I just watched the Diane Sawyer interview with Rihanna. I admire Rihanna for going through with this interview. She didn't need to say anything. She could have kept this part of her life to herself, she could have kept silent and I would have still admired her for surviving, for being a human being in the world who is not above falling in love with someone that hurts her. Here she is admitting to the world that she's not perfect and I admire the courage it must have taken to try to explain the emotions one goes through when they are in a such a violent and frightening situation. I admire her infinitely.

 I am livid at the way this story is being spun. I'm angry that Diane Sawyer would make Rihanna watch Chris Brown on a youtube clip to illicit some sort of emotion. I am angry that this story about a woman who suffered from very public domestic violence is being spun into a sensation. I'm angry that all the same buzz words, the same themes are being rehashed. I feel like I'm being told a story as though I'm a five year old, as if everything is being chewed up for me, as if this is a lesson I was supposed to learn in elementary school. This isn't an interview, this is... I don't know. Drama. This is theatre. This isn't real, this is just a sensation.

So thanks a lot, 20/20. I was going into my Friday night excited, glass of vino in hand, thinking that I'd come out of this with a little empathy for a woman who has risen from a difficult situation strong and real, but now I feel like I wasted my time watching yet another reality TV show. Which is really what this whole story is, isn't it? A well framed TV show.

If you follow me on twitter, you'll have noticed I posted a couple of angry tweets in a row. I might be a little too angry. I guess I hoped that the focus would be on Rihanna's story, instead of trying to spin something more dramatic out of it. I guess I'm just angry. I'm angry that this happens to women. I'm angry that this happens to men. I'm angry that people who love each other hurt each other so violently. I'm angry that this story now feels false and cheap. I'm just angry.

Here's where I apologize to my mother for the words I'm about to write. This is not something my mom likes to talk about. This is normally a series of events that I only share with my closest friends. So maybe I should keep this to myself, since I was not the person who suffered directly. This is my mother's experience and maybe I should just be quiet. But I'm angry. 

I remember hating that man since the moment I met him. This awful, awful bearded creature. I was, however, won over by his Harley Davidson.  

I remember listening to fighting very late at night right outside of my bedroom door. I remember throwing pillows at my door to let them know that I was trying to sleep on a school night and I could fucking hear them.

I remember being asked to bake a cake. I let it bake for too long and it charred to a blackened crisp. He made me eat it. Not really eat it, but he wanted to teach me a lesson. He put the blackened cake in front of me and told me that this is what I made and I should eat it. And then he took a picture of me with my mistake sitting in front of me. I was humiliated. I guess I should have laughed it off, because that's what I was expected to do. 

I remember being scolded for being ungrateful. I remember being told that I was given everything, computer games, everything, and I'm still unhappy. It's because I'm spoiled. My mother spoils me and I'd become ungrateful. 

I remember being really strange. I remember being a strange little girl. I was supposed to be happy for my mother, because she'd found a man that she loved. I remember hearing her talk about the feeling of falling in love with someone. And I remember the creeping loneliness I felt when she was gone, and I'd stay awake waiting for her, and I'd listen for her coming back in the morning. I have memories of this, but I don't know if it's just memories I made up. Either way, I remember having feelings and memories that I would tell myself to disregard. I became disgruntled. A disgruntled 8 year old me. I felt out of place everywhere.

I remember the one time he laid a hand on her. I didn't want to leave my room because I didn't want to know what was happening. You know how your memories overlap on top of each other? I think that I heard her cry out, and I didn't go out to defend her and I beat myself up for it. So when the shouting started shortly thereafter, and I could hear my mother crying, I opened my door and there she was on the couch and he was shouting at her like a chastising father. So I yelled, "Fuck you." And I was proud of myself for standing up to him. At least once.

I remember my mom coming into my room with me and locking the door. I remember him kicking the door in. 

I remember having to go to the women's shelter with no address. No one could know where we were. There, I met some resilient women who had encountered such extreme violence, my story seems invalid compared to theirs. 

 There are two lessons I learned from watching 20/20 tonight. The first is that we, as humans, experience horrifying things and we must become better people for it, not worse people, not the same people, but better. I have to become better than I am because my mother and I went through what we went through. I'm stronger than what I've proven myself to be thus far in my pseudo-adult life. 

The second lesson is, I'm never ever watching 20/20 ever again. Ugh, I feel so dirty.

 I may need to take this down in a few days after I feel too guilty for publishing it in the first place.