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A review by rebbiereadsbooks
My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell
5.0
I just finished My Dark Vanessa, and I feel disgusted, heartbroken, and unsettled. It’s a brilliantly written book—raw, unflinching, and haunting in its portrayal of grooming, power imbalances, and the way trauma warps memory and self-perception. But it’s also a deeply uncomfortable read, and it should be.
What struck me most was the teacher, Strane, and the calculated way he chipped away at Vanessa’s boundaries. From the moment he gave her Lolita, it was clear how deliberately he planted the idea that she was "special", that their “relationship” was some grand, tragic love story instead of the grotesque abuse it actually was. Having recently read Lolita myself, I felt sick watching him romanticize and frame his predatory behavior through the lens of that novel. It’s like he weaponized literature to gaslight her into believing she had agency in something where she never truly did.
Strane’s manipulation wasn’t just about grooming—it was about control through fear. He would dangle the idea of her telling as if it were a loaded gun in her hands. He’d say, "You could tell someone", but then twist it into a terrifying reality where "everyone would turn on you". He made her believe she would be labeled forever, that any truth she spoke would destroy her life more than his. And worst of all, he planted the idea that she would be the one to blame if he were caught, if he lost his job, if his life crumbled. It was psychological warfare, and Vanessa was trapped in a narrative where silence felt like the only way to survive.
And then there’s the horror of her first time with him. Waking up to him naked, violating her, and then framing it as love—as something tender and meaningful—was absolutely vile. That scene was gut-wrenching, and the way he twisted such a violent act into a narrative of intimacy made my skin crawl. Strane didn’t just take her body; he took her ability to define what love, trust, and intimacy could mean to her.
The parallels between Lolita and My Dark Vanessa aren’t just surface-level—they expose how abusers twist stories to fit their narrative. Strane wanted Vanessa to see herself as Dolores Haze, not as a victim but as a willing participant in her own exploitation. And Vanessa, caught in her youth, loneliness, and desire to feel seen, clung to that story because believing it was love felt safer than admitting it was abuse.
One of the most gut-wrenching parts of this book is the blame. Vanessa blames herself, society blames her, and even as an adult, she wrestles with the conflicting feelings of loyalty and guilt. Strane poisoned her ability to trust her own mind, and the world around her often reinforced his lies. The novel does such an intense job of showing how trauma doesn’t always look like obvious suffering—it can look like denial, like desperate attachment, like self-destruction disguised as control.
There’s also something to be said about how society treats survivors who don’t fit into a neatly packaged victim narrative. Vanessa isn’t perfect; she’s messy, flawed, and often difficult to sympathize with. But that’s what makes her 'real'. Abuse survivors aren’t required to be saintly or likable to deserve justice, and this book doesn’t shy away from that uncomfortable truth.
This wasn’t an easy book to read, and it’s not an easy book to review. It’s disturbing, infuriating, and heavy. But it’s also necessary. It forces readers to confront the ugly realities of grooming and the long-term damage it inflicts—not just on the body, but on the mind and spirit.
I’m giving this book five stars, but not because I "enjoyed" it. There’s nothing enjoyable about reading a story like this. I’m giving it five stars because it’s important. Because it’s honest in a way that so few stories dare to be. Because it left me thinking, grieving, and furious at the systems and people who let things like this happen.
If you decide to read My Dark Vanessa, know that it will stay with you long after you turn the final page. It’s a story that doesn’t offer easy answers, but it does demand hard reflections.
What struck me most was the teacher, Strane, and the calculated way he chipped away at Vanessa’s boundaries. From the moment he gave her Lolita, it was clear how deliberately he planted the idea that she was "special", that their “relationship” was some grand, tragic love story instead of the grotesque abuse it actually was. Having recently read Lolita myself, I felt sick watching him romanticize and frame his predatory behavior through the lens of that novel. It’s like he weaponized literature to gaslight her into believing she had agency in something where she never truly did.
Strane’s manipulation wasn’t just about grooming—it was about control through fear. He would dangle the idea of her telling as if it were a loaded gun in her hands. He’d say, "You could tell someone", but then twist it into a terrifying reality where "everyone would turn on you". He made her believe she would be labeled forever, that any truth she spoke would destroy her life more than his. And worst of all, he planted the idea that she would be the one to blame if he were caught, if he lost his job, if his life crumbled. It was psychological warfare, and Vanessa was trapped in a narrative where silence felt like the only way to survive.
And then there’s the horror of her first time with him. Waking up to him naked, violating her, and then framing it as love—as something tender and meaningful—was absolutely vile. That scene was gut-wrenching, and the way he twisted such a violent act into a narrative of intimacy made my skin crawl. Strane didn’t just take her body; he took her ability to define what love, trust, and intimacy could mean to her.
The parallels between Lolita and My Dark Vanessa aren’t just surface-level—they expose how abusers twist stories to fit their narrative. Strane wanted Vanessa to see herself as Dolores Haze, not as a victim but as a willing participant in her own exploitation. And Vanessa, caught in her youth, loneliness, and desire to feel seen, clung to that story because believing it was love felt safer than admitting it was abuse.
One of the most gut-wrenching parts of this book is the blame. Vanessa blames herself, society blames her, and even as an adult, she wrestles with the conflicting feelings of loyalty and guilt. Strane poisoned her ability to trust her own mind, and the world around her often reinforced his lies. The novel does such an intense job of showing how trauma doesn’t always look like obvious suffering—it can look like denial, like desperate attachment, like self-destruction disguised as control.
There’s also something to be said about how society treats survivors who don’t fit into a neatly packaged victim narrative. Vanessa isn’t perfect; she’s messy, flawed, and often difficult to sympathize with. But that’s what makes her 'real'. Abuse survivors aren’t required to be saintly or likable to deserve justice, and this book doesn’t shy away from that uncomfortable truth.
This wasn’t an easy book to read, and it’s not an easy book to review. It’s disturbing, infuriating, and heavy. But it’s also necessary. It forces readers to confront the ugly realities of grooming and the long-term damage it inflicts—not just on the body, but on the mind and spirit.
I’m giving this book five stars, but not because I "enjoyed" it. There’s nothing enjoyable about reading a story like this. I’m giving it five stars because it’s important. Because it’s honest in a way that so few stories dare to be. Because it left me thinking, grieving, and furious at the systems and people who let things like this happen.
If you decide to read My Dark Vanessa, know that it will stay with you long after you turn the final page. It’s a story that doesn’t offer easy answers, but it does demand hard reflections.