The Broken Man.

He stood there crumbling, a shell of the man he was,
haunted by his past that so sinisterly followed him into his future.
That broken man severed by the world, abandoned by his loves.
Strength had vanished.
His arms hung heavily by his side.
A broken man.
Disturbed and lonely.
That look in his eye of contempt, a feeling he could no longer weather.
Dark nights.
Screaming into pillows.
His life dissolving before him.
The collapse of love too much to bear.

Please deny this man entry to the UK!!!!

This morning, I signed a petition on to ban Julien Blanc (a professional ‘Pick up Artist’) from entering the UK.

I had never heard of this man but was horrified to read more about him.

Julien Blanc classes himself as a pick up master, able to seduce and lure any women into bed. He is not charming nor does he woo with romantic or genuine methods. No, instead, he encourages men (who pay over £1000 to take his seminars) to use force, derogatory comments and any means possible to have sex with whoever they want.

He has been denied entry and had his Visa revoked from Australia after they realised how shady and disturbing his message was. Now the UK government needs to do the same. This man (and I use that term lightly) has tour dates coming up in the UK. It is bad enough as it is in this climate. I and many thousands of women have had to endure sexual harassment from idiotic men who believe they can say what they want, anywhere at any time.

It happens every day and we, as women, are made to feel guilty or rude or stiff if we dare to say ‘No’ or worse. We become “pathetic” and “miserable” because we can’t take their ‘compliments’. Well telling me that my bum is “good enough to take a bite from” and then gnashing your teeth together menacingly, is NOT a compliment. Or making kissing noises as I walk by you six months pregnant is NOT a compliment.

Get it?

Domestic violence, rape and sexual harassment are as prominent now as ever.

Julien Blanc is giving these inbred men a reason, a justification to their obscene behaviour.

PLEASE! Do not allow this man into the UK.

Go to and stop sexual predators like this doing what the hell they like.

A Very Different World.

I do not normally blog past 7pm (UK time) but something compelled me to add this quick post. Excuse me for not posting another poem, I will add two more tomorrow. This seems far more important. After finishing my bath and drying off whilst reading my favourite magazine “Look”, I came across an article about a YouTube video that has had over 5 million hits. I needed to check it out immediately.

Oppressed Majority is a powerful and inspiring short film. Directed by Eleanore Pourriat, it portrays a world of predominately women. A world where women are the ‘superior’ gender. It flips around the culture women these days are so sadly objected to. For some women, sexism is a daily battle. To see a man be subjected to it feels wrong. Yet it is accepted to treat a woman in the same way.

I can think of many times where a man has stepped over the mark and entered my personal space, where a man has felt free to tell me to “Cheer up!” when I refused to accept his offer to take me out for a drink. I can be frank and say that I have had my bum slapped in a club as I danced with my friends. Was the man justified to do that? I was only dancing. I have been leered at on the tube for fifteen stops, I have even been followed and approached. What gives someone the right to believe that is acceptable?

The film follows a character called Pierre and his normal daily routine. The women appear to hold all the power, from condescending him over his gender to flaunting their topless bodies on a run, from enduring verbal abuse from a homeless women with a filthy mouth to standing up to a female gang to protect his dignity and becoming a victim of a sexual attack. The worst, I think, is when Pierre has to justify his unlawful and degrading attack to a cocky policewoman who clearly thinks nothing of him.

The most bizarre part of the film and most memorable is (other than the violence) when Pierre drops his child off at the nanny’s’ who is in fact – a man. At his door, Pierre notices he has covered his hair with a scarf. He asks the nanny if his “wife” requested him to do so. The nanny answered “Yes”. Pierre tries to encourage the man to dress and be as he wants and that he has every right but the nanny is protective of his wife and dismisses Pierre’s worries with laughter. Hell. That hit home. We’ve all been there.

It is a provocative and poignant piece of film.

Well done.


A new low for self image.

Just look a this. It’s a sad portrayal of what women in Venezuela have to endure to be accepted and valued. Women, who are beautiful in their own right, are being made to feel worthless by a man. Mmmm, that is not an unfamiliar feeling for me. However, this man should know better but he uses his power to degrade and criticise naturally beautiful women to make them change and alter their looks to the extreme.

This programme (shown last night on the BBC in Britain) tells the story of several Venezuelan women on their quest to be crowned Miss Venezuela. It intensely worries me that women are encouraged to amend their appearance from such an early age. Many of these women are ‘persuaded’ to have breast enlargements, nose jobs, liposuction and even (and more disturbingly) have a ‘mesh’ sewn onto their tongue to stop them from eating solids. It’s ludicrous!

Women everywhere are fighting to be heard, we are fighting to be respected. Our natural beauty should be praised not judged. I suffer from low self-esteem, I have many insecurities about my appearance. I can’t imagine living like that. In a society where my body, my face, my beauty is constantly monitored and criticised. A world where ambition is fading and women are seen to have no real purpose, other than to be “beautiful”.

We were never meant to all look the same. We should be nurturing individuality not distinguishing it.

Say it together.

We are beautiful girls.


Just as we are.

Ros xx

The last Goodbye.

My husband and I made our way to the crematorium in the car my father had paid for with my sister and her husband. It was sweltering and in the back seat I began to feel very ill. I hated travelling in cars as it was; it did not help that I was in one with two people who clearly hated me. It was totally silent for the thirty minute journey.

When we all arrived at the crematorium, my first instinct was to look for my mother. She and her friends had travelled up separately but as we walked to the entrance, I could not see her. The entrance was already lined with half the congregation. His old school friends had flocked to my sister’s side as she left the car and ushered her inside. I was totally ignored and followed behind them. I was almost enjoying being the figure of anger and darkness they had created me to be. I had barely spoken in the time I had been at the service, it was interesting how they had developed their judgement of me so quickly. Perhaps, others had been involved in reaching this verdict.

Once inside the crematorium we were led to the front pews. It was unavoidable this time as much as I would’ve preferred sitting at the back. As I looked over to my left I noticed his coffin on a raised platform waiting to be lowered as we said our final goodbyes. Another shorter service took place, again with hymns and prayers in my abuser’s honour. I never sang nor bowed my head. I did not want to pay my respects. I only wanted to witness the atrocity that was his funeral and see his unholy and evil presence disappear.

As the coffin lowered after the final coffin, a tear ran down my cheek.

“Rot in hell” I whispered to myself.

Rot in hell.

After the service had ended everyone left to the gardens to stand by his poor showing of flowers. My father’s pastor approached me as I lingered behind the congregation with my mother and her friends. He passed on his condolences and very quickly I responded by telling him not to.

This was the time to do it. He needed to know.

“This funeral has been an entire farce. None of you know what kind of man my father really was. He was an evil man. You all one day will know the truth, I promise you.”

The pastor just looked at me. I could see he was shocked. After all, I was the abuser’s daughter, I should have been in floods of tears when instead I was describing to him how relieved I was that he was finally gone.

I don’t regret what I told him. My father was an abusive, deceitful and controlling man. Everyone must now know the truth.

I decided there was no point in putting myself any further through the ordeal and chose to leave with my mother and her friends. I told my sister I was going as the rest of his friends looked on. I wanted them to see my disloyalty, my hatred, my hurt.

Goodbye Daddy.

R.I.P (Rot in Persecution).

5th August 2012 – The Awakening.

Well, after the previous phone call and epiphany, I was about to get another awakening from my father.

Once again, he picked a phone call to break the news.

This time it concerned my future.

His will.

I really didn’t want to know. I’d rather have waited till his death. But my Dad wasn’t that kind of man. He wanted to cause drama, to upset people or to get a reaction. He didn’t have an ounce of sensitivity or decency in his body. I tried to explain that it was inappropriate to talk to me about the content of his will at that time but my words fell on deaf ears. He ignored my request entirely and proceeded to announce to me a clear summary of what he intended to give us.

He made it very clear as what I was to do with my share of the money. I was to put the whole amount on a deposit for a house. There was no arguing the matter or I would not get the money. He threatened that if I did not agree to this that he would change the will at the last minute.

I never wanted anything from him.


I hated that he was still controlling every decision I was to make. It angered me that even my future was falling under his power. I remained silent on the phone, holding back the tears and anger waiting to explode. He always hated my silence. He called it “insolent” and I could feel his insults building up down the phone from his heavy, stilted breathing.

“Why are you taking so long Babitago? It’s very simple. You are thirty years old and you do not even own your own property. You must put it all on a house. Do you understand?”

“Mmmm,” was the only response I could muster through the tears.

It pacified him for the time being. I allowed him to believe he had the power. What was the point in fighting him? A sick man, lying in a hospital bed struggling to breathe. Even I knew that fighting him was the wrong thing to do as much as I berated myself for it.

It also came to my attention during the call that I was to get the lowest share of the will.

So he finally got his revenge on me. He was to continue his punishment, his anger and betrayal even after his death.

I was pretty shocked but almost relieved. I don’t want to associate the rest of my life with that man. I don’t want to be thankful to him or grateful. I don’t want to feel as though he saved me.

I want to save me.

3. Sex and respect, Part 2.

I can’t say my first time was the most memorable, how many of us can? It wasn’t in a perfect relationship, or any relationship for that matter and it wasn’t with a total stranger I’d picked from a bar either. It was just the right time for me and at nineteen years of age I thought it was about time too.

I had nothing to compare it too and it certainly did not give me a taste for more as it was over a year that I contemplated doing it again. I definitely fell into situations that could have led to sex but I never followed through. I was confident yet massively insecure doubting how sexual I was or how appealing I came across. I received plenty of attention in my early twenties but put it down to my attractive set of friends. I never thought I may have been drawing that attention all by myself.

I knew nothing of men.

The only male figure I had around me was my father and that man could’ve put me off for life. I doubted men and was certain they’d betray me. I convinced myself I could never be loved. My father helped fuel those feelings with his constant criticisms and accusations against me. I felt disgusting most of the time. However, eventually, I pushed those deep rooted feelings to one side. I wanted to be loved and found physically attractive. I needed something positive from a man so I went looking for it.

In my early twenties a new found sexiness and courage developed in me. My love of fashion enabled me to flaunt myself and create a new seductive identity. It wasn’t me but it was better than the miserable identity my father had labelled me with. I revelled in it and enjoyed the copious amounts of attention I was now receiving from the opposite sex. My friends admired my confidence and ability to talk to anyone. It was just nice to be free, even if it was only for a few hours.

Soon, I became “addicted”. My lifestyle changed and I was out all the time. I was never a big drinker but my love of music and dancing drew me into the club scene. I was young and wanted a social life. My father didn’t care at first if I was out all hours but eventually it became another thing he wanted to control.

Clubs revealed a specific kind of guy. Ones that were out for one thing. Initially, I fell into this trap and believed their lines and flirtation. I thought I was giving as good as I was getting and still keeping boundaries. But I had never been exposed to the concept of boundaries so my lines were completely blurred. A few one night stands followed suit and many nights were spent anxiously waiting for the call that never came. I foolishly made these mistake several times, thinking each man would be different from the last.

But of course, I was wrong.

In my mid-twenties and in need of a long lasting relationship, I tried out on-line dating. I have to admit, I met some right bastards on that. Yet once again, I believed their lies as they romanced me into bed. Some I dated for a couple of months, others a few weeks and all the time they had the control. I see it now. I allowed it to happen, it was easier that way, it was all I was used to; a man controlling me.

Sex became an escape, a way to be free, to hide from the abuse and feel loved. It was a chance to feel released and become someone else.

Even if it was only for that one night.

Part 3 to follow.

3. Sex and respect Part 1.

I was never given any guidance around the subject of sex. My parents shied away from discussing it with my or my sister and we never saw any evidence of attraction between them. Where some children are embarrassed by their parents’ display of affection, we never had that feeling. They rarely embarrassed us.

As a child, I had no knowledge of sex. I never questioned things as most curious children do. The reproductive system and menstrual  cycle was taught at school in Science. We were never taught at home. My parents left that to our teachers. My sister and I never talked about that side of things, we were not close and our relationship was already unsteady and resentful. I wanted to confide in her and ask questions but my fear to approach her in this matter was too overwhelming and I backed away. Fellow peers at school always seemed more enlightened on the subject than me. I wondered if they could talk to their family about their curiosities.

At my all girls secondary school, I remained intellectually inexperienced in sex, looking to my more confident peers to set the example. I was envious that many of the girls knew about sex and could talk about it freely to each other. I would not have dared joined in. I just listened from the sidelines picking up information without them realising. My teenage years were turbulent at home and my needs were pushed to one side. Socially, I was doing okay. I had friends and due to my dream-like and false reality, I was able to appear confident and capable. No one truly knew how much I was suffering inside.

At the age of 16, when my mother and sister had gone and I was left with my ever-changing father, sex became more of a forefront in my life. I switched school and my year group was now mixed. I was seeing boys every day and socially, I couldn’t cope. I was not popular, fading into the background in my first year. I was developing crushes and obsessions easily, feeling heartbroken if the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. I began thinking about sex but never acting on it. I’d only kissed one boy until the age of seventeen. I was behind in a lot of ways. My friends at the time were surprised how unsuccessful I was with boys as my confidence sent other messages to them. I got on well with boys as I had a good, sarcastic sense of humour. I could poke fun at myself and was easy-going. But I did not know how to turn on the sex appeal. I never felt sexy.

By the time I reached Drama School the majority of my friends had all lost their virginity. As it had never been discussed at home I had no idea how to broach the subject. I was frightened of it and although I was having natural urges, I pushed them to one side. I did not feel attractive in any way especially around boys of my age. I hated competing with other girls and naturally moved away from those scenarios. I was drawn to older men often getting more attention from them on nights out. My friends loved that twenty five year old men were attracted to me, they thought it was thrilling and I was encouraged to take it further. I enjoyed the flirt as I was good at that. I was great at banter. However, any further would just scare me off.

I learnt about sex from film and T.V mostly as a teen. As a young adult, it was from listening to my classmates stories and sexual experiences. I asked questions shamelessly. I wanted to know every detail. They didn’t mind, they enjoyed talking about themselves. I realised that it was something I needed to do, I wanted to experience it. It was unlikely that I would see it in a relationship as I was unsure of how to even begin one. I couldn’t “love” remember. The girls at Drama school were shocked that I was an eighteen year old virgin. It was practically unheard of. Even though they regularly encouraged me to do it I wanted to do it on my own terms. I wasn’t waiting for love. I just wanted it to feel right.

The hunt to find it began.

Part 2 to follow.

1. Love

The most obvious thing I never truly understood was love. I never saw it growing up nor was given advice on it as a young adult. My mother had her own problems to deal with and I, inadvertently had become my father’s problem. He wasn’t about to teach me about love.

My parents expected me to know everything about how the world worked but I lived through example. Either choosing to do positive things they showed me (which was not often) or the opposite of their negative choices. I was adamant that life couldn’t be that miserable and my life would be a success. I look back on my dreams as a child sadly. I had so much hope. I no longer feel that way. The innocence has completely disappeared.

Love for me:

Love came across so bitter as a child. My mother withheld it, used it and controlled how much love she gave me. She showered it over my sister, not just affectionate love but guidance and advice, two things I longed for from her. She will say she did that but it was not in the same way she treated my sister. She was given positive praise and affirmations and I was just told. Her love for me came out as worry. I wasn’t meeting her expectations as I grew older and every time we were together I got bombarded with a list of issues I needed to resolve to become more like my older sister and succeed in life. The comparisons were too much and only pushed me further away.

My father’s love for me has been twisted since I entered his miserable life. I was used as a pawn and weapon against my mother. He used love to manipulate people. He used love to hurt and destroy any faith I ever had in human compassion. Love was a word to him, not a feeling or emotion. He had no emotions. He felt nothing.

Love for each other: 

God, they really hated each other didn’t they? I never once witnessed love for each other. My parents did not love each other, certainly not by the time I came along. I know my mother once did, she told me. She fell in love with a totally, different man. A man who complimented and laughed with her, not a man who mocked and judged her. He led her into his deceptive world, tricking her into loving him, manipulating her devotion to benefit his will. He was truly awful to her it’s no wonder her love for him vanished and her hate became everlasting. I don’t blame her. I feel for her. No woman deserves that.

Love for my parents:

I loved them so much as a child. All the bad examples, their reckless behaviour, the abuse and screaming, the taunts and violence, it didn’t stop my love for them. I saw them as separate beings. My mother was so powerful in my eyes as a child. She was the dominant figure and my father seemed weaker than her (I now know how he deliberately placed himself in that position to make Ma look dictatorial and evil). I never saw her like that, at least not as a young child. She was my mother and I loved her. My father was a God to me. I adored him and the love I felt for him was immense. What child feels so dependant on her father? An abused one I’m sure. It was an over the top love, an unreal love we shared. It was a love he had created, disturbing and obsessive. It was a love that worried my mother. She needn’t have worried. It was a love that soon disappeared. It was a love that turned to hate and anger and fear.

Love for others:

As I was never taught the true meaning of love, I never knew what to expect from relationships. You all know how badly my friendships went. Relationships with men were no different if not worse. As a thirteen year old, I developed an obsessive infatuation with a neighbour of mine something my mother’s friend still jokes about it to this day. I smile. What else can I do? She does not know how it felt, how it ached every time I saw him, how I thought about him constantly and had no one to tell. I couldn’t brush it off as a crush, I didn’t even know what a crush was! I had no guidance in love and sex. The T.V was my main source of advice and as we didn’t have a computer at home, I wasn’t able to access the internet, in fact the internet was only just beginning when I was in my late teens. I had hoped my sister might enlighten me on the subject of men seeing as she was eight years older, but she was leading an entirely unconnected life from me, she was never going to do that and I was far too embarrassed to ask. My mother would just reiterate to me that sex out of a relationship was unimaginable to her and if I did it, she would look down on me for that decision. She never talked about love, just sex. I wonder how she perceived me………

I do often find it difficult to love.

I hope I’m doing it right.

Where there is love there is life.
Mahatma Gandhi

4 spiteful girls – Part 2.

H was a colleague of mine. We worked together from 2007-2008 before I realised I needed to leave that job to challenge myself in a better career.

She was another loud, confident character. An Irish girl who loved attention and seemed very easy to get on with. We bonded straight away and had a very intense friendship. She was away from all her friends back home so clung to me quite quickly. I didn’t mind, I needed to focus my attention to anyone other than my needy father. I opened up to her very soon into our friendship. She was shocked at first, she had met my Dad and assumed like all the others that he was a kind and decent man. He was generous in front of her and acted like the proud father he certainly was not. I never rejected his kindness in front of her, it would have been foolish to do so as it would have created an unnecessary argument.

She didn’t dispute or fight my accusations against my father as many others have in the past. She was just surprised as our relationship seemed so normal and my father seemed so loving.

During the year of 2007, we spent a lot of time socialising together, regularly going out to bars and flirting with men. From very early on, it was clear that H was a bit of a man-hater. She had clearly been hurt in the past and had very candid and brazen opinions of the opposite sex. She was over-protective of me and would “assess” the men I spoke to. She rarely approved of any of them. I was twenty five and had never had a long term relationship that I felt could have a future. I wanted to meet someone who I could love. It was something I saw happening. H wasn’t impressed often reiterating how useless men were and that I’d be better off without one.

At the end of 2007, I decided to become part time at the job I was doing and focus on Teaching. I went on a Teaching English as a Foreign Language course in the heart of London.

That course would eventually change my life. Not just in the career sense but it was where I first met my husband, David.

We began dating a month after the course having first begun a friendship. H was suspicious straight away. She couldn’t and wouldn’t trust any man especially ones that I had taken a shine to. She immediately hated David.

Having met him at my twenty sixth birthday party she was confused as to why I was with him. Questioning how I could be attracted to someone who was clearly the polar opposite of me. I was confident, friendly and fun. He was shy, quiet and distant. That was how she saw us but I knew we were both very different than that. We both had layers that we revealed only to each other. H never saw beyond the confidence. I had to be like that in my profession, I wanted to excel in my job and be respected by my peers. I was a people pleaser, a chameleon, I found it easy to adapt to different situations. Inside, there was much more to me as there was to David. We discovered those parts of us together, it was one of the reasons I fell for him.

My best friend K was there that night too. She also worked with us once before she also realised she was better than the job too. K made a few comments the following morning which resonated in my mind. She was shocked that H would not leave my bedroom when we returned, placing herself on my bed as David and I waited to go to sleep. She attempted to launch into a big conversation about nothing just to irritate David and I. It wasn’t going to happen, neither of us were that rude. I think K even tried to usher her to her own room but she just wouldn’t budge. K thought it was strange that H was so possessive and desperate of my attention.

I had never thought of her like that but K was right.

After that night, I began going out less with H, instead I spent most of my weekends travelling down to Essex to visit David. I didn’t mind the journey, I was so happy to be away from my father’s grasp.

H criticised that I was never free and had put a man before our friendship even though she saw me every day at work. It did not faze me, I had longed to meet a man like this for so long I was not about to throw it away. She, in my mind, was still my friend and I was hoping that she would not be insulted or take it as rudeness. I just wanted to make my relationship with David last. It was incredibly important to me.

Eventually her anger came out.

In a long winded message over Facebook, H launched a verbal attack on my personality.

I was horrified.

I was not expecting it.

It was cruel and merciless. She mocked and insulted me freely, accusing me of exaggerating my father’s behaviour for attention. She ridiculed David and shocked me with her nasty words that so naturally fell from her poisonous mouth.

I was upset. I was annoyed. How could I have fallen into this mess again? What the hell was I doing attracting these venomous people into my life? Was it true, were her words true? Too many girls have said it to me before it cannot be false.

Was my father a bad man or was I creating that in my head for attention?

NO, of course not! It happened and it happened to me. She could not face the truth. None of them could.

I won’t be held under suspicion or challenged by short-sighted people.

It is my truth, my life and H was not meant to be a part of it.

The truth is incontrovertible. Malice may attack it, ignorance may deride it, but in the end, there it is.
Winston Churchill