Shame

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From A Theology for the Social Gospel (1918)

  BAPTISM AND THE LORD'S SUPPER 2Q$ means of creating the priesthood of theCatholic Church, and the main door through which superstitious beliefs came in. In time it became the mass, in which the priest partook ofthe bread and wine while the people watched him doing it. He might even go through the whole performance alone, for the benefit of adeceased person, according to the terms ofan endowment. Thus the Lord's Supper lost its meaning because itwas in the hands ofa body which had neither social outlook nor democratic emotions. The Protestant Reformation concentrated on the re- form of the Lord's Supper. The laity shared more fully in it. The private mass was abolished. Some of thesocial feeling was restored. But not the socialout- look. The act turned backward and not forward. It is an act of remembrance; init we appropriate theaton- ing death of our Saviour. Where it is experienced most deeply, it is a mystic act of fellowship between theun- seen Lord and the silentsoul of the worshipper. Fora time the great act of fraternal lovebecame the object ofbitter controversial feelings between Catholic and Protestant, and between Lutheran and Calvinist, and exercised a very unsocial and divisive influence. While the great churches were bitterly contending over the question whether their Lord was physically or spiritually present, and if physically, whether by tran- substantiation or consubstantiation, the persecuted Ana- baptists, who had neither the right to meetnor to exist, had the spirit of the original institution among them. As in the primitive Church, their service was preceded by

• From 50 Shades Uncovered (2015)

  James calls it "adult romance" while the media have dubbed it "mummy porn." Whatever you call it, there's no doubt that it's popular. I just sit at my desk. If I have any downtime I just start reading through it. And, obviously, if the manager, or any other lads saw, I'd just hide it away. Eclair: As a reader and a feminist, it didn't float my boat. But I did read it because, obviously for research purposes. It got the imagination flowing. People are caught up with those characters and they want to see what happens to them. Kite: Because they did center on that relationship, you could call them romantic erotica. It was a real page-turner. I went into a charity shop and I bought my copy and it was 59 p. I think that tells you everything you need to know about "Fifty Shades of Grey." I contemplated going to the library, um, and there was a voice in my head telling me, oh, the librarian's gonna judge me a little bit - for taking that one out. - Yeah. And then I thought, wait. Do I want to use a used copy of "Fifty Shades of Grey?" There's a deep shame to being seen with the book. (music playing) Gaukroger: A Belgian professor thought it would be a good idea to go into a library and test the ten most popular books in that library for traces of drugs, traces of diseases. All ten books had traces of cocaine. "Fifty Shades of Grey" actually had traces of a strain of herpes. So I didn't go and get one at the library. - No. - No. (music playing) Hopkins: I would never read that book in public 'cause that would be a tragedy. - There's such a stigma around it. - Yeah. I had it hidden inside "The Times" newspaper. But I would never be seen with "Fifty Shades of Grey." "Then I'm going to spank you. Not for punishment, but for your pleasure and mine." (laughs) That's-- that's something kinky. Yes, really kinky. I think it's very unpleasant thing. (laughs) "He pauses, gauging my wide-eyed reaction." Graphic, graphic. Uh, I think it-- it'll make a good read. I didn't expect to read that in the middle of New York. O'Shea: I would be more embarrassed to be seen reading it simply because of how bad the prose is. Weak prose and bad plotlines are not okay. It's just concerning, the language of it. You know, how many times did he "hitch a breath"? Huh! You know, every other page his breath hitched. Huh! Well, mine didn't. (cheering) Gaukroger: J.K. Rowling refuses to read it. It might be due to the fact that "Fifty Shades of Grey" did outsell "Harry Potter." It's the quickest-selling paperback, which probably rubbed J.K. Rowling up the wrong way. - Good choice of words. - Just a little bit. - Good choice of words there. - Oh. Oh, God. It's just mass-market fiction.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "My mother did not finish her phrase in words, but the expression of her face, and above all of the corners of her mouth, revealed her thoughts. "'And you think that this young man is such a degraded being as to allow himself to be kept by a woman, like a—' "'Well, it is not exactly being kept—at least, he would not consider it in that light. He might, moreover, allow himself to be helped in a thousand ways otherwise than by money, but his piano would be his gagne-pain.' "'Just like the stage is for most ballet-girls; then I should not like to be an artist.' "'Oh! they are not the only men who owe their success to a mistress, or to a wife. Read "Bel Ami," and you will see that many a successful man, and even more than one celebrated personage, owes his greatness to——' "'A woman?' "'Exactly; it is always: Cherchez la femme.' "'Then this is a disgusting world.' "'Having to live in it, we must make the best of it we can, and not take matters quite so tragically as you do.' "'Anyhow, he plays well. In fact, I never heard anyone play like he did last night.' "'Yes, I grant that last night he did play brilliantly, or, rather, sensationally; but it also must be admitted that you were in a rather morbid state of health and mind, so that music must have had an uncommon effect upon your nerves.' "'Oh! you think there was an evil spirit within me troubling me, and that a cunning player—as the Bible has it—was alone able to quiet my nerves.' "My mother smiled. "'Well, now-a-days, we are all of us more or less like Saul; that is to say, we are all occasionally troubled with an evil spirit.' "Thereupon her brow grew clouded, and she interrupted herself, for evidently the remembrance of my late father came to her mind; then she added, musingly— "'And Saul was really to be pitied.' "I did not give her an answer. I was only thinking why David had found favour in Saul's sight. Was it because 'he was ruddy, and withal of a beautiful countenance, and goodly to look to'? Was it also for this reason that, as soon as Jonathan had seen him, 'the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul'? "Was Teleny's soul knit with my own? Was I to love and hate him, as Saul loved and hated David? Anyhow, I despised myself and my folly. I felt a grudge against the musician who had bewitched me; above all, I loathed the whole womankind, the curse of the world. "All at once my mother drew me from my gloomy thoughts. "'You are not going to the office to-day, if you do not feel well,' said she, after a while." "What! you were in trade then, were you?"

• From The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness (2004)

  Joel had cracked under the strain, gone back to drink, and finished in a rehabilitation center. June had decided to close her literary agency. John had left Channel 4 to take up an appointment with Danish television. His successor had little time for me, clearly thought I was yesterday’s news, and never fully explained what had happened. The film that we had shot was confiscated pending a legal inquiry (which never in fact came to court). I soon realized that my own reputation had been tainted by the mysterious and messy demise of the series. It was made very clear to me that I could not expect another commission, which frightened me because it seemed most unlikely that I would be able to make a living by writing alone. Aware that the project was in bad trouble, for two years I had begged Channel 4 to find out what was going on. Nobody had listened. I felt rather like a beached whale, since my television colleagues and acquaintances had fallen away overnight, as though my disgrace were contagious. Yet another door had slammed in my face. This was what always happened. Here I was, right back at the beginning, trying yet again to make the money I had managed to save last for as long as possible. Significantly, I lost my voice. That is to say that, for about two years, I found it impossible to speak in public—something that had never happened to me before and has never happened since. I suppose I felt that if nobody listened, or believed a word I said, it was pointless to talk. Shortly after Channel 4 had abandoned the series, Holy War was published and I had to promote it. As a television tie-in, Holy War without the film was like Hamlet without the prince of Denmark, and there was naturally very little interest, but one day I did agree to travel down to Maidstone in Kent, for a live interview with Southern Television. To my horror, I found it impossible to utter a complete sentence. My throat seized up, I was shaking like a leaf, I couldn’t breathe, my chest contracted into a rigid knot, and I could only blurt a few words at a time, gasping after each broken phrase. Seeing the state I was in, the host quickly terminated the interview. Previously, when disaster had struck, I had not allowed myself to respond fully. Indeed, I had been unable to do so. On those other occasions, my state was not unlike that frozen condition described by Keats when he recalls “the feel of not to feel it” in “drearnighted December.”

• From Worried about Everything Because I Pray about Nothing (2022)

  Why? Because as soon as you start to improve, the shame subsides—and with it, your motivation to keep going. So you fall back into old habits. And shame comes back around. And you change again, temporarily, just until you silence shame’s voice. And so on, and so forth, ad infinitum, ad nauseam. My friend, get off the shame train. It’s not taking you where you want to go. Instead, ask yourself honestly: What obstacles could be getting in the way of a healthy prayer life? Let’s look at a few possibilities. 1. IGNORANCE: I DON’T UNDERSTAND IT. It’s hard to do things you don’t understand. Calculus, for example. Or braiding hair. Maybe one or both of those are easy for you, but they’re not for me. So I avoid them both. If you can’t figure out how to do something, you either learn, or you tend to avoid it. It’s human nature. Prayer is not hard, but it does have a bit of a learning curve because it’s a spiritual act, and some of us might not be used to engaging the spiritual side of our being. If you think back to when you learned to ride a bike or swim or read, though, you might remember how impossible that activity seemed—until you crossed a certain invisible threshold, and suddenly it started to click. Honestly, that’s the whole point behind this book. I want to demystify prayer. I want it to feel second-nature to you, like riding a bike or reading a book. That doesn’t happen overnight, but it also doesn’t take a lifetime. Don’t be intimidated by prayer. Don’t overcomplicate it. Don’t hide from it. Prayer is not some esoteric mystery that only a hyper-spiritual few can master. It isn’t reserved for pastors and preachers and saints. Prayer is for everyone, and everyone can pray. You can do this. 2. INEXPERIENCE: I’M NOT GOOD AT IT.

• From Real Sex for Real Women (2008)

  Another natural form of contraception is the rhythm method, which is based on a woman’s menstrual cycle. During a typical menstrual cycle, a woman has days of fertility (before, during, and after ovulation) when conception is most likely. By abstaining from sex on her “fertile days,” a woman can prevent pregnancy. However, this method requires you to know exactly when you ovulate, and the failure rate is up to 25 percent a year, so it is not advisable for all couples. Sex educationA recent survey in the United States found that one in four teenage girls has an STD, whether it is chlamydia, trichomoniasis, or HPV. This news, combined with soaring rates of teenage pregnancy, underscores the importance of educating young people about sex. It is easy to blame the media’s blatant glamorization of sex, but ignorance and peer pressure also push teenagers into having sex before they are emotionally or physically ready to enjoy it. Teenage girls and boys need more information about STDs, safe sex, and preventing pregnancy. If you have teenage children, try to set a positive example of communication—talk to them about sexual health and encourage their questions. And if you are a teenager, make it your priority to find out the facts about contraception and STDs before you commit to having sex. Sex AddictionSex should be a vibrant, exciting, and safe part of every person’s life. Unsafe sex may involve being promiscuous or risk-taking, or having sex without protection. Sex addiction is a psychological condition where unusually high sexual activity also becomes emotionally or physically destructive for those involved. Sex addicts don’t usually form emotional or intimate bonds with a partner. Addiction tends to be progressive, and the key to overcoming it is identifying the problem and seeking help. The dangers of sexual addictionSex addiction can mean an addiction to the sex trade, pornography, having sex with strangers, multiple affairs, compulsive masturbation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, obsessive dating, cybersex, sexual harassment, and molestation. More than half of sex addicts become sex offenders. And the Internet has made it easier for addicts to indulge in a secret and illicit sex life. Causes and symptomsA sex addict is defined as a person who is unable to control his or her sexual urges and goes to extreme lengths to fulfill them, no matter what it costs him or her. This means that some people find their entire lives are consumed by seeking the high they receive from sexual activity, even if they are partnered in a long-term relationship. Behavioral symptoms might include, but are not limited to: excessive flirting or grooming, seeking inappropriate sexual contact, and bartering with sex in exchange for money or power. Addicts often have obsessive thoughts of planning or obtaining sex that intrude upon their personal and work lives—they become distressed if they can’t indulge their desires.

• From Real Sex for Real Women (2008)

  Men usually don’t need too much persuasion to give or receive oral. Yet, despite its unrivaled potential to give pleasure, many women put this at the bottom of their list of sexual favors. If you are wary about oral, try thinking about it as an opportunity to learn more about your lover’s sexual preferences. Be brave, turn out the lights, and enter into it with a generous spirit. You don’t have to “deep throat” him, porn-star style, since the head of the penis has the most nerve endings. Start here and see where it takes you. [image file=image_rsrc3BJ.jpg] Techniques to tryTo maximize pleasure, whether you are giving or receiving, it is essential to find a position that is comfortable for both of you. When you are receiving, open your mind to enjoying the sensations of your partner kissing, licking, and sucking your labia, clitoris, and vagina. Tell him when it feels good, and gently redirect his stimulation when it feels too intense. When giving oral, take your time sucking his penis and licking his perineum and testicles. Switch between different speeds and pressures. If you get tired, take a break and stimulate him with your hands instead. Try taking turns. Most importantly, tune in to his moans and body language so you get to know what touch he really likes best. He might just surprise you. Extra-sweet oralTo maximize your oral pleasure, it is worth paying a little attention to what you eat and drink. Foods such as kiwi, celery, and pineapple can make your genital secretions even sweeter. If you are worried about hygiene, try oral sex in the shower, so both of you are really fresh. Food can work as an erotic prop in your oral games, too. Apply whipped cream and chocolate sauce to his penis, then lick off your calorific cocktail. Trickle a little honey or raspberry sauce over your genitals and invite him to savor the extra sweetness. Treats like this will make these oral sessions even more irresistable. CunnilingusCunnilingus is good for both of you—he has the thrill of delivering intense pleasure, while you get to lie back and abandon yourself to the moment. Plus you’ll feel an intimate sexual bond that has the power to enhance your whole relationship. If you’re used to giving pleasure rather than receiving it, cunnilingus may give you a rare opportunity to concentrate exclusively on yourself. You may find this sort of “selfishness” a challenge—but one that’s definitely worth rising to. Relax and accept yourselfA key part of enjoying oral sex is being at home in your skin and accepting your body and your sexuality. If oral sex doesn’t feature in your sex life, it may be because you’ve consciously or unconsciously signaled to your lover that you don’t enjoy it. Perhaps you feel self-conscious about the appearance or taste of your genitals. Or perhaps you have tried oral sex a few times, but it has fallen by the wayside.

• From Real Sex for Real Women (2008)

  During an individual session with Nicole, I tried to get to the bottom of her mistrust of Kahlen. She said that she had no real reason to be jealous and she’d never been cheated on. She was usually a trusting and easy-going girlfriend, but once she started dating Kahlen, the 10-year age difference made her feel insecure. To compensate for these emotions, she tried to impress him sexually. “I just want to be sure he has everything he needs at home. I know I go overboard—once I tried to push him into a threesome because I thought that’s what he secretly wanted.” Nicole talked about how frustrated she felt. “I’m so in charge in every other part of my life, but with Kahlen I’m out of control. I can’t make him love me or stay faithful to me, so I act like a porn star to stop him from fantasizing about anyone else.” My individual session with Kahlen was also very revealing. He said, “I would never cheat on Nicole. I tell her that every day, but it’s not enough. Whenever we go anywhere, she accuses me of checking out other women. Then we go home and she wants these crazy sex sessions. Even when I try to make it soft and slow, she wants to ramp it up—it feels like we’re on stage.” Finding solutions To heal the disconnection between Kahlen and Nicole, I suggested that they each make a detailed list of their fantasies (both sexual and nonsexual) and share them with one another. I also talked to Kahlen and Nicole about the importance of connecting emotionally and sharing insecurities in a non-accusing way. If couples lose emotional intimacy, they’re in danger of relying on gender stereotypes and myths to try to understand each other. In Nicole’s case, she believed in the myth that “men love porn star sex and want sex all the time.” What happened? Nicole was surprised and thrilled to discover that some of Kahlen’s fantasies included very simple, sweet things, such as “I want to go camping with Nicole and have sex under the stars” and “I want to be a father one day.” Kahlen was pleased to learn that Nicole’s list was also filled with simple, romantic requests, such as “I want love notes and roses, and kisses and cuddling on the sofa”. Once Nicole realized that Kahlen wasn’t secretly dying to be a swinger or a promiscuous rock star, the pressure she felt to perform was lifted. She said: “Before now I was never able to enjoy sex. I was so busy trying to be a fantastic lover I couldn’t lie back and feel the sensations and the intimacy. Now Kahlen and I can have sweet, meaningful sex or wild, uninhibited sex depending on how we feel.”

• From Worried about Everything Because I Pray about Nothing (2022)

  In other words, sometimes our momentary desires fight against our long-term goals. The apostle Paul wrote, “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do” (Romans 7:15). I find that verse strangely comforting. If Paul couldn’t keep his desires under control all the time, then maybe my struggles are more normal than that voice of shame would like me to think. The Bible uses the word flesh to describe the self-centered, destructive desires within us that lead us into making dumb decisions. It’s like that little cartoon devil sitting on your shoulder talking you into doing something you’ll regret. The fact that our flesh and spirits struggle with each other doesn’t mean we are bad people or that the desires we feel are inherently wrong. Many of them—such as the desires for food, pleasure, sex, rest, friends, importance, peace, and safety —are an important part of being human. We’ve probably all realized, though, that what we want to do is often not what we should do. We want to binge a Netflix series until two in the morning, but we know we have to be at school at eight, so we force ourselves to go to bed earlier. We want to quit our job and learn to surf, but we instead we work Monday to Friday and postpone surfing until the weekend. We want to yell at our neighbors because their dog won’t stop barking, but instead we turn on a fan and sleep with headphones and music. Wants and desires are like an appetite for food. Appetites can be developed. They can be changed. If you stop eating a particular thing, such as dairy or meat, you can lose your appetite for it after a while. On the other hand, if you regularly eat something you don’t love, such as salad or vegetables, you eventually develop an appetite for it. The same goes for the desires that war inside our minds, wills, and emotions. Not only can we lose the appetite for egging houses, we can develop an appetite for things like prayer, reading the Bible, loving people, being generous, smiling more (what a thought!), and so on.

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  Johnny gave himself plenty of structure—magic tricks, performing. But he never felt comfortable being himself. Even Ed McMahon, Johnny’s loyal sidekick for thirty years, said of Johnny, “He was good with ten million people, lousy with ten.” Why didn’t structure work for Johnny? Why did he never transition to the ultimate role: himself? The answer lies in the source of the role. For Johnny Carson, biographers theorize that Johnny’s persona, Johnny Carson the Entertainer, was created to win the approval of a specific person. His mother, Ruth, didn’t like boys; they were dirty and nasty, she said. Her favorite child was her daughter, Catherine. So Johnny’s persona, lore has it, was created to get positive attention from Ruth. If he could just be funny enough, successful enough, famous enough, maybe she would be proud of him. He didn’t do it for himself; he did it for approval that, sadly, turned out to be unattainable. Reportedly, at the height of Johnny’s fame Ruth once watched his Tonight Show monologue in the presence of a New York Times reporter, switched off the TV, and pronounced, “That wasn’t funny.” So here’s the difference between structure that hinders you and structure that’s a stepping-stone to the ultimate role of being yourself: the role should come from within, not from someone else. It can’t come from your impossible-to-please mother, your boss, your current crush, American society, or whoever else. Instead, your role should be chosen and inhabited only by you. Think of it this way: Pretend you are a building. Creating a persona chosen by someone else sets up a false front. Picture an old Wild West town: tumbleweeds rolling by, horses tied to their hitching posts in front of the buildings on Main Street. Looks like a solid settlement, right? But peek behind the imposing fronts and you’d find the buildings were often just canvas tents and a wooden floor, shoddy structures at best. Indeed, the cost and danger of hauling building materials to a town that may or may not survive the boom-and-bust economy of the Old West was prohibitive. But business owners realized they needed to project an image of success and stability to lure in customers. So they poured their resources into erecting impressive false fronts. They attended to the image but neglected the actual building. Playing a role that is chosen for you is like constructing a false front. Your precious resources get poured into the image while the actual building—the real, authentic you—is left wanting. The false front may be impressive or even intimidating, but its intention is to fool, to deceive.1

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  She grew tired of gentlemen’s suits; she took to displaying me in masquerade - had me set up, behind a little velvet curtain in the drawing-room. This would happen about once a week. Ladies would come for dinner and I would eat with them, in trousers; but while they lingered over their coffee and the trimming of their fags I would leave them, and slip up to my room to change my gear. By the time they made their way into the drawing-room I would be behind the curtain, striking some pose; and when she was ready, Diana would pull a tasselled cord and uncover me.I might be Perseus, with a curved sword and a head of the Medusa, and sandals with straps that were buckled at the knee. I might be Cupid, with wings and a bow. I was once St Sebastian, tied to a stump - I remember what a job it was to fasten the arrows so they would not droop.Then, another night I was an Amazon. I carried the Cupid’s bow, but this time had one breast uncovered; Diana rouged the nipple. Next week - she said I had shown one, I might as well show both - I was the French Marianne, with a Phyrgian cap and a flag. The week after that I was Salome: I had the Medusa head again, but on a plate, and with a beard stuck on it; and while the ladies clapped I danced down to my drawers.And the week after that - well, that week I was Hermaphroditus. I wore a crown of laurel, a layer of silver greasepaint - and nothing else save, strapped to my hips, Diana’s Monsieur Dildo. The ladies gasped to see him.That made him quiver.And as the quiver did its usual work on me, I thought of Kitty. I wondered if she was still wearing suits and a topper, still singing songs like ‘Sweethearts and Wives’.Then Diana came, and put a pink cigarette between my lips, and led me amongst the ladies and had them stroke the leather. I cannot say if it was Kitty I thought of then, or even Diana herself. I believe I thought I was a renter again, in Piccadilly - or, not a renter, but a renter’s gent. For when I twitched and cried out there were smiles in the shadows; and when I shuddered, and wept, there was laughter. I could help none of it. It was all Diana’s doing. She was so bold, she was so passionate, she was so devilishly clever. She was like a queen, with her own queer court - I saw it, at those parties. Women sought her out, and watched her.

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  In the last few weeks of the semester, Professor Garcia Coll announced at the end of one class, “If you have trouble speaking in front of a group, come to office hours and let me know.” I was astonished. I had never encountered this from a professor before. She gave no further explanation. I wasn’t sure if I would receive a free pass or an ultimatum, whether I would be told not to worry about it or that I had better speak up soon. All I knew was that she meant me. So I went. Despite the early December chill, I felt hot, as if I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. I arrived at office hours and hovered at Professor Garcia Coll’s door. She motioned for me to come in. After I mumbled my reason for being there, she took off her glasses and looked at me. “Okay,” she said, after a moment. “Thanks for letting me know.” I’m sure she also asked me about how the class was going or what I was going to do for my final research project, but I don’t remember. What I do remember is that through my anxious filter I thought she was disappointed in me or annoyed that I couldn’t muster the courage to speak up. Now I know better. It wasn’t until researching this book, discovering Dr. Garcia Coll’s research roots, and interviewing her directly that I learned why she invited me (and others—though at the time it felt like me alone) to disclose my difficulty. Simply put, she understood. When she took off her glasses and looked at me, I now realize, it wasn’t a look of accusation. It was recognition. It was understanding. I could very well have been Jennifer, retreating to her mother’s lap. What I know now is that after I left Dr. Garcia Coll’s office that December day, she looked more carefully at my work. “There are people who cannot raise their hand or speak freely in a group,” she told me when I interviewed her and recounted my story. “I need to assess their interaction and involvement in a different way.” Rather than docking my grade, she evaluated my understanding of the material through my writing, my exams, and my final project. She knew I was watching and listening like a sponge, just like Jennifer drinking in the scene of the dolls sharing breakfast. Many of us change naturally over time; think of the 40 percent of people, myself included, who refer to themselves as “formerly shy.” Temperament isn’t infinitely stable. Genetics isn’t destiny. As Dr. Garcia Coll’s dissertation advisor Dr. Jerome Kagan himself has written, “Genes, culture, time, and luck make us who we are.”

• From Wild (2012)

  I went to work, integrating the new with the old, feeling as if I were taking a test that I was bound to fail. When I was done, Albert returned and methodically unpacked my pack. He placed each item in one of two piles—one to go back into my pack, another to go into the now-empty resupply box that I could either mail home or leave in the PCT hiker free box on the porch of the Kennedy Meadows General Store for others to plunder. Into the box went the foldable saw and miniature binoculars and the megawatt flash for the camera I had yet to use. As I looked on, Albert chucked aside the deodorant whose powers I’d overestimated and the disposable razor I’d brought with some vague notion about shaving my legs and under my arms and—much to my embarrassment—the fat roll of condoms I’d slipped into my first aid kit. “Do you really need these?” Albert asked, holding the condoms. Albert the Georgia Daddy Eagle Scout, whose wedding band glinted in the sun, who cut off the handle of his own toothbrush, but no doubt carried a pocket-sized Bible in his pack. He looked at me stone-faced as a soldier, while the white plastic wrappers of a dozen ultrathin nonlubricated Trojan condoms made a clickety-clack sound as they unfurled like a party streamer from his hand. “No,” I said, feeling as if I was going to die of shame. The idea of having sex seemed absurd to me now, though when I’d packed my supplies it had struck me as a reasonable prospect, back before I had a clue of what hiking the Pacific Crest Trail would do to my body. I’d not seen myself since I was at the motel in Ridgecrest, but after the men had gone off to nap, I’d taken the opportunity to gaze at my face in the mirror attached to the side of Ed’s truck. I looked tan and dirty, despite my recent dunk in the river. I’d become remotely leaner and my dark blonde hair a tad lighter, alternately flattened and sprung alive by a combination of dried sweat, river water, and dust. I didn’t look like a woman who might need twelve condoms. But Albert didn’t pause to ponder such things—whether I’d get laid or not, whether I was pretty. He pushed on, pillaging my pack, inquiring sternly each time before tossing another item I’d previously deemed necessary into the get-rid-of pile. I nodded almost every time he held an item up, agreeing it should go, though I held the line on both The Complete Stories and my beloved, intact copy of The Dream of a Common Language. I held the line on my journal, in which I recorded everything I did that summer. And when Albert wasn’t looking, I tore one condom off the end of the fat roll of condoms he’d tossed aside and slid it discreetly into the back pocket of my shorts.

• From Justine (Alexandria Quartet vol. 1) (1957)

  Nor, in another scale of reference, is it of the slightest importance — that a woman disoriented by the vagaries of her feelings, tormented, inundated by frightening aspects of her own unrecognized selves, should like a soldier afraid of death, throw herself into the heart of the mêlée to wound those whom truly she most loved and most admired — Clea, myself, lastly Nessim. Some people are born to bring good and evil in greater measure than the rest of us — the unconscious carriers of diseases they cannot cure. I think perhaps we must study them, for it is possible that they promote creation in the very degree of the apparent corruption and confusion they spread or seek. I dare not say even now that she was stupid or unfeeling; only that she could not recognize what passed within herself (‘the camera obscura of the heart’), could not put a precise frame around the frightening image of her own meaning-lessness in the world of ordinary action. The sort of abyss which seemed to lie around her was composed of one quality — a failure of value, a failure to attach meaning which kills joy — which is itself only the internal morality of a soul which has discovered the royal road to happiness, whose nakedness does not shame itself. It is easy for me to criticize now that I see a little further into the truth of her predicament and my own. She must, I know, have been bitterly ashamed of the trick she was playing on me and the danger into which she put me. Once at the Café El Bab where we were sitting over an arak, talking, she burst into tears and kissed my hands, saying: ‘You are a good man, really a good man. And I am so sorry.’ For what? For her tears? I had been speaking about Goethe. Fool! Imbecile! I thought I had perhaps moved her by the sensibility with which I expressed myself. I gave her presents. So had Clea, so did Clea now: and the strange thing was that for the first time her taste in choosing objects of vertu deserted this most gifted and sensitive of painters. Earrings and brooches of a commonness which was truly Alexandrian! I am at a loss to understand this phenomenon, unless to love is to become besotted.… Yes.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I opened my eyes and looked at Alice - and knew at once that I shouldn’t have spoken; that I should have been as dumb and as cunning with her as with the rest of them. There was a look on her face - it was not ambiguous at all now - a look of mingled shock, and nervousness, and embarrassment or shame. I had said too much. I felt as if my admiration for Kitty Butler had lit a beacon inside me, and opening my unguarded mouth had sent a shaft of light into the darkened room, illuminating all.I had said too much - but it was that, or say nothing.Alice’s eyes held my own for a moment longer, then her lashes fluttered and fell. She didn’t speak; she only rolled away from me, and faced the wall. The weather continued very fierce that week. The sun brought trippers to Whitstable and to our Parlour, but the heat jaded their appetites. They called as often, now, for tea and lemonade, as for plaice and mackerel, and for hours at a time I would leave Mother and Alice to work the shop, and run down to the beach to ladle out cockles and crab-meat and whelks, and bread-and-butter, at Father’s stall. It was a novelty, serving teas upon the shingle; but it was also hard to stand in the sun, with the vinegar running from your wrists to your elbows, and your eyes smarting from the fumes of it. Father gave me an extra half-crown for every afternoon I worked there. I bought a hat, and a length of lavender ribbon with which to trim it, but the rest of the money I put aside: I would use it, when I had enough, to buy a season ticket for the Canterbury train.For I made my nightly trips all through that week, and sat - as Tony put it - with the Plushes, and gazed at Kitty Butler as she sang; and I never once grew tired of her. It was only, always, marvellous to step again into my little scarlet box; to gaze at the bank of faces, and the golden arch above the stage, and the velvet drapes and tassels, and the stretch of dusty floorboard with its row of lights - like open cockle shells, I always thought them - before which I would soon see Kitty stride and swagger and wave her hat ...

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  I was twenty-three years old, and had just started attending a mainstream educational institution full time for the first time in my life. Finally, I simply got the courage to move out of my parents' home, educate myself, and apply for scholarships. When I walked away, I did not have any idea how to survive in mainstream America. I was shy by nature, had no exposure to pop culture, and had no idea how to dress, what to say, what to eat, how to relate to others, how to date, and so on. Every aspect of my life had been ordered, pre-ordained, and controlled by someone else. I became a chameleon. I put a lid on my experiences, talked about them to no one, and became a brilliant observer and imitator of the social skills of others in order to survive. I met my now ex-husband during my first semester in college. It was an illadvised marriage from the start. We dated a year and a half before he ever told me he loved me. Then we dated a total of four years before he proposed, and I think he only did that because I wouldn't buy a house with him unless we had some sort of commitment in place. We were married six years before it fell apart. There were many reasons: the most glaring being that we were quite ill suited for each other, and rather damaged when we met. I was running from an awful childhood, and so was he (his parents have nine divorces between them). We were both particularly fragile when we met, and we did help each other heal, to a certain extent. But within a short time, I changed, grew up, and became a lot stronger, while he did not. Also, I did not share with him the depths of my childhood pain and suffering. Part of our final breakup was a result of my recognition that the time had come to deal with my cult issues, and there was no way I could do that with him. I needed someone strong and independent to support me during this process; there was no way I could have done it with someone whom I had to support, emotionally and mentally, at all times. In the year since I divorced, I have made giant strides in dealing with my cult issues. I work with a therapist who specializes in victims of totalitarian and other harmful groups, and victims of sexual abuse. When I first began this journey, I had repressed and suppressed my memories and emotions for more than twelve years. I was unable to organize or understand the issues in my own mind. I was unable to deal with or even acknowledge the level of anger and resentment I felt at my lost innocence, my lost childhood, and the abuse I suffered at the hands of my parents and their various cultic groups.

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  "The first time I went to a hospital," she said, "was the first time he hit me, 1978. And I told the doctor, `My boyfriend hit me.' And then I realized, my goodness, he's a lawyer. And he's this wonderful man who's helping me so much. So I said, `No, no. Erase that. Cross that out.' And I have a copy of that report, that medical report with that line crossed out." Over the years, the beatings were severe: a ruptured spleen, a broken knee, broken ribs, broken teeth, a "cauliflower ear," and endless scars on her face and body. In fact, for a time, a police photo of Hedda's horribly bruised and mangled face became the symbol of domestic violence across America. When asked by Larry King, and no doubt countless others, why she didn't leave Joel, Hedda responded that she had-five or six times. "Well, the first time I tried to leave, he came home while I was packing. And he said, `What are you doing?' I said, `I'm leaving.' Next thing I knew, I was down on the floor with an injured leg. He knocked me down, put me into an ice-cold bath to take down the swelling and, I think, probably realized how much I hated the cold water and started using that as what he called a `discipline.' If he didn't like something I did, he'd say, `Get in the tub!' And that meant cold baths, which were horrible, I mean, to sit in ice-cold water.... As the years went on, more and more he convinced me he was a healer. He convinced me he had magical powers. I mean it, really. He was using food deprivation, sleep deprivation.... I was totally alone. I was isolated from everybody. He had cut me off from my family, from my friends, from my job. I hardly ever went outside anymore." Hedda managed to leave several times, but was always persuaded to go backby Steinberg or by their friends (who didn't know about the abuse). Hedda didn't want people to know she was being battered, so she never told their friends or anyone else. After Steinberg's arrest and during the trial, Hedda received medical and psychological treatment for the abuse. For some time, she held onto the belief that Steinberg was God, was perfect. She said, "Afterwards, I went to Four Winds Hospital. The trial was a full year later.... I was talking to the district attorneys, but I still felt from all this brainwashing that I was still in love with Joel, and one day, something-it finally just all came together. And I couldn't sleep that night. I got up with this book in which I drew pictures. It was a journal. I went into another room and started drawing a picture of Joel.... And suddenly, all of a sudden I just saw him for who he really is....

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  (Chapters io and ii address these interpersonal issues further.) Loss of Self-EsteemCult members are taught to regard the group and themselves as special, an elite group, or as the chosen few: for example, on the "jet plane to enlightenment," on the "fastest path," on the "most direct path" to God, in "the Kingdom," or "a student of the Next Level." The idea of being in tune with the Truth gives believers a sense of security and a feeling of superiority over those with lesser beliefs. Feeling that you have found the Ultimate Answer, whether political, therapeutic, financial, spiritual, personal, or even extraterrestrial, can be a potent high. A sense of elitism, feelings of security, friendships, emotional highs, or fringe benefits (if you were near the leader or in the inner circle) are powerful reasons to stay attached to any group. When you leave, you may feel as though the rug was ripped out from under you: no more magic carpet. The thrill is gone. As you confront the challenge of rebuilding your life, the empty feelings should fade as you develop renewed purpose and meaning. In cults and abusive relationships, people often feel a sense of satisfaction in giving love, serving a Master, or dedicating themselves to a higher cause or ideal. In many cults, personal suffering is often endured in service to the perceived new self. After such sacrifice, people can be devastated to learn that they were taken advantage of, or in some cases, blatantly duped. "One of the more painful ... emotions is the feeling of being used," writes psychoanalyst Willard Gaylin.2 To better understand the significance of that feeling, Gaylin suggests comparing the humiliation of feeling used with the pleasure of feeling useful: The feeling of usefulness provides a great joy and pleasure. To feel of use is one of the fundamental ingredients of pride. We pride ourselves by our uses. We even sense or acknowledge ourselves through our uses. We exist in our own mind's eye through the exploitation and expenditure of all of our personal resources. When we use ourselves, in almost any sense of the word, we are building a sense of our own worth.... How, then, do we explain the almost universal feelings of outrage, shame, hurt, and resentment that combine in that most humiliating feeling of "being used"? ... To feel used is to feel that our services have been separated from ourselves. It is a sense of the violation of our central worth, as though we ourselves are important to the other individual only because we are a vehicle for supplying the stuff that he desires. It may be most graphic and evident when what he desires is a material or physical thing-our money or our possessions-but we are equally offended when what is taken or used is our intelligence, our creativity, our companionship, or our love.3 Not wanting to admit to feeling used or duped may keep people in cultic situations longer than they would like.

• From The Chronology of Water (2011)

  “My father was in the C.I.A. He died of a heart attack when I was three. Well at least that’s the official story. He was 33, so who knows.” That was a good one. I had to pause and pretend to drink my latte. “33. That was jesus’ age.” I have no idea why I said that. Why in the world did I bring up jesus? Idiot. Then I said, “My father … my father …” “Your father what?” he asked. “My father was abusive.” “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What did he do?” To tell or not to tell. How did I get so quickly to the heart of my wounds? What had just happened? “Sexual,” is all I could manage. Then I wished I was a part of the shrubbery or tableware. Idiotidiotidiotidiot. Why don’t you just slit open your own belly like a caught steelhead and spill it out on the table, moron. “That sucks,” he said. And then, “I hope something karmically fucked happened to him?” Right answer. I laughed. I laughed kind of hard. “Kind of,” I said. And we were able to move past the blood clot I’d presented between us. “Excellent then,” he said. We switched from lattes to wine. It wasn’t just man thing that impressed me. It was his story. How he’d escaped Reno and moved to San Sebastian, Spain, where he briefly witnessed a series of ETA events - the armed Basque nationalist and separatist organization. How he later lived in Italy where he coached a not very good Italian American football team with guys named Mauro Sassaligo, Ugo Spera, and Giacamo Piredu. How he’d interview members of the Earth Liberation Front, how he’d cyber-pirated Bill Gates Microsoft.edu. How he came back to the states - the Northwest, to be exact - to be a writer. Then he said something remarkable. “In Italy I read about Ken Kesey teaching at U of O. So I applied to the university creative writing program and was accepted. We moved to Eugene. But the Kesey workshop had already happened. I did meet some cool writing teachers though.” “Really,” I said. No shit? I got kind of excited but played it smooth and nonchalant. This was my opening to impress. Ahem. “You know, I was in that Kesey year long workshop. Funny, huh.” “Yeah,” he said, “I know. I think I saw you in the creative writing department hall after that. Did you have one side of your head shaved back then?” “What?” I definitely needed more wine. “Did you have…a very unusual head back then?” He was staring at my hair. Man alive. What are the odds? “Well, yes. Yes I did.” I slugged what was left of my merlot. “If you don’t mind my asking, why the hell did you do that to your head?” “Suave,” I said, laughing. “No, I don’t mean to sound like asshole, your hair is beautiful. It’s just, it looked kind of…” “Severe?” I offered.

• From The Chronology of Water (2011)

  Well you can imagine how many ways I tried to say “No.” I wanted to pick up a phone. “Um, hello, human race? Can you connect me to the dreaded relationship department? I need to say something. I’ve got this man thing over here, and well, bless his heart, this man is confused. He’s clearly mistaken me for someone else, and he needs rerouting. Different area code. Different address. Different woman. Is there a special number to call? I know. It’s crazy. He thinks he wants to have a family. Yeah. With me. Nuts, huh? So can you just, you know, give me the number to relocate him? He may need prescription medication. I can stall him for awhile, but you may want to send someone out.” His argument against all my fluttering resistance? One sentence. One sentence up against the mass of my crappy life mess. “I can see the mother in you. There is more to your story than you think.” The Scarlett Letter FOR A GOOD SIX MONTHS BEFORE I WAS FIRED AS THE Visiting Writer at SDSU, my belly grew. Listen. Happiness? It just looks different on people like me. My belly grew in the halls of the English Department while colleagues tried not to look at or smell my ever enormous tits and belly bulge when they spoke to me about Cultural Studies or Gender Studies or Women’s Studies. Then they stopped speaking to me at all, and simply nodded or half smiled as they passed me, like you might a mooing cow. My belly grew when The Chair signed a paper saying I could never work there again, and I had to sign it too, and while I signed it, instead of looking at the paper, I looked straight into her motherfucking eyes. Old bag I thought. She coughed. My belly grew every single class I taught, the undergraduates smirking and nudging each other’s elbows, then turning strangely loyal like beautiful little revolutionaries against the man. My belly grew each week I taught the graduate fiction writing seminar, me staring them all down one at a time until they smiled, me helping them sew the colors of their words into magnificent tapestries no matter what the judgment, them not able to sustain their disdain in the face of my unapologetic radiance. My belly grew too big for my clothes. Too big for my bath. My bed. Too big for my house. My former me and all her puny dramas. Bigger and bigger. My belly grew.