Posted on July 7, 2012 - Filed Under The Marina Experiment | 1 Comment
I have made a piece of art out of child abuse. Sorting and resorting and editing the facts that are the source of my fury and my grief. I imagined I was desensitized, but every time I go back, I find new shards.
I am not a victim or a survivor. I don’t identify with these labels. I am an opponent. The enemy. The more people see my film the more I win. I have turned something hurtful into retribution. My father would be mortified. He would bare my backside and put me over his knees and spank me roughly and mercilessly and then lock me in my room. The spanking must have felt sexual, because now, just a hand mistakenly grazed past my posterior, perhaps on a crowded train, feels violating.
I read an article that declares “Touch calms stress-related physiology; it helps to activate reward regions of the brain and releases a chemical that promotes feelings of devotion.”
For me, touch promotes feelings of revulsion. Hugs and handholding feel like aggressive impositions. Someone standing too close to me on line makes me uptight. When I have sex with another person, I switch off.
My tireless tendency to please men, erases me. I strain to overcome the repertoire so enthusiastically carved into my nature by my father.