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The Playroom (1991)

di Frances Fyfield

UtentiRecensioniPopolaritàMedia votiCitazioni
805332,845 (3.21)6
An unforgettable psychological thriller reminiscent of Emma Donoghue's Room and V. C. Andrews' Flowers in the Attic Katherine and David have the perfect life: they are beautiful, rich, debonair, and gifted. But cracks begin to form beneath the smooth exterior when David suspects that one of their two children is not his. There is no other reason why chubby, petulant Jeanetta does not conform to David's standards of perfection and order. Soon, David's mood swings become more violent and irrational. In an attempt to exercise some control over his world, he sends Jeanetta to the playroom . . . and locks the door. With harrowing precision, Fyfield tells the story of a family's descent into madness.… (altro)
  1. 00
    Genie: a Scientific Tragedy di Russ Rymer (SomeGuyInVirginia)
    SomeGuyInVirginia: Forced isolation of children. Neither are easy reading.
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‘But surely you know in that situation that you don’t have control’. We were talking about abusive relationships this morning and Anna didn’t get it. But Anna, my dear. The whole point of abusive relationships is that the abuser leaves you with this sense, just this sense that you do have some control. That if you do this, or don’t do that, or keep your desk neat, or cook this not that, then everything will be okay. They are nice to you sometimes, of course. Same thing. They need you to see that nice is possible, see what things are like if you do the right thing? Then I’m nice. They need to leave you with a modicum of self-respect because if you do hit absolute rock bottom, actually they have nothing with which to control you any more.

It’s on my mind to get this down now that I’ve spent a couple of hours talking about it, so I tell you a bit of my story because you can only sound half-convincing if you have ‘I’s in it.

Mid nineties. I’ve been living with the person in question for about nine years and I read this book, this one here, The Playroom. Probably Manny and Jordan would call it trash? I haven’t come to understand that term properly yet, but at any rate, it changed my life. All of a sudden I read a sentence that made my heart that very second drop out of my body through the chair, the floor, the earth and plummet right to the bottom side of the world somewhere. Oh. I’m in a straightforward abusive relationship.

Now, I would say I’m not completely dumb. Well, sort of dumb. I can’t imagine passing an IQ test. I’ve flunked shapes in holes since kindergarten, with the possible exception of sex. I say possible because it continues to startle me. ‘We’re going to put that in this?’ ‘You’re telling me this fits there?!!!’ As an act of faith, of course, faith in the practically infinite number of people who have done these things thus permitting the conclusion that the shapes do apparently fit in the holes I go along with it, but there is always a sense of surprise nonetheless. After sex I always feel a bit like going back to kindergarten and trying that thing they make you do with the cutout holes and the pieces you fit in the holes. I have an idea maybe I could do that after all. The feeling passes quickly enough.

So, dumb, certainly. The fact is I’d lived in this relationship for nine years and for about eight and a half of them I’d observed to myself that this was like an abusive relationshop. ‘Like’. Always ‘like’. Not for one second did it occur to me to take out that word. One might say I had particular reasons for being this dense. He was an alcoholic and that served as cover. Then when, most terribly, he gave up alcohol altogether I had what seemed a really rational idea that I was bearing the brunt of his difficult transition to relating with people sober and that things would change. There was always a reason to leave ‘like’ there. I’m sure there are always reasons for other people too. She’s (he’s) just jealous, just needs things to be neat, just this, just that. He’s (she’s) nice, really. And can’t you see things are better than they used to be? Look. As long as I do this then...or if I don't talk...or if I don't look....or when...then as long as...everything is okay. Really. Then everything is okay.

But then I read this book, read this sentence, read on and it might just as well have been my own life I was reading. I was so shocked that I hid the book after I’d read it. I guess he sensed that, sought out the book and read it. ‘That’s just like us,’ he said. With a sense of relief, it seemed obvious to me that if that was the case, that we both knew what things were like and we weren’t idiots that things would change, but they didn’t. Not one bit.

Attempt number one to get away was a dismal failure. When I went back I thought I’d die. But in fact I got a better plan together and attempt number two worked a treat.

What you understand, though, as a complete revelation if you are lucky, is that you have no control. You only thought you did. Once you realise that, then you can escape. I didn’t have anybody I was talking to, nobody pointed out the terribly obvious to me, but even if they had, I’m sure it wouldn’t have helped. You could have any number of people who love you telling you you are trapped in an abusive relationship, it really won’t help. It will come to you as your own revelation or it won’t. Those who watch you lovingly from a distance and see, can only hope for the best. That is my experience. But, then, I’m not good at accepting help. A more sensible person might – and did…

Later on after I’d escaped that person, he moved to the UK and an awfully bright but fucked up girl fell in love with him. I wanted to warn her off, but what’s the point of that? Like she was going to listen to me! But five years or so later, I knew she’d tried to get away now and then and failed. I decided to contact her like this. I wrote her an email describing in intimate detail her days, her life, conversations she had every day and ways she had of relating to the person she was trying to escape. I told her I could explain to her what she had to do to get away if she wanted. She wrote back a couple of days later, she said after she’d stopped crying and yes, she did want to know.

In one brutal email, this girl had discovered that she had no control over her life whatsoever. She had so little control that a stranger on the other side of the world who had never met her, knew everything about her life simply because I knew her life would be exactly like mine.

In a strange way we’d both realised what our situations were by reading about them. It took me two tries and a couple of years to get away. This girl was a good listener. She took everything I said to heart, did exactly what I said and got clean away before her partner could blink. It was clean, she never went back.

Admitting you do not have control over your life is a really painful thing to do. Understanding that even if you love a person and even if you think they love you, it doesn’t mean he/she isn’t an abuser, is very hard to come to terms with. I have no doubt that abusers love their victims and their victims love them. Still. Although there is good reason for the abuser to want the keep the relationship, the same does not pertain to the victim. They have nothing to gain whatsoever. They only think they do.

A bit later, I remember this. As you do take back your life and leave, he/she suggests they will kill you. Or, even harder from your point of view, kill themself. Again and again you are told you won't survive...and when that doesn't work, that she/he won't survive. You are made to feel weak and incapable on your own, or - desperation - that they are. One or other of you won't be able to function as a human being without the other. So you are made to feel.

When I left the first time, friends said to me, but how will he survive without you? When I went back I thought that's what want they all want, for me to die there. But, of course, they didn't know. Point is abusers are perfectly able to look weak if that is a useful thing to do. Second time around I just steeled myself. Ignored all those cries of sympathy for this person I was escaping. The friends all stayed true. You don't lose friends, you only fear that you will.
( )
  bringbackbooks | Jun 16, 2020 |
‘But surely you know in that situation that you don’t have control’. We were talking about abusive relationships this morning and Anna didn’t get it. But Anna, my dear. The whole point of abusive relationships is that the abuser leaves you with this sense, just this sense that you do have some control. That if you do this, or don’t do that, or keep your desk neat, or cook this not that, then everything will be okay. They are nice to you sometimes, of course. Same thing. They need you to see that nice is possible, see what things are like if you do the right thing? Then I’m nice. They need to leave you with a modicum of self-respect because if you do hit absolute rock bottom, actually they have nothing with which to control you any more.

It’s on my mind to get this down now that I’ve spent a couple of hours talking about it, so I tell you a bit of my story because you can only sound half-convincing if you have ‘I’s in it.

Mid nineties. I’ve been living with the person in question for about nine years and I read this book, this one here, The Playroom. Probably Manny and Jordan would call it trash? I haven’t come to understand that term properly yet, but at any rate, it changed my life. All of a sudden I read a sentence that made my heart that very second drop out of my body through the chair, the floor, the earth and plummet right to the bottom side of the world somewhere. Oh. I’m in a straightforward abusive relationship.

Now, I would say I’m not completely dumb. Well, sort of dumb. I can’t imagine passing an IQ test. I’ve flunked shapes in holes since kindergarten, with the possible exception of sex. I say possible because it continues to startle me. ‘We’re going to put that in this?’ ‘You’re telling me this fits there?!!!’ As an act of faith, of course, faith in the practically infinite number of people who have done these things thus permitting the conclusion that the shapes do apparently fit in the holes I go along with it, but there is always a sense of surprise nonetheless. After sex I always feel a bit like going back to kindergarten and trying that thing they make you do with the cutout holes and the pieces you fit in the holes. I have an idea maybe I could do that after all. The feeling passes quickly enough.

So, dumb, certainly. The fact is I’d lived in this relationship for nine years and for about eight and a half of them I’d observed to myself that this was like an abusive relationshop. ‘Like’. Always ‘like’. Not for one second did it occur to me to take out that word. One might say I had particular reasons for being this dense. He was an alcoholic and that served as cover. Then when, most terribly, he gave up alcohol altogether I had what seemed a really rational idea that I was bearing the brunt of his difficult transition to relating with people sober and that things would change. There was always a reason to leave ‘like’ there. I’m sure there are always reasons for other people too. She’s (he’s) just jealous, just needs things to be neat, just this, just that. He’s (she’s) nice, really. And can’t you see things are better than they used to be? Look. As long as I do this then...or if I don't talk...or if I don't look....or when...then as long as...everything is okay. Really. Then everything is okay.

But then I read this book, read this sentence, read on and it might just as well have been my own life I was reading. I was so shocked that I hid the book after I’d read it. I guess he sensed that, sought out the book and read it. ‘That’s just like us,’ he said. With a sense of relief, it seemed obvious to me that if that was the case, that we both knew what things were like and we weren’t idiots that things would change, but they didn’t. Not one bit.

Attempt number one to get away was a dismal failure. When I went back I thought I’d die. But in fact I got a better plan together and attempt number two worked a treat.

What you understand, though, as a complete revelation if you are lucky, is that you have no control. You only thought you did. Once you realise that, then you can escape. I didn’t have anybody I was talking to, nobody pointed out the terribly obvious to me, but even if they had, I’m sure it wouldn’t have helped. You could have any number of people who love you telling you you are trapped in an abusive relationship, it really won’t help. It will come to you as your own revelation or it won’t. Those who watch you lovingly from a distance and see, can only hope for the best. That is my experience. But, then, I’m not good at accepting help. A more sensible person might – and did…

Later on after I’d escaped that person, he moved to the UK and an awfully bright but fucked up girl fell in love with him. I wanted to warn her off, but what’s the point of that? Like she was going to listen to me! But five years or so later, I knew she’d tried to get away now and then and failed. I decided to contact her like this. I wrote her an email describing in intimate detail her days, her life, conversations she had every day and ways she had of relating to the person she was trying to escape. I told her I could explain to her what she had to do to get away if she wanted. She wrote back a couple of days later, she said after she’d stopped crying and yes, she did want to know.

In one brutal email, this girl had discovered that she had no control over her life whatsoever. She had so little control that a stranger on the other side of the world who had never met her, knew everything about her life simply because I knew her life would be exactly like mine.

In a strange way we’d both realised what our situations were by reading about them. It took me two tries and a couple of years to get away. This girl was a good listener. She took everything I said to heart, did exactly what I said and got clean away before her partner could blink. It was clean, she never went back.

Admitting you do not have control over your life is a really painful thing to do. Understanding that even if you love a person and even if you think they love you, it doesn’t mean he/she isn’t an abuser, is very hard to come to terms with. I have no doubt that abusers love their victims and their victims love them. Still. Although there is good reason for the abuser to want the keep the relationship, the same does not pertain to the victim. They have nothing to gain whatsoever. They only think they do.

A bit later, I remember this. As you do take back your life and leave, he/she suggests they will kill you. Or, even harder from your point of view, kill themself. Again and again you are told you won't survive...and when that doesn't work, that she/he won't survive. You are made to feel weak and incapable on your own, or - desperation - that they are. One or other of you won't be able to function as a human being without the other. So you are made to feel.

When I left the first time, friends said to me, but how will he survive without you? When I went back I thought that's what want they all want, for me to die there. But, of course, they didn't know. Point is abusers are perfectly able to look weak if that is a useful thing to do. Second time around I just steeled myself. Ignored all those cries of sympathy for this person I was escaping. The friends all stayed true. You don't lose friends, you only fear that you will.
( )
  bringbackbooks | Jun 16, 2020 |
I read this book as an electronic advance reading copy (e-ARC) provided by Edelweiss, and I have submitted my comments to the publisher via that web site.

This book was well written yet very difficult to read, primarily because of the subject matter. Everyone in the book behaves badly, full of misconceptions, miscommunications, and selfish motives. I believe the author constructed this story as a cautionary tale to show how easily sociopaths can succeed in a world where people believe what is convenient and easy without delving further to uncover the ugly truth about each other. Abuse and neglect quickly--and inexorably--lead to the ultimate horror of murder. Redemption arrives too late, and it is uncertain and imperfect. The story ends as unhappily as it began.

I hesitate to recommend this book, especially to anyone who has survived abuse from a parent or domestic partner. (And if you like cats, you will be sickened, too.) Many scenes could be triggering to vulnerable readers--but perhaps that is what the author wants. We should always be shocked and saddened to learn about cruelty and abuse. We cease to be human if we become inured to these horrors. ( )
  librarianarpita | Apr 9, 2014 |
This is not a beach read. That was my first mistake. The book drew me in with characters who were all fascinatingly flawed, showing through their multiple perspectives how each character perceived the others, and then how they truly acted and felt beneath the display and deception. Slightly more than halfway through, however, the horrible behavior of nearly all the characters began to overwhelm me, so that I found myself skimming through much of the last half of the book. The "shocking climax" promised by the dust jacket was the least shocking thing I've ever read; it was the only possible ending for the book, the one you saw coming from the very first moment. I finished the book feeling slightly abused myself, and wishing I could get some of the uglier actions of the characters out of my head. I admire the author for her exploration of the darker sides of human nature, but I will probably not be picking up any of her other novels or recommending this one to anyone else. I prefer my books much more on the lighter side. ( )
  Snukes | Jun 14, 2013 |
A Nasty, the kind of book you read to see how terrible things will get. The theme of child torture is repellent but Hegarty is not explicit and the book never brushes the child sadism of John Saul (can someone tell me why that guy has an audience?) There are some nice reversals but the story is depressing.
  SomeGuyInVirginia | Mar 16, 2010 |
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An unforgettable psychological thriller reminiscent of Emma Donoghue's Room and V. C. Andrews' Flowers in the Attic Katherine and David have the perfect life: they are beautiful, rich, debonair, and gifted. But cracks begin to form beneath the smooth exterior when David suspects that one of their two children is not his. There is no other reason why chubby, petulant Jeanetta does not conform to David's standards of perfection and order. Soon, David's mood swings become more violent and irrational. In an attempt to exercise some control over his world, he sends Jeanetta to the playroom . . . and locks the door. With harrowing precision, Fyfield tells the story of a family's descent into madness.

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