I was reading Sarah Polly's memoir of all kinds of trauma in her life. The bit about her erasing from her memory and retaining no recollection of a bad sexual episode and being choked and how she slowly recalls it in the midst of other similar reports only when her siblings remind her of her own, and her unpacking of it, was like nothing I've ever read or understood before. Like I've said before, sex is a lot more and a lot less than we give it credit. People remember selectively, they lie about it, they depict themselves in it selectively, and they manipulate their recollections of it to sometimes manufacture an image of themselves that they are comfortable with or that they would desire or that they can live with.

I am now reading Jill Ciment's memoir of growing up. And waiting to get my hands on her second memoir called Consent.

I think I'll always be in love with the idea of someone being in love with me. Of someone being curious about me to the extent of wanting to know my every thought, every motivation behind my every choice and action, every lil habit of mine, every practiced gesture. to be cont'd....

(Update on June 9th: randomly came across a movie that felt like it needed to be watched today. Sis was visiting. But she found it too heavy. Women Talking. Realised it's been written and directed by Sarah Polley. And so beautifully written, every word carefully chosen, to describe in a thought experiment, or a metaphor of a situation that tries to capture the entire argument relating to patriarchy and feminism. He and I ended up finishing the movie, me crying as usual; this time about why not everyone can understand this and why the world needs to be so messed up.)