In my twenties, before I had therapy, I had a lot of sex. By that I mean that I let men fuck me. My body was available for their pleasure. Some of the sex was sublime: most, not so much. A very beautiful man, a dancer, said that sex with me was the best he’d ever had. I carry that sentence (still) like a pearl. I thought that if men desi…
In my twenties, before I had therapy, I had a lot of sex. By that I mean that I let men fuck me. My body was available for their pleasure. Some of the sex was sublime: most, not so much. A very beautiful man, a dancer, said that sex with me was the best he’d ever had. I carry that sentence (still) like a pearl. I thought that if men desired my body, this meant that I existed. I was a sperm receptacle: my mouth, my cunt, the other place. The other place was painful and humiliating, but I never stopped them. Miraculously, I only had two abortions. I never made them use condoms.
Aged twenty eight, sitting in a therapist’s bright white room, I’m feeling confused. I’ve been coming for weeks, at the insistence of a friend. I am broken. I can’t speak. Go inside your body, the therapist suggests. See if you can feel what needs to be expressed. At first I start squirming. And then wriggling, my face contorted. I feel very small. The therapist is very quiet, but her words encourage me. Are there any words now, she asks, gently. I whisper, so that she can’t hear at first. Get off me. The words I had never spoken at the time, the words my body had been holding inside for years, since I was four years old. Can you say that louder, she prompts, and it takes me some time, but I can, I can say the words louder, and soon I am screaming, yelling, GET OFF ME. And then I am sobbing, and curled up on the therapist’s lap, and she is stroking my hair.
That was the start.
And now. Now I am 63 years old. My body is soft, ageing, but still strong. My body is where I live, who I am in the world. My body is full of my stories, my words, my truth. It is a safe place to be.
Kerry the power of this piece by you ... I read for the first time last night before sleep so that my dreams were coloured by it: giving me, in turn, access to memories locked away.
As a reader, I feel sorrow and anger at the violence done to you, and how it shaped you in ways that gave you pleasure sometimes but oftentimes not. My writer self is full of admiration for you who have survived to become the person who can write that last paragraph - where the art of living and writing come together in a statement of intent, of self-sovereignty, that no one can trespass upon or diminish.
And this is why I chose you instantly for mentoring last year. For this strength of voice, of purpose, of truth-telling about how it is to be in your body, your circumstances.
Tanya your words…they for straight to my heart. I have such an emotional response. To be mentored by you, to have your generous and informed feedback, to be part of this incredible project you have set up.. And something is really shifting in me, something is starting to really accept my writing self, to honour her, to embrace that identity. And I couldn’t have done it without you. Can I say queen? Because I want to say queen.…
You can say queen, but you know I think I will smile and shake my head. I'm too homely, too rustic, to be that, and I wouldn't wish to be anyway. I think of myself - now you've sort of asked me - as the first person to put a log on a fire in a clearing I've made, while knowing it won't burn long or bright unless others come along and place their own stories into it. I like thinking of this place - like the creative confidence thread I'm running all year on Sharon Blackie's Hagitude program - as a communal fire in a clearing because others are around it, meeting, talking, listening, even when I'm not there myself.
I love what you bring to our project here. You are brave, brilliant. A born writer. Although I don't want to diminish all the reading and thinking that I know you've been doing all these decades...
Hi Tanya…been meaning to reply to this post for a while, and fretting about it. I love the way you describe what you do. All I was trying to express was the utmost respect I have for what you are doing with The cure for sleep. It is so beautiful. I am happy to be in the clearing with you and all 5he other amazing writers. Thank you. X
Kerry, I'm so sorry. My response to your kind - and meaningful words - was not the one I'd usually give. Which is - as I'm able to say now - simply and wholeheartedly this: Thank you. That's a moving way to be described, to be thought of.
And I realise that the day that gift of words from you came through was in a week when I was feeling very unsure of my life and my use now that the book was published and the last advance paid so that I'd gone temporarily deaf to the good in what I do. Thank you for reminding me that the space I've made here and the mentoring I do has purpose and value and is not at all tied to the book's short publication cycle.xxx
In my twenties, before I had therapy, I had a lot of sex. By that I mean that I let men fuck me. My body was available for their pleasure. Some of the sex was sublime: most, not so much. A very beautiful man, a dancer, said that sex with me was the best he’d ever had. I carry that sentence (still) like a pearl. I thought that if men desired my body, this meant that I existed. I was a sperm receptacle: my mouth, my cunt, the other place. The other place was painful and humiliating, but I never stopped them. Miraculously, I only had two abortions. I never made them use condoms.
Aged twenty eight, sitting in a therapist’s bright white room, I’m feeling confused. I’ve been coming for weeks, at the insistence of a friend. I am broken. I can’t speak. Go inside your body, the therapist suggests. See if you can feel what needs to be expressed. At first I start squirming. And then wriggling, my face contorted. I feel very small. The therapist is very quiet, but her words encourage me. Are there any words now, she asks, gently. I whisper, so that she can’t hear at first. Get off me. The words I had never spoken at the time, the words my body had been holding inside for years, since I was four years old. Can you say that louder, she prompts, and it takes me some time, but I can, I can say the words louder, and soon I am screaming, yelling, GET OFF ME. And then I am sobbing, and curled up on the therapist’s lap, and she is stroking my hair.
That was the start.
And now. Now I am 63 years old. My body is soft, ageing, but still strong. My body is where I live, who I am in the world. My body is full of my stories, my words, my truth. It is a safe place to be.
Kerry the power of this piece by you ... I read for the first time last night before sleep so that my dreams were coloured by it: giving me, in turn, access to memories locked away.
As a reader, I feel sorrow and anger at the violence done to you, and how it shaped you in ways that gave you pleasure sometimes but oftentimes not. My writer self is full of admiration for you who have survived to become the person who can write that last paragraph - where the art of living and writing come together in a statement of intent, of self-sovereignty, that no one can trespass upon or diminish.
And this is why I chose you instantly for mentoring last year. For this strength of voice, of purpose, of truth-telling about how it is to be in your body, your circumstances.
https://thecureforsleep.com/august-issue-sizeshape/#kerrywhitley
Txxx
Tanya your words…they for straight to my heart. I have such an emotional response. To be mentored by you, to have your generous and informed feedback, to be part of this incredible project you have set up.. And something is really shifting in me, something is starting to really accept my writing self, to honour her, to embrace that identity. And I couldn’t have done it without you. Can I say queen? Because I want to say queen.…
You can say queen, but you know I think I will smile and shake my head. I'm too homely, too rustic, to be that, and I wouldn't wish to be anyway. I think of myself - now you've sort of asked me - as the first person to put a log on a fire in a clearing I've made, while knowing it won't burn long or bright unless others come along and place their own stories into it. I like thinking of this place - like the creative confidence thread I'm running all year on Sharon Blackie's Hagitude program - as a communal fire in a clearing because others are around it, meeting, talking, listening, even when I'm not there myself.
I love what you bring to our project here. You are brave, brilliant. A born writer. Although I don't want to diminish all the reading and thinking that I know you've been doing all these decades...
xxx
Hi Tanya…been meaning to reply to this post for a while, and fretting about it. I love the way you describe what you do. All I was trying to express was the utmost respect I have for what you are doing with The cure for sleep. It is so beautiful. I am happy to be in the clearing with you and all 5he other amazing writers. Thank you. X
Kerry, I'm so sorry. My response to your kind - and meaningful words - was not the one I'd usually give. Which is - as I'm able to say now - simply and wholeheartedly this: Thank you. That's a moving way to be described, to be thought of.
And I realise that the day that gift of words from you came through was in a week when I was feeling very unsure of my life and my use now that the book was published and the last advance paid so that I'd gone temporarily deaf to the good in what I do. Thank you for reminding me that the space I've made here and the mentoring I do has purpose and value and is not at all tied to the book's short publication cycle.xxx