CHAPTER ONE.AFFLICTION.
My life's been hazy. Yeah, hazy, that describes it well.
I have this vague memory that makes me feel disgusting and filthy. Filthy, in a wh**e kinda way. All I can picture is myself surrounded by approximately four boys, a few years older than me, and a garden. I'm laying beneath a mango tree, its branches thick enough to hide the felony from someone else to witness. With my pants down. I do not know what they were doing.
Maybe molesting me, who knows? But I do not remember panting or crying in agony. Disgusted surely I was. The kind of bitch that I've grown up to become makes me feel it was a mutual act but I do not remember consenting to such a thing. How would a five year old know a thing about sexuality and the prerequisite consent?
Nonetheless, I certainly do have a history of molestation or, let's say, wh**eness.
I was 10 years old, riding an elevator to the top floor. The security guard of the building accompanied me. I remember initially he pressed the button for the first floor. But I do not know what made him change his mind. Either he sensed he should acquire the opportunity for I was all alone or his body was itching and he needed to grab someone tightly and forcefully press his body against it. He obviously couldn't hug the elevator so he proceeded towards me. Who knows? That might be a possibility. He hesitantly grabbed me from the back and eloped his arms around me. He smooched me amorously and thrust-ed his body upon mine powerfully. A 10 year old couldn't possibly rescue herself from the clutches of a masculine man. Though I tried some kicks but my attempts were rather otiose. His tight clasp. His smirk. His smell. All of it disgusted me. That was one suffocating and utterly detestable moment for me. I avoided crossing paths with him from that day onwards. I still do.
Some times the bogeyman that we're warned about as kids are one of the closest acquaintances of ours. The uncles we admire. The elder cousins we refer to as brothers.
I remember that old man and his wizened face. The man I allowed to cuddle me. Being autistic, even as a child I never was fond of the embraces and kisses. Not many chose to cuddle the fat and ugly kid that I was. Nonetheless, that old man, my uncle, always gave my tiny and hard hands a vehement shake. But the one and only act of tormenting assault took place when I was 12. We were both sitting in the guest-room. He leisurely lifted my voluminous corduroy trouser up and started to caress my fat and hairy leg. His soft and gnarled hands, like the limbs of an ancient oak, fondled my leg for more than an hour. Throughout the process, like all molesters, he told me this is something tolerable and I was to tell no one about it. Therefore whenever I think that that wasn't a case of molestation and all I'm doing is simply exaggerating it to victimize myself and to justify the calamity I've imagined to happen, I remember his words-- 'don't tell anyone'.
I've been acquainted with sentiments relating infatuation developed for guys. In fact I've been infatuated with two boys at the same time-- ain't I a bitch? Anyway, when the molester is someone you think you love identification becomes impossible.
I was molested for a month and throughout the act I didn't realize what was going on. It all started when my mania for my cousin escalated. I would try to talk to him and express my puppy love for his handsome face. I was 14 and was grieving the death of my cousin whom I loathed. Oh and by the way, I wished him death the night he died. Ain't I a bitch?
Some days I wonder whether my flights of fancy for my handsome cousin gave him the right to touch me sexually? The right to touch my breasts and forcefully pull my hands towards his tool? The audacity to tell me that he wished I'd sleep next to him? I'd joke around as well, telling him to f**ck off. In my defense, I'd say I didn't know a thing about sex until I opened my biology book a year later. I would smile and at once he'd become lustful of me. Were my smiles taken as a consent? To touch my private parts? Maybe I was at fault. Maybe I deserved it. The pain. The crap. I mean crap- that is what I always yearned so what's with the drama?
I've been disoriented and perplexed since then for I'm not sure whether I was molested. I'm maudlin and self-piteous. So maybe to appease my masochism I'm just exploiting the happenings. Maybe I'm just a s**t.
Maybe I do not have a sad story. Maybe all that I have is consuming melancholia and I am wandering around in search of a justification.
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I had my first serious and hysterical depressive episode when I turned 15. Its a perfect story to tell. On the crestfallen evening of my 15th birthday, I woke up with the same usual emptiness but now I could call myself a lunatic as well.
My seemingly intangible zeal abated and baffling tenderness intensified. The advent of a cavalier attitude towards life gained ascendancy over my willpower of conquering the world. Let alone touching the sky, trivial tasks such as waking up soon became tedious. I lost control and became a monster. Hypersomnia, lethargy, agitation, sentiments relating strangulation, suicidal tendencies and self-destruction soon constituted my essence. I started living with the excruciating pain of being a failure.
Inundated with sparks of conflagration I had crossed a fatal threshold. There was no turning back. I was going to remain a monster.
These days, as Sharona says, I'm changing. She tells me I talk less of dying and therefore she can classify me into a human. And when I remind her of the hour when I talked of suicide she tells me I was simply showing off.
I sleep away the nasty feelings. Sleep. It's a bliss. Not only for me but for my family too. Yesterday only my mom told me how peaceful the house is when I'm sleeping. They do not have to endure the abuses I hurl at them or the impotent anger that seizes me for indecipherable reasons. My sister doesn't have to face the manipulation and I do not have to bare the emotional abuse.
All in one, life is good when I sleep or lock myself up in my room and read. Those are the times when I am not crying for help. When I escape hell and pay a visit to heaven. When I am not angry, miserable, frustrated, evil, guilty or frightening. I am at peace.
I was told, do not try to define or name your affliction but try facing it. What an idiotic thing to say. If I'm not aware of the causes of the pain, how do I endure it?
I like harboring my insanity. I like scraping my self-inflicted scars. I like living with my strangled dreams. I like how I think of suicide only to choose the continuance of my bleak life-- not once, not twice but every freaking day of my existence.
Life's good. No matter how miserable it is, it is mine.
(They have been telling us in the support group to be optimistic so I try regardless of the fact that I find it meaningless.)
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I'm happy for receiving some good feedback. I hope you like this chapter. This one might be a bit disappointing. 😳
Edited by .enigma - 8 years ago
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