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I feel justified in being angry at the whole world, all the time, because no one helped me. No one protected me. And afterward, when I was crashing and burning and wishing I could kill myself, practically failing out of school, no one wondered what was wrong with…

I haven’t forgotten those who turned on me either. I never, ever will.



I write about rape in my fiction. I just saw a post on tumblr vilifying ‘privileged writers’ for writing about rape to make it seem like they’re deep. No, actually. I write about rape to come to terms with what happened to me. And part of me wants to hurt the arrogant bitch that wrote that in all her self-righteous indignation, because she has no idea what anyone else has suffered, and the effect of her assumptions on a victim who was denied justice.

If I write at all anymore, it’s always about sexual violence.

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