The presidential campaign in the USA grabbed the global imagination. It also grabbed the feminist imagination, presenting the hope that if a woman could become the president of the USA, women throughout the world would finally break through the reinforced glass ceiling. However, when it didn’t happen, the lost opportunity became the metaphorical kick in the feminist gut on a global scale. Through the subsequent misogyny, vulgarity, lewd comments, the pussy grabbing video, and the threats of the erosion of feminist activism in the trenches, worldwide a deep mourning arose from the feminist community. It was the name calling of “nasty women” that really smarted. Initial feelings of anger gave rise to empowerment of women — those who talk back to patriarchy — to embrace the label of “nasty women”.

The idea for the collection was born, cradled and nurtured between friends who wanted to create a space for writing and thinking about the marches. The group of feminists who contributed to this collection used the marches and the posters inspired by the marches as a vehicle which galvanised women into action to put pen to paper and show fervour for ongoing feminist activism.

The nexus of this beautifully written and evocatively illustrated collection is telling narratives that link very personal stories with deeply political issues. These are the stories told by nasty women who are making the personal political, who are seeking to live their lives in ways that resist and challenge patriarchy. Through their very intimate nature these are stories that speak to the creation of a different kind of social order, one based on equity, the promotion of human rights and social justice.

Have you ever felt lonelier in a relationship than when you were on your own? Know that you are not alone.

Because I Love You is a book of stories — but not fiction. These are the real experiences of three women: Zara, Mira and Thuli. Their lives are distinct but they all experience emotional manipulation, psychological control, the slow erosion of self.

Each woman’s story unfolds in full – beginning, middle and not always a clean end – amid fragments of the author’s story, woven quietly through the seams of the book.

Willing myself not to look away, I tried to make out her features and realised, with a jolt, that she looked exactly like me. Like me, but different. Something about how she held herself told me that this girl was as strong as steel. I knew instinctively that I should not look away. Then the Other Me smiled and said, ‘Don’t worry Lolly. I’ve got this.’

Who is Lolly, really? And who is the man who claims to love her? What happens when they drop their carefully constructed masks and allow their real selves to be seen?