A poem for Goddesses (and their lovers…)

 

 

Sous la languE

Capillary action
Sous la Langue
Fatal retractIon
As I lead thee aloNg
Dancing half drUnk
To my inner drum

Yet it is YOU
Detaching my retina
With a spoon and your finger
Letting my love burn
Like hot ice
As I linGer
Cos…
WE know I’d fuck you first
Tis I, the auditioNer
So hold me fasT
Hold me tiGht
Mr ‘action grip practitiOner
Doused in salty cyprin
De la langue to your fingers
Not sure where you’ve beEn
Or where I’m coming from
But…
CloSe your eyeS
Take my hand
Under covEr
SouS la langue

Post Brexit rantings about racial divisions in the UK (old Facebook post)

 

sambo

I remember being about 6 and someone in my class calling me a Paki…even then i was aware of the inanity of that comment, as most people can’t – deffo couldn’t then, tell i was half Indian…and as i pointed out, isn’t a Paki from Pakistan? Cue idiotic rage from child…

What has changed? That 6 year old, whose name or face i cannot remember, hopefully learnt something from that bitter sting of realism. Hopefully, he or she, for I can’t even remember their gender, questioned the usage of that word being uttered, from their parents lips and whether it was actually acceptable or not. Hopefully, they evolved further than their parents or peers or whoever it was that made it acceptable for them to speak like that, in anger and aggression towards another child.

Or, maybe, like unfortunately too many, they have internalised those words. Not thought enough about the subtle knife behind those innocent utterings and just grown up to realise it is not acceptable to speak them out loud.

I feel like i lived in a bubble for too many years. Surrounded by artistic, creative, lefty types who would NEVER use vulgar language such as this and whose politics are so right on that it has felt like a utopian commune. But it has been a bubble. Most of my friends are very middle classed. And have therefore had the privilege of the bias the educational system gives them, the bias that being generally valued in society gives them and so therefore…they are free from the constraints put upon most marginalised groups. Free to vote remain because….they have the backdrop of feeling comfortable enough with the world of politics to go balls deep into it and try to understand it for themselves. Free to discuss politics with a group of other creative liberals for whom oppression is not much more than an abstract 10 letter word. Because then it is a subject and one which carries a huge weight in regards kudos to have knowledge of. Free from the pain of poverty and othering…this saps more energy than you’d think.

Meanwhile. As the gap between rich and poor deepens, gets wider. The scapegoating of ‘non indigenous Britons’, coming over here, stealing our jobs, whilst at the same time bleeding the benefits system dry, becomes more and more ingrained.

Us v them. Except i am ultimately on the side of them. This panic about European migration is just subtext for general xenophobia. For most. Not all. And yea, that xenophobia comes from above, that shit trickles downhill, not up. And polite, white, middle classed, creative communities are NOT exempt from that. You who enjoy the tokenism and curios of the odd dance-hall/ragga tune but balk or smirk at the sight of a big black woman in full dance-hall regalia. You who are just so fascinated with my hair, cos it’s really bouncy, can i touch it, oh you’re touching it already. You who post consistently about the ravages of the environment and animal rights and the dumbing down of British culture but i never see you post on stuff to do with racial inequalities. Too scared to comment on posts about that even….You who consistently try to play devils advocate when i try to discuss race or class divisions – cos it is just too uncomfortable to accept they exist. You who mock or look down upon the vernacular of the working classed or of black/asian youth – cos, it’s not ‘proper’, is it?

You have fed the vote to leave, as much as govt’ wrangling and lies. And I am sick of it.

Racism is racism. Whether overt or covert. Not enough has been done to tackle the root causes of it, in fact, it would seem sometimes that we all, whatever our colour, culture, socio-economic background, we all have been geared towards this point, just in different ways. We have been divided and set up to fail. I am not pointing a finger at any groups in particular, although it may seem like i am. But please folks…can we accept we are ALL in this together and find a way of dismantling this shit? That means all of us looking at our flaws and weak spots and dogmatism.

Petite Mort (a poem about (one aspect of) female sexuality)

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If love is the answer

Then please rephrase the question

Cos from where I’m positioned

You need some direction

Not looking for great heights

From which to fall

Not wanting to spend nights

Awaiting your call

I seek passion and deliverance

Of the sort you ain’t schooled in

Cos from where I’m positioned

You is trapped in your own spin

Love ain’t the answer

And I’m not looking for a question

Just seeking minor death

Baited breath

Warm electric…

Masturbation for the nation (women inc’)

all-about-female-masturbation

 

Right! My first 3 posts have been decidedly on the depressing side. Or at least dealing with subjects that leave little room for smirking or saucery. And seeing as the title for this blog is suggestive of things in general that we, in polite society don’t really chit chat about, I think I therefore need to ‘branch out’. And maybe I just need a break from poring over too many dark ghosts.

 

So as the title to this piece implies, I want to look at the subject of female masturbation. Well, more succinctly, my experience of being a woman who indulges. ‘A’ woman, not ‘every’ woman. Anyone who aims to speak from the very fragile vantage point of ‘every’ woman needs to ask themselves some serious questions! I am, (in that sense) not so arrogant. But I do know a lot of women who view themselves, albeit in a jokey manner as a bit ‘dirty’ or ‘sluttish or ‘deviant’ sexually because of what is viewed, societally, as them having a sexuality that is out of check with femininity and indeed, what it is to be a fully functioning and valid woman.

Women wank. They don’t indulge in ‘self-love’ (as I myself like to gently refer to it), or ‘touch’ themselves. They masturbate, with the same aim, really, I think, as men, largely. I admit, for me, I have looked at my life long (since I was 5 or so) dialogue (borderline obsession) with my cunt, with the only thing that has consistently kept me in touch with myself throughout all of my life’s woes (does ANYONE else feel like that?), as something that is ultimately a centring force. Something truly wholesome, almost bordering on reverent at points. Without masturbation, life would be so very, very hard and dull– for me.

There. I’m ‘balls deep’ into the conversation already. I shall continue along the same vein, so stop reading if you are already feeling embarrassed or discomfort.

So. I say ‘women wank’, not ‘I wank’, because, I know from chatting to many of my female friends that most of ‘em do, not all, obviously, but most. I have also met men that don’t. But as a rule, the vast majority of human beings either do, or desperately want to, only restraining for religious reasons.

So, most rational human beings should agree, intellectually that masturbating is normal. Healthy for the individual even, perhaps. But when it comes down to it, is ownership over one’s sexuality as a woman, seen (actualised) as normal. Seen as conducive to healthy loving (heteronormative) relationships? Does it have utility? Does sexual confidence in a woman weigh as much as sexual confidence in a man?

Ohhh…big questions. But if we look at masturbation as a really positive way for any person to connect with themselves as a sexual being, then sexual confidence must, at least, come partly from this. And then we look at the ways in which male and female masturbation are treated differently in the world around us. That old cliché that men HAVE to masturbate because of the physical build-up of tension but women maybe only choose to? To me this says summat about the weird normalised gender role society we live amidst.

I think that probably in certain circles, the discussion of female sexual liberation, being up front about rubbing one out, fantasising about the dog next door and/or watching porn, are just really fucking passé and maybe my even writing this is indicative of the very middle middle circles I mix in…but…I think these circles do very much reflect a social norm that is expressed in media representations of women and womanhood. Femininity and female sexuality.

 

 

reasons-4-admission

Yes, this was from almost 125 years ago but the fact that in our great grandparent’s lifetimes, in what was seen as one of the most progressive and forward thinking of countries, that these could be reasons to section a woman. With at least 9 of them pertaining to masturbation.  I think it makes sense that there is still a prevailing attitude of discomfort around women being sexually autonomous creatures.

You only have to look at the prevalence of FGM across the globe and it becomes clear that these attitudes towards women and their ‘dangerous and lewd’ sexuality, if left unchecked, is a threat and a problem to be dealt with.

I can hear the peals of disgust as folk holler to themselves, ‘I have nothing to do with the practice of FGM. It happens in another country, culture, with people who are so far and completely removed from me.’  Except we do live in a world where a lot of the ideals that underpin FGM (making women more desirable to men and ‘marry-able, keeping them ‘pure’ and not able to become sexually autonomous and therefore much less likely to stray, or question) are also suggested in many of the messages we get bombarded with day n night about women’s sexuality, here, in wonderful egalitarian England, in 2016. When certain footballer’s, accused of rape are acquitted because the victim’s sexual history is seen as being relevant. When the BBC refer to a man who has raped his 12 year old daughter as him ‘having sex’ with her. When at school, girls are slut shamed for wearing ‘sexually provocative clothes’, for having lost their virginity, sucked a boy off and fucked another, whereas her male counterparts are virtually given a medal. When so much porn seems to rely on the apparent erotiscm of women being dominated by men. When I, as a 40 year old woman am told in conversation whilst discussing numbers of sexual partners, that I should probs keep that one to myself, as ‘it’s not the sorta thing to make a bloke feel secure’. When I am asked (in all earnestness) by a lover (from last year) that he wanted me to ‘abstain from masturbation’ for three weeks, just to see if I could. I kinda think…mmm…how far have we come in the last 125 years? How far removed are we, in this polite society from practitioners of FGM? No loverboy, you may not have  wanted me to remove my clitoris, because you want me to holler and scream to make you feel like you are indeed red hot and powerful. But ultimately you want to be in control of that button.

Not all men have been like that. I’ve enjoyed some wonderful, meaningful and free sex with many men but I do seem to meet an awful lot of guys who are terrified of my ability to…not only make myself cum quicker than they can. Easier than they can. But also articulate what I want and don’t want. But sex is not a race or a game.

So…I think this is a big part of why female masturbation still is fairly taboo in polite circles. Much much more so than male masturbation. Mother’s and father’s will often talk openly and with humour about little Jonny playing with his willy and oh how they laughed (but left him to it cos; boys will be boys/he’s gonna break some hearts that one etc etc) yet when it comes to their little Tilly ‘playing the banjo’, mummy and daddy all of a sudden don’t wanna chat about that too much and definitely wouldn’t just laugh it off, I’ve seen it happen. Like the opposite of leaving them to it cos; it’s unpleasant? Not natural? Disturbing? Shows signs of disturbance? And little girls should always remain little girls…even when they become women? Ohhh…you wanna lock her up when she gets to 16!

Apologies if I am labouring the point but I do feel that many of the restrictions put upon female sexuality come directly from that big bad P I will probably lurch back to in all of my posts. I agree, that patriarchy gives less freedom of expression to men also in regards sexuality but ultimately, men are positively encouraged to grow and explore sexually. The ways in which they do that are still prescribed to varying degrees but there is that framework there that for women is still largely a theoretical subject. As in, I see a fuck of a lot of women (despite themselves) playing along with that shit, socialised by it. And too many men that (despite themselves) cannot handle their lover being truly sexually autonomous.

Situation; for real (hope the guy involved never accidentally comes across this, sorry if you do but yea…you fucking KNOW it’s true!)

When I wake up, I often masturbate. Generally, out of coyness, I don’t do that if I’m in bed with someone, especially if they are a new partner. I kind of slipped up and awoke incredibly horny one morning and began…gently at first, just rubbing…enjoying the spread of warmth throughout my body and actually, semi fantasising about the guy lying next to me. I think initially, I was half asleep and was just doing what felt natural but when I became fully aware, I was wet and hot to the point of no return. So rubbing turned into penetrating, slowly, back and forth passing over my clit until I very quickly lost it, cos I was trying to be silent and still. Booom! Shudder boom. I came, and was not silent or still… I lay there for a moment, motionless. A bit embarrassed. But I still wanted more. I wanted him. So…started kissing him. He semi responded…I asked him if I could put his cock in my mouth. He agreed, funnily enough. And almost came in my mouth so I stopped, cos that was not my intention for this game. I straddled him and took him inside of me and went on a total cut loose, horny as fuck riding spree. He…lost his erection and looked pissed off. I removed my pussy immediately and felt awful. He later intoned that I hadn’t sought sufficient consent. Initially, I felt awful, thinking that it was to do with the me straddling him. Had i not gained full consent for that. But to be fair the sex we had been having was largely very much based on him being pretty ‘dom’. I think it was me making myself cum and then having the temerity to get so lost in the moment and just, enjoy myself, not needing him to be in control or ‘dom’, completely killed it for him. Much as his hard on suggested to him that yes, he wanted to fuck, the reality of me ‘taking the reigns’ was just too much for him. He ended up saying that the consent thing was a joke. I think he couldn’t quite admit how ridiculous his reaction to my autonomy was. It ended not much longer later for a reason that could have been predicted from that point.

 

The dentist who raped me last year that I spoke about in my first post. The way our interaction first became more than just old friends on Facebook, was when he responded to a poem I had written about patriarchal desires for women to be subordinate to men both sexually and economically. Just generally. He bigged the poem up and ultimately used it as a way to manipulate me and orchestrate a situation that I found very hard (in the circumstances) to get out of. His alpha male told him that he had to show this woman that she WAS indeed submissive. Mmmm…can’t fucking win, seemingly.  Be submissive and be walked all over and used as a prop. Try not to be and get raped to put you back in your place.

It’s no wonder so many women comply with these ideals on female sexuality; shaven bodies, keep yourselves  as slim n taut as possible please, but with tits. Keep that hair long. Make sure your skin is flawless. Shaven pubic hair is a must (all of the above is connonative of youthfulness, innocence and ultimately submissiveness) look fuckable in regards patriarchal standards basically. But act like you’ve rarely been fucked though. And when it comes down to it, don’t, under any circumstances attempt to show that you know what you want and don’t want. Listen. Be gentle. Be led. Be leading. Play a game. Pander to his ego…and you’ve won! Bingo! Cos getting and keeping a man IS what we are taught is vital to our success as a woman.

Ganja & Hess (1973)  Directed by Bill Gunn & Fima Noveck

Indeed…Crazy making the harder you look.

 

I’m not gay. I have had a handful of sexual experiences with women and really enjoyed them. But I’ve never (not yet, cos never say never) clicked with a woman like that. That beyond touch type click you get when all systems are engaged. And I’m not even specifically talking about love here,  I mean that deep lust you feel that transcends most conscious/common senses. That’s not fully happened. But. When I watch porn (which is rare cos the vast majority is hideous and abusive), it is often focused around the woman if I’m honest. I like watching women taking ownership and really getting into it and cumming and I imagine that I am them. I am never looking at the men or what they are doing, because to be honest, I find it and them a little repulsive. Ha! I kinda sound like perhaps I need to go back to the drawing board in regards my sexuality with that last comment but no, bear with me. I think this is because when I am fantasising, I am fantasising about feeling sexual arousal to the point at which I explode. Visual stimulus, for me is an extension of this. I don’t find sexually aggressive men attractive and I would say that 99% of the depictions of male sexuality in porn are very aggressive and alpha. So I either watch lesbian porn or focus on a woman in hetero porn. I’ll often imagine I am the woman and someone I have the hots for is fucking me…or her…but anyway, I digress.

My point is. Can’t remember, cos I am now slightly flustered by that last paragraph (will I keep that in I wonder, issabit saucy) but I think what I’m trying to say is that, despite the rapes, despite some very disappointing reactions from men to my brand of femininity and sexuality, I own my sexuality.  I am my own best and most frequent, long standing lover. And I respect that when I see that in men too. Our overly socialised and gendered roles can clip our experiences, sexually and otherwise.

Few points to exit on; 1)  How can one expect to have good, fulfilling sex with another human being if that foundation of understanding with your own body is not secured, maintained?

2)  My liberation was not built as a Wendy house just for my lover’s entertainment and as liberation from their conscience. My liberation does not negate theirs. Thiers does not weigh heavier than mine.

3) Masturbation, for the nation. So make it mandatory. Don’t be shy 😊

Oxymoron (a poem about rape culture)

image

Rape. Rape. Rape. Rape. Rape.
Such a dirty word
Rape, raped, rapist, the rapist rapes
It’s taboo status, so absurd
Raping, the rapist, the-rapist, rapes.
How 4 letters can so unnerve
Rape/rape/rape/rape. Raped.
Ergo the victims, exist unheard.

Rape. Rape. Rape. Rape. Rape.
Is it really any wonder?
Rape, raped, rapist, the rapist rapes.
So few victims seek out justice
Raping, the rapist, the-rapist, rapes.
Surrounded by the low tender thunder
Rape/rape/rape/rape. Raped
Of slut shaming, victim blaming culture.
Rape. Rape. Rape. Rape. Raped;
Ladies, be demure and drink responsibly
Raped. Raped. Raped. Raped. Raped.
‘Non consensual sex’ is born of culpability.

Mental health and suicidal feelings/attempts

 

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This is a difficult post to even attempt to write, cos it cuts right to the centre of so many of the taboos in society that are so very verboten. It is indeed something i would much rather not think about let alone discuss in an open, albeit nameless space.

When i was 16, i made a silly and not really real attempt at ending my life. Tried to cut my wrists, although the moment i saw blood i freaked out and stopped. So then took a whole packet of junior disprin. Nothing happened. I don’t think i wanted anything to happen, i just, like many 16 year olds, wanted someone to notice what i was going through, re my last post on surviving domestic violence.

This was not a desire to be dead, nor even a desire to not be living. It was, what many would call, a cry for help – except it was too much of a whisper and no one heard. This lack of feeling heard propelled me forward until i was heard finally and asked to leave the family home a year later.

When i was 25, i stood on top of a bridge over a dual carriageway and again, contemplated jumping. Neither of my children were born at this point and in many ways i felt there was very little to keep me in this cold and desolate land of the living. I was a fuck up. Didn’t know where i was going didn’t like where i had been coming from. Even less what my current present meant. I remember thinking how quick it would be. How amazing it would be to not feel that lurch in my heart of emptiness everytime i woke up, that had for years only been filled with going out, wearing my social face, being intoxicated by alcohol, drugs or sex. My world was full to the brim with noise but i felt empty and dead inside and no one could see. Because i hid it so well behind my socially constructed mask.

I didn’t do it. The thought of the accident i would probably cause and the potential lives lost and the lifelong sentence i would be giving to the person who i would be forcing to aid in my suicide attempt, made me feel a bit sick with my own self absorption. I walked away and decided to try harder to turn my life around. Pivotal point for me.

Towards the beginning of last year i came yay close again. This time, I actually thought i wanted to die – or maybe i just decided i could no longer bear the pain of living. I had gotten hold of some pills that would have done serious amounts of damage at half the dose i had intended to take. Wouldn’t have definitely killed me, maybe just left me in a vegetative state, but either way in my mind, job done. I had convinced myself that my depressed state was not only too painful for me to bear but also that it was negatively impacting upon my children. A lot of my writing around that time was about mothers with depression, one story i wrote was about a suicide attempt that hadn’t worked and left the woman with retrograde amnesia. Another about a mother who decided to leave her children and run away to India. I didn’t see it really but i think this was me building up to crisis point. Because I remember feeling distraught that my kids had seen me weeping in a corner too often. That they would essentially become my carers and be forced to grow up too quickly. As i fleshed out my story of the mother who leaves her children though, i found myself seeing how hurt children could feel, knowing their mother had left them to LIVE somewhere else. In my deluded state i thought ending my life may make them feel less responsible.

I got as close as having the first batch of pills in my mouth. I had a picture of my girls in front of me. I was crying so hard i almost swallowed the pills by accident and immediately realised that I didn’t actually want to do this. I couldn’t leave them. They loved me and my love for them was so immense that actually, no amount of pain was deeper than that. I spat them out and rinsed my mouth about 20 times.

I hope my children never have to read this. Maybe when they are adults, if blogs still exist, i may show them this…but maybe not. Maybe that is one mask i need to continue to wear. But if either of you do end up reading this. I AM SO SORRY I EVEN CONTEMPLATED IT! It is no reflection on how much i love and loved you both. Mummy was just not well. But as i hope you will see, that massive rush of love, that bought me round at the last minute is what will always keep me strong. Is why i have been able to come through it and become the person that i hope you can see is so much happier and stronger than before.

There are perhaps many people who would read this and think that i am the worst type of person for considering suicide when i have children. Utterly selfish and cruel. I think there is such pressure on mothers (more than fathers) for that aspect of their identity to come before ANYTHING else, ALWAYS. And you know what, it’s 90/10 that it does. But depression and mental illness IS NOT something that can just be switched off. It doesn’t arise from too much emo wallowing (although maybe sometimes it does), it sometimes is chemical, something hard wired incorrectly. It is sometimes (as my last 2 posts i think suggests at for me) environmental. You can never judge someone elses actions until you have heard them break them down for you in full detail. And if you still feel judgy, then I apologise, cos yea, i feel i let myself and my kids down in that instant too.

A semi-fictionalised piece on real life experiences of growing up amidst domestic violence

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Breaking broken

 

The shudder of the door filled it’s frame as she slammed it shut with her back. The coolness of the wood reaching through the sour wetness of her shirt to the heat emanating from her skin, bringing her down from the hot, rabid frenzy she was amidst. Her heart beating so fast and hard, she fancied she saw it, desperate, eager angry, trying to escape from her chest as she fought to understand all that had just occurred. Her left eye stung slightly as baubles of sweat dripped into it, the discomfort of which anchoring her in the present, holding her body fast in the realm of the physical and almost simultaneously she registered that a trickle began to run down her left thigh, escaping the epicentre and main source of this fever. She melted through the memories in quick succession and smiled to herself…..

 

In the space  of a nano-second, the language of her body stopped in its tracks as she heard the familiar rumble of her dad’s blue transit van entering the drive. Fear immediately invaded her senses and fight was never her response to conflict with this man, so she ran for the safety of the bathroom, locked the door and began to run a shower; feeling certain he would recognise the betrayal of his trust, his fear of violence driven obedience in her eyes as she instinctively saw the betrayal of her mother’s (and hers) in his every time he faltered.

 

Looking back to that very pivotal moment in time (and womanhood) for her, Suzanne realised it had been almost twenty years to the day since she had written “dearest diary, today…I have become a woman, for today diary dearest I have lost my virginity!!!”. Wincing at the thought of quite how ridiculous that sounded and how naïve she had been, she pondered on this last two decades and what exactly she had learnt. Twenty years full to the brim with many men, some would argue too many men, a lot of hurt and pain (from all angles), snippets of love, a virtual cornucopia of lust, confusion, confusion…more confusion, more fun perhaps than any human being has any right to have and let’s not forget the babies, for isn’t that ultimately what sex and one’s body (as a woman) is for?

On the one hand, Suzanne felt that she had done, albeit sub-consciously, what she had set out to do, which was to be different to her parents, to be more liberated, more in touch with herself, more honest and more fulfilled. But on the other she also felt the power of the hand of fate in all her dealings and dalliances in this last twenty years; her promiscuity, her emotional abstractions when it came to black men, her awkwardness around intimacy, her issues around trust and men in general – all in her mind could be traced neatly back to her parents relationship and the effect it had had upon her.

 

Suzanne lay sobbing into her pillow as her mother tried desperately to console her, knowing deep down that the only consolation available was ignorance and things had gone too far for that. She herself had known for many years that her husband was unfaithful but like many women (she imagined) she chose to ignore the fact, using the excuse of not wanting to be that nagging wife, not wanting to, above all have to endure the terrors and shame of being a single parent. A bad husband was far better than no husband after all, but how could she possibly reconcile that within her little girl? How could she have known that whilst she chose to ignore the signs, hide from their burning opaqueness, the curiosity of a child would never allow such a thing? Suzanne looked up at her mother’s face, taut with repressed feeling and thought twice about telling her that she remembered quite vividly being about seven years old and her mother asking her father when and if he intended to come back that evening. The almighty argument and then him pushing her down the stairs. The sight of her mother’s heavily pregnant form lying crumpled below filled her with a fear she was all too used to, already at this age…but still (and always would) felt keenly. She also refrained from disclosing to her mother that her first ever memory, aged three was of her mother holding a knife to her father’s throat and demanding to know where he had been for the weekend. Her older sister, who would have been just nine, had been instructed to take her and their little baby sister, just a few months old, into their parents’ bed and not come out.  The sound of the back patio doors smashing would stay with her forever. I do not love the sound of breaking glass…it is the opposite of breaking free, it is a tangible object that continues to break me. She remembers this stirring them all to move and run into the landing to see their mother, high on new baby hormones, desperation, fear and utter rage stood at the top of the stairs with the knife and their father edging his way up them…she doesn’t want to think about why she cannot remember anything after this point and part of her has always wanted to ask but even at the tender and inexperienced vantage point of sixteen, Suzanne knew her mother didn’t need reminding of these incidents or to know that she, her daughter remembered them. Beneath the almost searing resentment she felt towards her mother for staying with a man who kept her and her children in check with not merely the threat of violence and whom she must have known was sleeping with other women, Suzanne knew that it was somehow beyond her ken and not fair for her to express that judgement. So there both women sat, with a multitude of emotions raging beneath the masks of their faces and too many words on the tips of their tongues to say anything lest the truth spill forth.

 

Suzanne looked at the curve and swells of her body in the mirror and felt pride in her new physique. She liked the look of her body pregnant and loved the fact that her body was able to do this magical and marvellous act of growing a human being. She loved being a woman, especially at points like this. Suddenly though, she was gripped by a feeling of uncontrollable sadness and almost terror as she pleaded for this relationship to last, this family to work. At points she felt like her quest to never become her mother in respect to what she perceived as her mother’s weakness at letting herself be walked all over, had made her into quite a difficult woman to get close to and perhaps some of the many relationships she had entered into may have been more fulfilling if she hadn’t forced the respective men to prove themselves innocent of a guilt that was never theirs to own. Perhaps she did put too much pressure on the father of her first child and perhaps it was her fault he went off with a woman young enough to be his daughter whilst she was pregnant with a child he had literally begged her to have and perhaps her fear and baggage was pushing Jeremy, baby father number two away also. Her mind was too muddled with hormones and lack of sleep to decipher this fully  but she knew somewhere deep down that at least part of the answer lay in all that occurred twenty years prior and the lasting impact that has had upon her. The discomfort she felt from her own past and inability to circle too many squares, blinding her slightly to the reality of the fact that Jeremy himself and the unhealthy ways in which he did the opposite of balance her, her choosing him, was more tied up in her baggage of ‘self-destruct’ than she would realise for years to come.

 

About a year before her entrance into womanhood, Suzanne’s father, seeing all too clearly her growing awareness of herself as a woman and the attention she was receiving from men due to her seemingly sprung over- night womanly physique, decided it was time for a talk.

Suzanne sat in the passenger seat of the blue transit van. It was her father’s pride and joy at that moment and it angered her that her mother had probably worked her backside off, in her three part time jobs, whilst her father made a pittance following his dream of being a musician. What angered her more was her own inability to be honest about her frustrations towards him, her own succumbing to the threat of physical violence, which although he hadn’t dealt out of late, was ever present, had worked it’s magic through years of deliverance. She looked across at him and registered that his face betrayed no signs of what she anticipated was to come.  He launched straight into his little speech, no warm up or intro required. “Suzanne, when I came to pick you up from school yesterday, I noticed that you were talking to two white boys, who were they?” His voice resonated through her being and held her will in the usual state of submissiveness he effected. She found herself mumbling something about how she had been talking to them about a new teacher but knew she sounded like the liar that she was. “Alright, what I have to say I want you to listen to carefully as I won’t be having this chat with you again. As far as boyfriends are concerned, you are not to have any until you have finished your education and that means when you have finished University…and….if I ever see you hanging around with white boys again there will be a price to pay, for you and your mum…do you understand?”  Despite the torrent of anger and bitter sting of resentment that welled up inside her, Suzanne could not quite bring herself to say what she felt, the fear of violence muting her, shutting down her energies, so instead she just mumbled “yes dad” and looked hard out of the window of the van, letting the fierceness of the breeze blow away the imminence of tears in her eyes. At that very moment, the wheels were set in motion for that fated diary extract and for the repeated patterns of the last twenty years.

 

She wouldn’t leave him, despite what she had said. Even at that very tender vantage point of sixteen, Suzanne knew that if she was going to, she would have done so by now, surely. So knowing that boundaries did not have to pushed too far to get an extreme reaction, she began to push harder. Push deeper, further into the pit of darkness, the empty heart of her father. Make him react.

 

She/I fucked him in the graveyard. The ground was bouncy and cool and damp. His cock was too hard and I/she was not ready to feel it in all it’s glory. It hurt but the pain made her/me feel real and alive. She knew more was coming. I knew I wasn’t going home that night and the distortion to the peaceful unrest in her familial home that this action would cause.

 

The next day, on the way to college. Mum and dad’s car pulled up from out of no where, dad getting out and striding angrily towards her and her posse. The fuckee looked terrified. I/she felt resplendent. Glowing. Knowing. That the pinnacle was almost in reach. Just a few more painful moves and freedom was in sight.

 

Suzanne was ordered to leave by her father. Leave the family home and not only never ever return, but also never see her sister, brother, mother again. Attempts to do so would result in violence towards them. That oh so familiar coercion and manipulation of her feelings. She packed three bin-liners and left. Aged 17.

 

The birth of the second child was magical. Bleached out so much pain from before…only to open up another chasm at the same time. Suzanne (unfortunately) now knew, deep in her deepest that this coupling was not quite the opposite of looking at a star lit sky, as she had initially thought. This was her repeating dangerous patterns from her past. Seeking immersion in a void. The arrow of time points forward though, with only gravity to err in its path. So onwards and upwards she went, despite the weight that pulled her down, growing muscles in places she never knew she had.