The day after… part 4. My confession.

Given the revelations I’ve made here and the acceptance I’ve received, I think it’s only fair that I’m truly honest. So here’s my confession which I’ve kept a secret even from myself.

I had once long back tried to explain the a b c of how it all began… Here. But I wasn’t entirely honest.

Joker, the man I introduced to my family who became everyone’s best friend and confidant overnight was not my abuser. He was my first love. Correction. My only love. The only love I’ve known. 

In a house where my dad didn’t want kids and definitely not a second one, where my mom despite wanting girls more than boys loves my brother infinite times more than me… possibly because she never got from her mother the love that she was capable of giving and was jealous of another girl getting it, where my hypocritical conservative granny blames me for my parent’s divorce, where expressing any emotion or tiredness was considered a sign of weakness, where try as I might I would never be as intelligent as my dad or brother or as hard working as my mom, where my grandfather loved me more than he loves anyone in the world but only because I’m a girl… not because of who I am, where I’ve returned from school alone since the age of 5 and collected the keys from my neighbour and sat alone till late evening or night waiting for someone to reach, where since we didn’t have a TV I found solitude and happiness in my cashew nut tree which broke and died when I was 13, where my aunt’s favourite funny story to share was about how when i was born she bawled her eyes out because I was dark, ugly and a girl… till my mother was convinced I was dead, where the forever empty house echoed the hollow sounds of our spurious, hypocritical, disgruntled, forced love for each other… he was the only person to have looked at me and seen me. Not the bubbly vivacious fun child who put up shows to entertain people. But the sad, lonely, scared child craving for love, affection, acceptance…

So he reached out and touched me. Not on that fateful night when I was 9 as I mentioned in the post. But way before that. He touched my heart the first time he corrected someone and said I’m not your friend, I’m her friend whom you can share. He touched my soul when in a house where birthdays aren’t celebrated I started the ritual and then on my 16th birthday everyone forgot I existed… and he sat with me and even gifted me a book. What’s funny is that I thought the silence was a plan. Surprise party. What else? But it wasn’t. And when they realised, they called a few of my brother’s friend, made some food and ate together… without even realizing that I was sitting alone in my room wondering why my best friend whose birthday I had secretly planned with her sister and surprised her with for which she credited only her sister, didn’t even call me. He touched me a million times in every possible way before that night when he touched me for the first time.

So did I grudge him for ruining my life? Hate him for inducing in me thoughts that no 9 year old should have? Dislike his guts for doing things to me in my house while my parents were around? 

No. I loved him. With every fiber of my being. For inducing in me the craziness that I today cherish. For introducing me to a world I wouldn’t know existed until much much later. For giving me happiness that was anything but innocent. For teaching me how men think. How the world works. How to succeed in life.

Did I know what he was doing was wrong? Maybe.

Did I think it was wrong? No! We loved each other and love knows no caste, creed, gender… then why age?
So what if he was with several other women including my mother? He was honest about it. And in this lying hypocritical selfish unloving world.. how could I not be in love with his honest, selfless love? How could I not get sucked into the hurricane of his passion?

Today, as I stand looking at myself naked and scrubbed clean of all my family baggage I realise, I was raped. Statutory rape. I was touched, molested, groped, hurt… all because I was naive enough to fall in love. Not just physically. Those scares I can shed with the weight I gained to cover my own body. But mentally. Emotionally. 

Will I ever make that mistake again? Will I ever be vulnerable again? Should I? Who deserves the chance to defile a fucked up child? Or am I to miraculously overcome all this because now I’m an adult with awareness?

The consequences of my baggage I have to bear. I know. But how can I trust anyone enough to try and let go without guarantee that I’ll not eat dirt again? Shouldn’t they earn that if they love me enough? Or is fighting through all this alone the meaning or purpose of life? Or like in Into The Wild, am I done with all the experiences and realisations for this time and all that’s left is for me to wait for the storm?

Why? Why? Why? Why did I have to go through all this? Wasn’t being bipolar enough?

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