Fourth Estate : Ex lovers victimized with revenge porn

“It’s a travesty people are so cruel to release pictures and videos of those they once cared about. Just because a picture was taken and given consensually does not automatically give the right to release the image for any reason, especially for retaliation.

“Those who might think, ‘Well, you shouldn’t have taken those photos,’” said NBC News writer Suzanne Choney, “aren’t living in the real world of what has become, especially for a younger generation, a cultural, technological phenomenon as normal as tweeting and texting.”

This is absolutely true. The current generation, who were raised their whole lives with powerful technology, are not as afraid or skeptical as the generation before them. Without a fear of technology and what it can do, there is a failure to see the powerful repercussions one seemingly small decision can cause.

Revenge porn isn’t going to go away overnight and laws should be in place to protect images that are taken in private with the intention they stay private.

Regardless, if anyone thinks the pictures should never have been taken, a person shouldn’t have to suffer great emotional distress for years due to a choice made in trust, whether it was a mistake or not.”

via Fourth Estate : Ex lovers victimized with revenge porn.

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When I was a little girl,
I would stand on my father’s feet;
he would dance me around the kitchen and sing,
we all live in a yellow submarine.

When my brother was a little boy,
we would all go swimming together.
John would jump into the deep water
from the top of my father’s shoulders.
John would jump into the water over and over.
My father would catch him again and again.

When my mother least expected it,
my father would sneak up behind her
and wrap her in a tight bear hug.
Someone took a picture of the embrace;
the photo hung on the wall of our house
for many years.

These are the memories we cling to
as we navigate this new world without
our Frank. Our daddy. Our papa.
Some memories will make us laugh,
others will make us cry
but all will do the job of
keeping him alive.

Promise

I can only promise myself that I will focus on what is…not what will be or what was. I have this moment, and it is a moment in which I choose to be fully present.

My son is sleeping a few feet from me. His allergy-labored breathing is the soothing metronome of my evening. I must remember to tell the tooth fairy that he is crashing in my bed tonight, so it knows where to find his tooth. A flash of lightening brings thunder that brings my daughter padding into my room. Son, daughter, puppy, and cats pile on and under sheets in my bed. I turn off my desk lamp and type by the LED of my Mighty Bright book light. Just because I don’t sleep, doesn’t mean they shouldn’t.

I spent most of my day crying from exhaustion after pushing through two weeks of 10-hour days in a writer’s residency at Goucher College. The residency ended Friday. Saturday I was still buzzing with the heady intoxication of new friends, inspiration and motivation. The hangover set in close to midnight.

My two weeks at Goucher gave me a solace I so desperately needed. I was surrounded by my “people” – fellow writers who ‘got’ each other easily. Writers who existed in a space where competition did not exist. It was a nurturing environment. I drank deep. My writing life had been shelved for nine years prior to this residency. The man I divorced was given his pink slip for many reasons – the most salient, his refusal to allow me time to write. Lance – as he shall be referred from here on – harbored resentment towards my writing life. He distrusted it as though he suspected an affair. Because I thought it my place, I demurred and resumed my position as faithful wife. Those were empty years.

My children were with my parents for the two weeks I was in residency. The house was quiet and clean. After the first week, I missed them terribly, so much that the phone calls became frustrating. I wanted them to talk and talk and talk like they do when they are home. But the beach and TV and dinner and pool were distracting. Meanwhile, happiness and loneliness fought for my own attention. With each day, loneliness won. Come Sunday morning, I was distraught. I crawled from my bed at 11:00 a.m., weeped through two hours of traffic on 95 North and ambled through the rest area food court in a stupor looking for my children. I sobbed when they saw me, jumped up, and tackled me with hugs. My parents were concerned for me, seeing my sadness so palpable. We said hasty goodbyes – band-aids are best ripped off. The car ride home was difficult for me. I was emotionally wasted and anxiety about maintaining my new life patterns were looming large. I focused on the chatter of the children to make the miles slide along.

Once we arrived home and began to unpack, make dinner decisions, clean up, mess up, and even argue a little, I came back into my own. My hinges have begun to come together. And now, late at night, during a thunderstorm, glass of wine almost drank, cats relocated from bed to my desk, kids curled around the puppy, I take the first tentative steps to recreating a writing life for myself.

“My insecurities are in all the right places. Have a look.” ~B. Wakefield

xo,
~AJC

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