Hello R eddit, my name is Anna.
I initially posted my story over on Any Forums a few weeks ago, and many anons suggested I come to Reddit and confess, so here I am.
In 1988 I had an affair with Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, and in light of reading excerpts from ‘Gaddafi’s Harem’ I decided to share my story. Some have suggested I have Stockholm Syndrome, I can not say. Also I was a bit cautious with what I posted on Any Forums, but I suppose I’ll tell the full story now, might as well.
I was raised by a single father; he worked as an FSO and we moved around quite often. My mother was an Italian national whom he divorced not long after I was born. My father had a son from a previous marriage and he wanted my brother and I to have contact (although we had little since he lived with his mother in NYC). My dad and I weren’t particularly close, despite spending most every waking minute with each other. He had developed an addiction to benzodiazepines and, while he was able to function, remembered little of what happened during his binges.
Hello R eddit, my name is Anna
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In ‘88 I was 15, I was ‘worldly’, having been to most of Europe and a few far flung countries, but I was also extremely naive considering most of my social interaction was with my father. My dad was to attend a ‘summit’ in a ‘European’ city (I can not say what or where without perhaps compromising myself) and naturally I tagged along. I didn’t attend the meeting, but I accompanied my father to the reception. A fairly nice affair, to a teenager it was reminiscent of an awards show. I mostly was interested in coming because Colonel Gaddafi was going to attend with his delegation (I believe he had an interview with some foreign tv station). It wasn’t long after the Tripoli air raids and he was supposedly a ‘very dangerous’ man, though I found him handsome
The Libyan table was perhaps four tables down, and I remember leaning back in my chair to see him. At some point he looked in my direction and our eyes met. I immediately looked away and back down at my food. After a few seconds I looked back up and saw him still staring, I felt embarrassed. After dinner my father retired for another night of drug fueled oblivion at our hotel. Our hotel wasn’t particularly fancy, but I got my own room since ‘I was a big girl now’. At some point I remember hearing a knock at my father’s door and him answering (undoubtedly high), the hotel was one where there was a locked door between rooms, so I tried to listen in. It’s a shame I didn’t know the glass to the door trick. The person left my father and there was a knock on my door, I looked out and there was this burly looking woman in a dress suit. When I answered she told me to come with her, that it was ‘important’ and ‘my father knew’.
She took me in a nice car to a fancy hotel in the city center. She yanked me around and was generally rude. She told me that Gaddafi had seen me at the reception and wanted to ask me a few questions. Naturally I was terrified, thinking I was in trouble and about to be murdered.
Oh god the schizo is here again.
Now, I won’t get detailed on what happened next, I was above the age of consent in that particular country and willing. If anyone wants the nitty gritty details I can link to the greentext in the Any Forums Archive. With me there’s a bit of cognitive dissonance with how he’s been portrayed and how he was with me, night and day. I don’t know if he changed after me, or if the other stories are lies, I’d like to think that they were.
He held me during most of the night, talking about a number of things. Sometimes going off in Arabic. I just sat and listened. I recall him saying that he and his wife were not doing well, and he had been very lonely; she blamed him for the air raids. He told me I was a great comfort and I would have made a good wife. I remember jut flat out saying that I wanted to stay with him, let him take me away from my father and the constant moving. He was quiet for a long while before saying that our paths were meant to cross only briefly, but I would be his in paradise. He was very kind and loving, certainly the best I’ve ever been treated in my life.
I ain't reading any of that shit. just post tits or gtfo.
At the end of the week I was returned to my hotel and my father was up around lunch. I didn’t mention my week and he didn’t ask. We stayed in that country for another two weeks before briefly returning to Malta.
It was around the time that we were to move that I began to fall ill, vomiting like clockwork every morning. My father took me to a clinic to be treated for the flu, and we found out I had become pregnant. He was furious, saying I’d ruined my life, you know, all that stuff a dad would say to his daughter upon such news. He asked who the father was and I made up a lie about someone I had met at a bar while he was asleep in his room. He was terribly embarrassed, and took time off to take me home. Thankfully, for my sake, Malta had good relations with Libya and I was able to send a letter to Muammar telling him of what had happened (he had an address you could send ‘fan’ mail, different times those) though the consulate there.
Nearly three months later we had moved back to the US, my father was considering sending me to my mother, but was on the fence. I was taking classes at a local prep school (we were devout Catholics). One afternoon he asked me if I had made a friend, he held up a letter covered in stamps and beat to hell and back. I shook my head no and took it. When I opened it a slip of paper slid out with a letter. The paper was a visa of sort, green border with a holographic stamp. The letter was hand written, from Muammar.
I didn’t get to read it closely because my dad put two and two together and snatched it from me. I recall it saying not to be afraid, that he had thought of me over the last few months and regretted not saying yes to me. That I was welcome to come, if I so wanted, and be a second wife (albeit secretly), that I would be loved and cared for. I remember seeing the color drain from my father’s face as he read it. He shook it in my face saying ‘who wrote this Anna?! Who?!’ He grabbed me by my hair and shook me, I confessed to everything. I don’t remember much after that, he punched the wall, I could hear him yelling, but I don’t remember what. He drug me to my room and locked me in. I stayed there for the next two days.
When he came around he said that he had to take me to a gynecologist appointment. I got dressed and went with him, I felt like something was wrong when we didn’t go to my normal doctor, but a clinic I had never been to. The nurse took me back to a room and put an IV in my arm, I remember the doctor (or at least who I thought was the doctor) come in and say something to the effect of ‘relax, you won’t feel a thing, this will all be over soon’. I remember jumping up in this blind panic, yanking out the IV, slinging blood everywhere. The nurse tried to hold me down, but I nearly bit off her finger. I turned to go towards the door, but whatever drug they put into the IV began to kick in, I felt lightheaded and must have knocked something over, because I remember hearing a clanging noise. That’s the last I remember.
Are you really just copying and pasting some bullshit story from reddit?
FUCK OFF
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My dad took me home, we did not speak, I went to my room and stayed there for three days, only leaving to go to the bathroom to try to clean myself. I bled for days. On the third day he came up begging me to eat something, I told him to go away. He began to cry and told me how sorry he was, and that I was to have a son. I ate dinner that night and we never mentioned it again.
In my life I attempted to have relationships with three other men, I slept with two. They were terrible experiences and I swore off men. I had fallen in love with Muammar, and have never overcome it. I seriously considered suicide a couple of times, and even attempted to run away when I was 18. I never got another letter
My father became severely ill and died in the months leading up to the Libyan revolution. I was his main caretaker, being as my brother lived far away. He knew he was dying and made a confession to me, that there had been other letters. The letters came at roughly six month intervals until the visa had expired. He read them and burned them while I was away at college. He said that the only one that stood out was the last, coming a few months before the visa expired. It had read something to the effect of ‘I understand your decision to no longer remain in contact, but at least grant me the privilege of sending a photograph of your and my child’.
That day I made the decision to travel to Libya, when the revolution had died down. I was so sure it would, but it didn’t. Funny how life works isn’t it? I exist now, don’t really live, just exist. Between the nightmares and crippling depression I exist. I keep going, if only for the memory of him.
This has been my confession, after thirty years it’s good to be honest about my life. So many who know me have never truly known me. I don’t want attention, I don’t want to write the next great tell-all, I don’t want any TV interviews, just to tell my story, here and now. Hope you enjoyed, feel free to ask me anything Ah Yeh Im schizophrenic and I wanna fuck my imaginary son because he reminds me o my imaginary lover papa gaddafi.
Interesting articles, I’ve always enjoyed reading other’s opinions of him. He didn’t come across as narcissistic, at least in the vein that he was only concerned about his needs (especially in an ‘intimate’ situation). Now when it comes to his opinion on leading I couldn’t say. The vast majority of conversation focused on either me or trivial things, not so much politics. He came across as somewhat lonely honestly, and overly anxious a few times. That being said he was very loving and affectionate, made me feel special. I could possibly see him having borderline or at least poor self esteem underneath all the charisma, he asked me if he had ‘pleased’ me, an odd question for a man of his position to ask I think.