It was a reconciliation with the world.
Since the day I was made to live
probably six or seven?
I always hated the world. I did not want to live.
I was afraid of God, whose existence was not clear to me
but I was too afraid of such celestial being,
(Buddha, or eight million gods, or God—
whoever I later chose to believe in)
about my sins, or the guilt. Because I was allowing my father
to conduct sexual acts on my body. The six/seven years old
knew what incest was, without knowing the word for it, but knew
from her heart that something fundamentally wrong was going on.
But she could not say no to him.
My mother did not love me for sure. This six year old,
who receives the attention and infatuated love
constantly and consistently from her husband. As his wife,
it must have been tough to accept that I was her child.
happy on the surface
merry jingles on Christmas
but my mother and brother
tied in team
nervously watched my father’s mood
and diddering in front of him
little dictator of the house
he was a king, a tyrant.
Laughable, is not it?
but you can never escape
from your family
if you are a child.
The world I was living in was hostile and hateful. Because
I hated the world, the world did not like me. It is a natural
consequence but I did not know that the world was
just like a mirror of yourself.
If you are full of hatred, the world is full of hatred towards you.
Perception is all. Furthermore I was so sensitive
about anything. People’s trivial words
without any malice or any intentions to mean anything bad
was interpreted as malicious disgrace.
I used to struggle so much to connect to people, hoping to be loved by someone.
But I could not love people. Because I could not love myself.
Nighttime was dark at my household
sometimes my father came to my bed
sometimes not. But I could not sleep
fearing that he may be touching me
while I was asleep anyway so
mornings came with solace knowing
that he did not come during the night.
The only thing I was proud of myself was the fact that
I did not kill myself. Suicidal thoughts and
fantasising my death was a norm. Imagining the world without me
was a dream. Imagining myself as a symbol of hatred, dying was
somehow seemingly satisfying.
But a life-changing thing somehow happened. After four and half years
of the psychotherapy I took, I managed to change my view
of the world. Things have changed literally dramatically.
Grey world became colourful.
Insipid sand became tasty dinner.
Simply because I managed to say ‘help me.’
I started to accept myself. It would be right for me
to say that I may even love myself.
It was a reconciliation with the world. And that was the time
I concentrated on study, work, and I met a love of my life.
If this reconciliation did not happen, I may have ended up
in a woods, killing myself — that is for sure