It’s 1994, I’m in a school gym, 16 years old, examining the intersecting lines for basketball, badminton and tennis because it feels less confusing to stare at the floor than watch the spectacle unfolding in front of me. A woman, who I think is very old but who is probably in her 30s, is sweating and yelling: “I am sex. I love fucking.” People are clapping, cheering, telling her she is beautiful. She hollers at the ceiling, thrusting her pelvis. I feel repulsed. Nothing is more gross to a teenager than an adult thrusting, especially in public.
I had ended up there because I was depressed after my parents’ bitter divorce. I had stopped going to school, spent all day in bed, mainly in tears. Around then, an old friend of my mum’s from the 60s – whom I will call Margaret – resurfaced. They revived their friendship, and Margaret started helping my mum through the emotional fallout of her divorce. “Sarah might benefit from being trained,” she said.
