Judy B
	My first sexual experience was with my father 28 years ago, when I was 12. One quiet winter evening a roaring silence ripped through my soul, as in my body pleasure and revulsion become almost inextricably entwined. I have been dying and reconstructing myself ever since. My father burned me deep, scorched me in places where I am still discovering scars. He was loathsome and he was the only man who has ever actually expressed deep admiration for me and adored me for who I am. He told me I was beautiful; he loved and nurtured my mind, my creativity; he fed my determination, my independence—and I used all those qualities to break free of him, so that gratitude and repudiation form another paradox embodied in me. Most women who survive sexual abuse act out by becoming promiscuous, trying to fill the stone cave of the heart with sex. I too contain an emptiness and I too am both fearless and terrified, but in the opposite way. I demand a connection before I engage in a union; I lay myself out and speak how I feel. I search, I wait, I long to find someone who won’t shy from my flames, and who has not extinguished his either. I am destroyed yes—over and over again—but I rise, I rise, I rise. And I fly.
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