It was Fifty Shades of Grey decades before the book was released and the movie graced theaters across the globe. As I watched the film during the weekend of its highly anticipated debut, the feelings came back to me like a hurricane battering the eastern seaboard, the memories like waves pounding mercilessly against the rocks, over and over, images of the past spinning like tornadoes into my conscious mind, followed by days and weeks of flashbacks beating down upon me like punishing rains, marring the beauty of the coast as well as the person I had struggled to become, leaving the aftermath of its wrath to the survivors, such as myself.

On the screen that loomed as large as the wheat fields surrounding my hometown, my life as a teenager in an abusive relationship had been laid bare for the world to witness and enjoy. As I looked around at the women in the crowded theater, it was clear to me they were enjoying what they were seeing, their eyes fixed straight ahead, their attention focused on the screen as one by one the scenes unfolded, as they no doubt fantasized that they were living the life of Anastasia Steele. Who wouldn’t want a man like Christian Grey? He was possessive, no doubt an indication that he cared about her like no other man ever could. He was controlling, no doubt an indication that he wanted her and would never let her go. When another man showed the slightest interest in her or dared to talk to her, the rage inside of him was sparked like a match to a flame, and he became paranoid and jealous. She was his. When she wasn’t where he wanted her to be, didn’t act the way he thought she should act, or if he didn’t know where she was and who she was with at all times, she was punished. But Christian had a rough start in life, so his actions were justified, were they not?




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