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A review by reaofsunshine28
My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell
5.0
Jesus ‘effing Christ.
(Can we swear here? I don’t know if we can swear here.)
This is the kind of book that leaves you staring at the wall for a good amount of time when you’re done with it. It makes you want to throw it across the room, scream, slam it shut and then apologize to it, cradle it gently, lovingly.
I haven’t been consumed by a book like this in a long, long time; I would’ve read it in one sitting if not for needing the occasional break for my own sanity.
You can’t tell if the lump in your throat throughout this story is tears, nausea or both.
To say it’s a modern Lolita is too dismissive, too easy.
To say it should be mandatory reading is too harsh, too intense.
But it definitely embraces the iconic adage of “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.”
Jacob Strane could be your friend, your teacher, your supervisor, your uncle. Vanessa Wye could be you, your sister, your mother, your cousin or one of many voices saying “Me too. It happened to me too.”
Their behaviors lurk amongst us every day, everywhere we go.
Regardless your stance or belief on the so called movement, this book does an amazing job at breaking down the nuances of it. Vanessa is so clearly a victim, despite her swearing up and down she was no such thing, and I share many of her same sentiments, wondering if I’m a “bad feminist” for doubting certain stories when, yes, things did indeed happen to me too.
Reading the flashback chapters is like watching a car wreck in a thunderstorm. You think maybe someone can slide out and be spared, and no such thing happens. You drown and tremble and worry in helplessness.
And reading the modern day chapters are a slap in the face, a harsh shove into the world she lives in now. You walk along the street and open emails alongside her. Her coping mechanisms are cliche but they’re the painful result of what happens to victims like her. It can take days, weeks, months, years and *decades* to realize what truly, really happened.
Even if the sexual abuse doesn’t resonate with you, and dear reader, I pray it doesn’t, the other forms of abuse (namely, emotional) intertwined throughout the storyline also hit you where it hurts if you’ve been subjected to that as well.
Good Lord. I could probably yell into the void long enough to rival the book, but I’ll leave you with this: thank you for sharing your story, Kate Elizabeth Russell. You’ve said more than enough for the rest of us.
(Can we swear here? I don’t know if we can swear here.)
This is the kind of book that leaves you staring at the wall for a good amount of time when you’re done with it. It makes you want to throw it across the room, scream, slam it shut and then apologize to it, cradle it gently, lovingly.
I haven’t been consumed by a book like this in a long, long time; I would’ve read it in one sitting if not for needing the occasional break for my own sanity.
You can’t tell if the lump in your throat throughout this story is tears, nausea or both.
To say it’s a modern Lolita is too dismissive, too easy.
To say it should be mandatory reading is too harsh, too intense.
But it definitely embraces the iconic adage of “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.”
Jacob Strane could be your friend, your teacher, your supervisor, your uncle. Vanessa Wye could be you, your sister, your mother, your cousin or one of many voices saying “Me too. It happened to me too.”
Their behaviors lurk amongst us every day, everywhere we go.
Regardless your stance or belief on the so called movement, this book does an amazing job at breaking down the nuances of it. Vanessa is so clearly a victim, despite her swearing up and down she was no such thing, and I share many of her same sentiments, wondering if I’m a “bad feminist” for doubting certain stories when, yes, things did indeed happen to me too.
Reading the flashback chapters is like watching a car wreck in a thunderstorm. You think maybe someone can slide out and be spared, and no such thing happens. You drown and tremble and worry in helplessness.
And reading the modern day chapters are a slap in the face, a harsh shove into the world she lives in now. You walk along the street and open emails alongside her. Her coping mechanisms are cliche but they’re the painful result of what happens to victims like her. It can take days, weeks, months, years and *decades* to realize what truly, really happened.
Even if the sexual abuse doesn’t resonate with you, and dear reader, I pray it doesn’t, the other forms of abuse (namely, emotional) intertwined throughout the storyline also hit you where it hurts if you’ve been subjected to that as well.
Good Lord. I could probably yell into the void long enough to rival the book, but I’ll leave you with this: thank you for sharing your story, Kate Elizabeth Russell. You’ve said more than enough for the rest of us.