of Flowers is deeply touching and heartbreaking. Victoria yearns for the universal human desires of connection, acceptance, forgiveness, and love. Flowers help her find everything she is looking for from within and the outside world.

The meanings of flowers have always intrigued me, so this was fun to read. At the end of the novel, there is a short dictionary of flowers and their meanings. The writing is well-done and compelling. The plot is well thought out and supports the underlying theme that the foster system repeatedly and continually lets children down every step of the way. It wraps all the loose ends up nicely into a happy ending. The foreshadowing throughout the book is subtle, but still obvious enough the plot lays itself out in the first 87 pages.

I enjoyed reading The Language of Flowers in an afternoon. It was a pleasant surprise from what I thought it would be: a sappy love story. It has much deeper themes with an underlying call to action.

Memorable Quotes
“Mothers must all secretly despise their children for the inexcusable pain of childbirth.”

Title: The Language of Flowers
Author: Vanessa Diffenbaugh
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Copyright: 2011
ISBN: 9780345525550
Books

Putney

Read Yes
Length 384
Quick Review A novel that will stay with you as it explores the intricacies of sexual assault from several points of view.

DSC_0004-01.jpeg

I’m not going to review this book like I normally would. In my teen and adult years, I was raped. For me, this book struck some nerves hitting close to home because there were several similarities between my story and this one. I will be doing two reviews as an unbiased reviewer and a personal review.

Unbiased
Putney by Sofka Zinovieff is an incredibly interesting look into the psyches and motivations behind predators, victims, and observers in cases of sexual abuse. Dividing the book into three perspectives brings the reader into the complexities of these situations because they are never cut-and-dry.

Ralph is a young, up-and-coming composer in London in the mid-1970’s when he enters the Greenslay and meets the seven year old daughter, Daphne. He is immediately taken by her, but not in a pedophile way. He loves her. Beginning a secret friendship with her, it evolves over time until one day, when she’s thirteen: a young woman. Daphne is now a grown woman with a twelve year old daughter when she returns to London. She reconnects with her childhood friend, Jane. Daphne had been through a marriage, drugs, loss, and more in her time away, but her life is better, and she begins reflecting on her love affair with Ralph. Jane is sickened by her friend’s remembrances, and pushes Daphne to see what obviously happened in the past. The three embark on personal journeys of discovery, healing, and more on their own and together.

Zinovieff does a remarkable job writing a compelling story from all sides. Although, I don’t really like any of the characters, they are rounded, complex, and interesting. Ralph, though a disgusting old pedophile, is presented as captivating character, which makes the story far more realistic. Daphne is a mess with a whole bunch of inner turmoil. Honestly, I hated Jane from the get-go, but her character fulfills a needed role within the plot.

The writing is wonderful. It feels like an accessible Lolita, which I enjoyed very much. The book utilizes British spelling instead of American, which matches the content nicely. Putney is difficult to put down once you start reading.  

DSC_0221_2-01.jpeg

Personal
I don’t have any problem reading books about rape. It’s not a trigger for me. I spent too much of my life having it be a part of my norm, and – in a fucked up way – reading about it is incredibly cathartic.

So much of Putney irritated me. Ralph is an asshole. I very much appreciated his misogynistic, arrogant, egotistical ways. I wish all rapists were so dislikable. Jane pissed me off the more I knew of her story. For as much as she researches sexual abuse, she handles it all wrong. She is the exact opposite of what Daphne needs; she puts her own needs ahead of the “victims.” Daphne was not exactly my favorite, but I could understand her journey.

There were a lot of really well done things about the novel. Although, I found a lot of the parts including the police completely idealistic. I don’t know anyone who has ever involved the police to have had such an easy and non traumatic experience. The healing journey was ridiculously easy in comparison to reality.

I appreciated the ending, but I didn’t love it. The ending isn’t happy, but it’s much happier and wraps up nicely. It kind of feels like Zinovieff wraps it all up with a nice bow to make an uncomfortable topic palatable.     

Memorable Quotes
“I wasn’t some Humbert Humbert obsessed with nymphets.”
“Now the trauma was not only hers.”

Title: Putney
Author: Sofka Zinovieff
Publisher: Harper
Copyright: 2018
ISBN: 9780062847577