Do you know that film scene where a young woman dressed in a pencil skirt storms out of her boss' office steaming with anger, yelling "I quit!"? Well, I don't think I would ever physically be able to do that, to be honest, so here's my equivalent: dear readers, dear followers; I've decided to stop blogging. This is my final post.
Fifteen years after the abuse ended, I arranged a meeting with the police. I was determined not to let my life be ruled by fear anymore. I felt brave and strong. Strong enough to finally, for once and for all, stand up against the man who ruined so many things for me. Or, that's what I thought...
Dear V, So much has happened since we last saw each other. Do you remember that day? You hugged me like everything was normal; fleetingly, as if nothing had ever happened...
Living abroad has one big advantage: I live far away from the person who raped me. The North Sea, the barbed wires in Calais and Dover and the austere-looking border control officers between him and me make me feel a little bit safer. But today I'm traveling back to The Netherlands. And as much as I'm trying to think about all the good things my country has in store for me, I can't stop thinking that I'm traveling to the country of my rapist.
My sister and I grew up in the same house. We have the same mother and the same father. We went to the same primary school and the same secondary school. We both have a big nose, and we both wore dental braces when we were young. So here's the million dollar question: why can my sister dance while cooking, whist I haven't been able to cook myself a proper meal in months?
I was recently interviewed for a book, Please Tell Someone. It's a collection of stories, interviews, poems, blog posts and letters from survivors of sexual assault...CONTINUE READING
As sceptical as I am, even 'the inner child' deserves a fair chance. Unfortunately, my inner scientist seems to throw up barriers whenever it can... CONTINUE READING