You say that just because you’re older I should listen to what you say. No matter how cruel the vitriol that spews out of your smirking mouth may be. I say no you’re toxic everything you say hurts even though I know they are lies it hurts. You say I am manipulative and ‘if you’re a rape victim’ and ‘if you have PTSD’. All these ifs you insist on tacking on to your sentences hurt like a knife in the gut. At least there’s that: you don’t stab in the back. Sometimes I wonder how you are the way you are. You are a survivor but you have become cruel and strange. You think you are the only one who has been raped and hurt. Don’t you see how ridiculous this is? I try to explain. You try to sidestep talk your way out of admitting to your past offenses and mistakes. I am sorry not that you care. Maybe never have but I am sorry. For what? I’m not sure but every time I see you like this: denying my past and elevating those who have hurt me…I am saddened. You say mom would do this too, proving you don’t remember or perhaps never knew the dynamic I had with her. Mother would comfort me and taught me how to ride out my flashbacks and when they were severe she would stay with me. And she never denied my past as she knew how much that hurt me. You say you are done trying to mother me. You are not my mother. I don’t need that. Not from you or anyone else for that matter. You say I planned this all along. You manipulate people including me. Talk as if I am psychic, could magically know what you were about to say and in what context. Talk as if I’m not actually upset just saying I am. Really? You say that those who hurt destroyed me were nice people. You call me bitch. Called me pig. Smirked. Laughed when I became angry and loudly demanded you to leave. Said sarcastically that I was really winning points with my landlord. You find it funny? You ask smirking when I will see my psychiatrist next and I realize you like this. You like me at my worst. After all, that’s when I am easiest to manipulate. You don’t really care about me. If you did you’d sympathize or empathize. You wouldn’t be so flippant about my abuse history so mad at my slow recovery. You are toxic.
Today I had the unfortunate experience of being told I ‘falsely accuse people of sexual assault and rape’. This was said by someone who themselves is a survivor of trauma. However, this person likes to literally say and has said to me before that she ‘is the real rape victim ‘ and that all the things that happened to me don’t count as I was a child/teenager/etc. So here we are… I have been molested, physically and sexually abused and raped by multiple different people in various places over my younger years. But here is the worst offender: Bhavin. I was 14 years old. He raped and physically and sexually abused me on numerous occasions (practically everyday at our boarding school where we both lived) from the end of September to mid May of that school year. He graduated that year. He suffered no repercussions for what he did to me though I reported him. His abuse of me was widely known. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that no one cared. The most common reaction I’d get was laughter and ridicule. I stood up too much/talked too much. And he figured out how to shut me up. I should thank him for that. I still have flashbacks. I am still bitter and angry. But I’m done allowing this to go on. I won’t shut up sit down be quiet. No more. I want to get better. I want to help others. None of that entitles you to say such cruel insensitive out of touch words. I’m supposed to get over myself and learn to take a joke… I’m sorry but what part of denying a survivor’s history is funny to you?
I took a walk today and thought about life the last etc. I guess it’s time I admitted to being a sarcastic piece of shit all my life. I should be dead but I’m not and for that I’m not sorry. And my boy with the baseball cap… I saw someone a boy with a red beanie who reminded me so much of you. Is it odd that sometimes it all comes rushing back… I cry, I laugh… I wish we could have stayed each other’s home. You were always mine… even if that is no longer so. Now I have no home in that sense. Fly away home. Yet I always thought then that was you.
I try so hard even now but I can never wrap my head around it… How could it have happened? When did she ever have time? Then I do as I always do when I am frightened: I tell myself a story. I hide secrets (facts that we don’t talk about) in these stories. I chase them around my head. In the darkness I wait. In the light I run.
Mom always said that daddy wasn’t my father, that I was a disappointment and a failure, that I was ugly and too fat, that I shouldn’t eat, shouldn’t compete. I should keep my head down cause if I ever raised it I would be cut down. I always stood up spoke up. I did not care who you were. Or at least that’s how the story that I tell myself on bad days go…
But I don’t think I’m fooling anyone let alone you… not that you ever cared or will ever care.
You never paid child support.
You never visited or even tried to.
You never checked up on me.
You never gave even the littlest of shits about me.
When I was 15 at Haileybury mom must have finally asked you for some of that money you never gave… you demanded a dna test and I was forced to comply at my mother’s discretion. She refused the money after it was shown that you were my biological father. I told my mother then and still think it now: you were never my father… I don’t care if I have your blood in my veins.
I do care. You who could have saved me from all the scars wounds beaten downs. You could have saved me from my family and my friends and myself. You could have saved me from my numerous attackers.
But you were you so you chose not too. After all, you didn’t give a fuck about me.
You called on August 5th in 2014 my mother’s phone. I have her number now. You didn’t even know she had been fighting an uphill battle with endometrial cancer. You didn’t know she had passed away the day before. You proved you didn’t even know my birthday as that was your pretense for calling. You were in my mother’s phone book till the end. It makes me try to avoid thinking about whether I ever truly knew anything about my mother. I’ll succeed you’ll see I’ll get over your immediate and constant rejection of my existence. I’ll have to or I’ll be consumed by this rage and immense sorrow that fills my mind and heart and lungs from time to time. More often than not now…. Is it sad that you seemed to make my mother happier than my daddy? And you were never even there let alone did you ever care…
Let me tell you a secret asshole:
You are the one who broke my daddy. You and your existence in my mother’s life no matter how short had a great impact on our family lives and cohabitation practices.
Daddy tried to have me aborted and mom saw no reason not to. She used to say she never had the time to get me aborted.
She hated me or at least claimed to right to the bitter end.
And guess what I don’t hate you at least I don’t think so… In fact I don’t think I can.
I think you’re cool shit from what I’ve heard about you…
Not that you’d ever care.
We begged you for help with her funeral expenses and you called us gold diggers …
So mom’s ashes never got to be interned where she wanted to be.
That’s on you not just us.
Not that you care right?
Well father go right on living.
Life was made for shallow bodies like you.
For complex bodies like ours: we get the vortex the black hole the nothingness.
I wonder if you ever looked how would you describe the negation of being of existence.
Or if you’d be able to see and comprehend it let alone explain or describe it all.
Mom called me Nightingale. Mom gave me the sin box.
But you committed an atrocity far worse.
You had viable sperm.
You fathered me.
because all the secrets suffocated me
until i remembered i couldn’t breathe
he killed me
in the face of God
I once called
filled with anger
my father cries
at my terror-stricken
he just wanted a hug
with cold words
to any man
Never mind if they
he who beat me
he who choked me
he who shut me
in the face of God
who proved to be
if God exists
I want no part in
If God exists
then I’d rather
if you’re there
if you’re listening
I hate you
if I could
if you were real
I would like
to kill you
in the face of God
they won the day
as he had killed
in the face of God
he may have killed
I am not so easy
in the face of God
a beautiful woman
next to him
holding a child
and I realize
of a monster
so I start
to write it out
try to let go
if you exist
if you’re real
But one day
You don’t remember or pretend not to. I play along as I love you. But it hurts. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally.
Let me confess to you. Let me shout it down. Let the world know.
I am the scars of yours. I am the knife. I am the blood. The bleeding.
Sometimes I wonder if it will ever stop. Sometimes I realize it will not.
Must I go away? Far away? (Like the boy with the baseball cap left me. Like Lise & KK walked away.) Must I leave? I want to give you peace.
Peace you will probably never feel as long as I am here to prick at your subconscious memories that left or were blocked out long ago.
I need to remind myself to breathe. But then I look. Fall back down. Can I say RUN? No. It’s too late.
Little girl, I’ll keep running back to you. Attempting to. Smile. Broken. Let me hug you. Let me speak. Let me listen.
Don’t go. But no one ever listened.
The call. The flight. I open the door. Beige trench coat on (my soul). Silver chain on. Boy with the baseball cap. He’s there. RUN.
I open my mouth. No sound. MUTE. Broken body. I will forever wonder. RUN. SCREAM. But most of all. Don’t break.
I am not sure if I did.
one step closer
it went on.
And maybe they
Will they ever get their due?
And my little bird
My boy with the baseball cap
He must have loved you so so
He helped you
My cinder baby
And I never knew you
They tore you away
But I still love you
I sometimes fear
Whenever I remember you
I will always run sobbing shrieking
Tear me apart
Tear it out
What use is it anyway?
No one ever stayed
You should be happy
You should smile
You probably already do
You don’t need me
I wish you did