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A Pillar of Salt

Remember Me Kindly

thanksgiving 2017

i hope everyone has a good day… #thanksgiving has become a day where most americans sit around eat turkey and say what they are #thankful for. but it’s not a day or time we should celebrate. my mother always took the time on this day to remind me of the true history of america and this day. this day is marked in red. branded in blood betrayal and enslavement of freedoms once enjoyed. let us not forget that this is a day to be mourned too. native americans were brought low for the sake of the pilgrims and their settlements. they were seen as lesser and therefore not human. it is a travesty that children are brought up not knowing this. i am always grateful that i always learned history as it was not how it should be or was wanted to be seen as. i have my mother partly to thank for that. i am not native american nor do i descend from any first pilgrims. my parents (as even though i am not his my father will always be my father his family is mine just like it is his. he taught me this with love from my birth) immigrated to america from india before i was born. but we remember. we speak about it. we too know what it means to be seen as less than. and just like my ancestor, thayumanavar, i will always be there for this world. he was burned alive. sometimes i dream of fire. i would walk into the flames if it meant it would end the pain. the earth cries out for its children. i am tamil. descended from old families. i am dravidic: the original indians before the aryans came and drove us down south and intermingled with those who remained. none of my family stayed then. my father who i am a direct descendant of thayumanavar through has long taught me that perseverance and humility are the keys to a good life. and here we must remember our ugliness in order to appreciate the beauty. without recognizing the atrocities of the past we cannot grow.

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silver chains

A symbol. Something that represents me my essence. Something I created in my own way. The silver chain represents me my curse my brand. The fleur de lis represents my love my people. And the cloth is the last remaining piece of my beige jacket 🧥 from the time when I was mute 🤐 which I got in the summer of 2005. Together they mark brand me as me. This is my symbol. My name is Sin. My name is Poison. I am Agnes. I went by Nike as a child because I wanted Victory.

on the new law in California that will allow survivors of rape to come forward regardless of a time limit

This hits quite close to home for me… perhaps in a different way than most… for me it means that those like me who reported it then and there but were dismissed or hidden away because of our perceived vulnerability and trauma from actually being able to fully come forward and help rapists and abusers be brought to justice… maybe they would be able to bring their stories back to light and that justice could come albeit quite late for them.

I have read comments saying that those who wait are responsible for others being raped by the same ones who raped them. I wonder, how is this so? It is the rapist who rapes not the past victims and others left in their wake.

Perhaps I miss the point… I find it hard to believe that anyone who has been raped would ever be completely silent on this. I know I never was and I never saw justice though I reported each and every one (not just mine but those who raped others too). We never saw justice.

Maybe because we were so young.

My mother always hid me away when it came time to speak/give statements. She thought she was protecting me and perhaps she was in her own way. But it was a protection I could do without. It is one I have been left tormented by years later even now in my adult life.

I am 29 years old and I am still not silent about what has been done to me and to the things I have witnessed. I speak out in my own way. I speak about my trauma and agonize over all the men who should have been punished for what they did to us. I wonder often if they have raped others since. I know the answer is most likely yes. It kills me to know that.

I did the best I could then. I will continue to strive to do my best in my own way now.

I will be honest: when all is said and done, the fact that they got away with it for so long or even now keep getting away with it (if they still rape women and in my case children, too) will haunt me for the rest of my life. I wear this knowledge like a brand even though I was simply one of many who were victimized and raped.

I am a survivor but that doesn’t mean others should have to wear that label too.

toxic

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.

unfortunate

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?

walk home

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.

it’s not about the money honey

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.

Except…

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.

why?

because all the secrets suffocated me

until i remembered i couldn’t breathe

in the face of God

he killed me

my voice

 

he laughed

in the face of God

 

my silence

a void

of laughter

once filled

with brightness

 

a voice

I once called

my own.

 

mute

broken body

 

he sees

he creates

me

this disfigured

soul

filled with anger

hate

 

my father cries

to me

his hurt

at my terror-stricken

eyes

 

he just wanted a hug

to comfort

to protect

 

yet

I became

an animal

striking out

with cold words

to any man

I saw

or heard.

 

Never mind if they

were kind

 

I

simply saw

them

for

Man

 

Man

became

him

 

he who beat me

down

 

he who choked me

out

 

he who shut me

up

 

he laughed

in the face of God

 

who proved to be

useless

 

if God exists

I cried

I want no part in

it

 

If God exists

I admitted

I hate

it

 

If God

then I’d rather

not

 

God

I prayed

if you’re there

if you’re listening

Fuck you

I hate you

 

God

if I could

if you were real

I would like

to kill you

 

I cried

in the face of God

 

fury

hate

they won the day

 

he won

as he had killed

me

and thus

killed

God

 

he laughed

in the face of God

 

he may have killed

me

 

destroyed

me

 

but

 

I am not so easy

to erase

 

laughing still

in the face of God

 

he stands

a beautiful woman

next to him

holding a child

 

and I realize

how much

of a monster

I’ve become

 

so I start

to write it out

 

try to let go

 

and God

 

if you exist

if you’re real

 

Fuck you

 

I

don’t know

 

But one day

I’ll laugh

too.

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