If not for the content this would probably make for a powerful story to write – it’s that time of year when my brain shakes the spiders in my head around and my nightmares come out to play. So: content warning for mention of sexual assault and abuse in this blog entry.
I was hoping this dream would fade, but it hasn’t, so hopefully this will pull the sting a bit.
I was studying English at some form of boarding school with a small group of fellow students and we were each set a different short story to analyse and discuss among ourselves. Some were more poetry than prose, and each student was having difficulty with elements of each of their assigned texts, so I started helping people.
What became clear was that each story told a fragment or element of a moment in time and the identity of the ostensibly anonymous author could be pieced together. The growing horror of the nightmare came from realising not only that the event described was a violent rape, but that it was my rape, and that the narrative protagonist / abuser was the English teacher who had set the assignments – and that he now knew that I had been helping everyone and now had pieced it all together, and was coming to get me…
At which point lady s woke me and forced cuddles until I settled again.
Sorry to throw this out, but getting it on paper has helped me settle. Thank you for bearing with me