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thoughtdumpshitposts · 3 years

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Emotional Breakdowns Lead To Passably Poetic Ramblings

26.06.21

word count: 2.15K

I never write because I need everything I write to be evocative. I need it to be painful. What's the point of writing something if the reader doesn't hurt? It hurt me to write this, and I hope it hurts you to read.

I've always imagined putting my thoughts into words, but I don't know if I want them to be on paper or my phone. Digital is easy, it's good, it's clean. It's easy to edit, to navigate, to save; it'll probably live on forever. It won't erode and disappear like the writing journal I had for six years, eaten away by the same termites who ate my entire closet from the inside. His name was Reggie, and he deserved better. I'd kept him safe in the closet, but I learnt too late that nothing was safe in the closet. Nothing physical, existing is ever safe from the World and it's beasts – Man or insect.

But paper is personal, it's real. It's beautiful. Sure, sometimes my brain and heart think of words faster than my hands can keep up, and the words are barely legible and my hand-writing's not pretty anyway, but that's the beauty of it. That's what makes it mine. But someone I know can stumble upon these words and read the truth of my existence. But maybe I want them to stumble upon it, one day. Maybe I want them to find my words and understand, really understand, who I was and what I am and what I kept locked up inside of me. That I wasn't some selfish, ill-mannered brat. That I really loved them, but sometimes it was hard. My mother always tells me no one can ever trust anyone but family, that even if she screams and shouts and scolds at first, at the end of the day she'll always have my back, and I know that's the truth.

But my cousin molested my other cousins and I, and she cried when she found out after years because she had to hear it from the other side of the family, and she cried because she'd told me so many times that she'll always have my back if something like that happened to me and she keeps saying family and family and family, and trust and trust and trust and how family is my parents and brothers and that's all we can ever trust but how do I tell her that the reason I said nothing when my cousin did it was because I was used to staying silent when my brother did? It's all so funny because I was blessed enough to have been born to parents who would never blame me for being abused in a society in which the blame- and shame-game is prevalent, but what do you do when the victim is your daughter and the abuser is your son – your firstborn, the first "nawasa" in the family, your pride and joy, the prince charming. You've loved him for seven more years than you've loved me. I understand. You don't deserve to suffer the truth. I saw how you were when you found out the truth about the cousin, I remember the things you said about family and trust. I know you have your own issues. You don't deserve to suffer. You don't. I love you all. So much. So so much. I won't let you suffer. I won't let you be the collateral to his sins. I'll protect you, and you'll never know.

And I'm okay, so why would I say anything? When we're happy and whole and great? Why would I say anything when I'm actually, genuinely fine and unaffected? Why would I ruin us? How could I say anything? And I'm fine, I really am. I'm okay. And I know my friends think I'm gaslighting myself when I say that I'm fine and it hasn't effected me much and it wasn't that bad because I was never actually physically hurt, but it's true. I'm used to laughing and loving the people I hate. I'm used to hating the people I love without an ounce of real hatred. I know what it sounds like, but it really isn't that way. It's okay. I'm okay, and no one should worry, even if sometimes I want everyone to worry. Even if sometimes I want everyone's pity and attention and love and sympathy, and I want them to hurt for me, like I hurt for the people I love. Sometimes I just want validation, I want people to know everything so they understand me. But everyone wants to be understood, so that's nothing special. I'm okay, and that is the only thing what matters.

I wasn't raped; I was molested. There's a difference.

I wasn't raped, and honestly I only remember a few instances with clarity. Everything else is a blur – it's all just snippets and flashes of memory spun together to make a vague, dramatic montage. But I wasn't ever physically hurt, and of course I know that it was still terrible and horrible and I didn't deserve it, but understand that it wasn't as bad as it sounds. I'm fine and genuinely, actually okay and I'm only affected when I have a mental breakdown, but that's almost always because I'm pms-ing. And it hasn't happened in a while now. It stopped. I think it's been four years? And it happened for five? six? I was 9 or 10 when it started? And he was 16 or 17? Okay, that – Oh, God oh fuck that sounds bad doesn't it? I'm 18. My younger brother is 10. I couldn't imagine– I can't. God.

But it actually wasn't as bad as it sounds. I was asleep – of course I wasn't asleep (but I think sometimes I must've been? I don't know) – but I was "asleep" when he did what he did. And he did do a lot, to be honest. His hands, everywhere on me. His mouth – everywhere. His–

Why is it so hard to write? I think it's harder to write than it is to think and speak of it.

But I don't know what happened to me. I don't know. I don't remember what happened. I wish I'd kept a better record, but I didn't. Oh, I remember a lot of things that happened, but I don't remember it all. I wish I did but I really don't. I wish I could read and revisit and do a shitty psychoanalysis of him. But I can't, and now he's the only one who knows what really happened, and I'll have to live with it.

There were no words. Never any words, never any pain. So again, I'm fine, and I'm okay. And he's great and fun and funny and I love him and I care about him and I'm always joking with him and he's a terrible person and I hate him and I wish I knew how his brain works and what he was thinking and still thinks and I'll never forgive him, but it's okay. It's really okay. As long as I was the only one who suffered. As long as I'm the only one who continues to suffer for my silence.

I think the only reason I still think about it so much is because I never got closure. I never got an explanation. I never understood why. I don't know if he's an irredeemable monster or if he at least feels guilty. I don't know what he was thinking, because there were never any words. And I'm glad there weren't any words and I was "asleep" because it makes it easier to interact with him and pretend it never happened, that it was someone else and everything's still okay.

But there were never any words, so I don't have anything to work with. Nothing to draw conclusions from, nothing to psychoanalyze him with. I don't know what he was thinking, I don't know what happened. I want closure, I want to understand. But I'm scared of whatever will lead up to the conversation, and the conversation itself. I'm scared of the acknowledgment and how it'll change everything irrevocably. I'm scared of getting closure, but I need it too. I need to understand.

Did you feel bad? Did you think of how it'll hurt me? Did it hurt you? Or were you indifferent to it all? Did you just not care or –fuck–was it some big joke? Was it funny? Was it amusing? Do you feel entitled to me? How fucking dare you? How could you? How fucking could you? You loved me. You were great to me, you still are sometimes. You're my big brother, man. I loved you. I love you. You were supposed to be my hero and I fucking swear to God you were. What the fuck happened to you? What made you this way? How could you do that to me? How could you do that and still look at me in the fucking eye? How? Why? I deserve to know.

But please don't tell me. I don't know what I'll do if I find out the extent of your monstrosity. I don't want you to fall even lower. I like to think you can't, but I know that's not true. Especially after what I learnt about Z- There's always room to fall.

But anyway – Reggie. I'd been brave enough to write a chapter of my life for the first time in that journal. It was the last story Reggie got to know. I'd never been brave enough to actually write about how I'd been hurt. I could never even write his name when I tried to make a record of what I went through – I was always smart (or sentimental?) enough to try and and keep a record, some proof, dated and organized. I was smart enough – but not brave. Maybe because my coping mechanism was pretending he was two different people, or maybe because writing it would make it real; I'd lived long enough without acknowledging it (even more so without understanding it), maybe if I ignored it long enough it would just go away. But the story I wrote in it wasn't even about that exactly. It was an older story; It was about how all of it might've been my fault. About how maybe I was always a fucked up child. But the story also brings me comfort – it reminds me that I've always been me, that the person I am today is because of the person I always was. That there was no influence that made me this way. I am what I was.

The termites consuming Reggie also reminded me of the old Islamic story about how the Boycott of Banu Hashim ended – the parchment holding the banishment declaration by the Meccans had been eaten by termites, except for the word Allah – the name of God. I thought it'd be interesting if this was God's way of sending me some message I have yet to decipher.

But I don't believe in God. Maybe life would've been easier if I did; if I could have found peace in He who I could not see, could not touch. If I could've found the same relief that my friends and family find in His words, His presence.

But I never felt His presence. I tried, I really did (maybe I didn't, maybe I should've tried harder?). During my last try, I made the resolution to offer all my prayers one Ramadan. I thought if I manage to nail down all the worship obligations, actual faith might follow somehow.

I lasted two days. I cried on the prayer mat during Fajr both times, like my mother does all the time, but I doubt it was for the same reasons as her, or lead to the same result. I did not feel at peace, and I did not feel seen and heard by the Creator; I had never felt more alone, more abandoned. My heart did not feel a little less heavy; it had never felt heavier.

I cried because I was desperate the cycle wouldn't repeat. I wanted to believe there was someone who could make it stop, someone who could make sure that others didn't follow in his footsteps. It did stop, eventually. But I think that's just how it was supposed to be – not because some deity cared enough to make it stop. He doesn't care about us, but if you don't agree with that, I envy you. I wish I believed what you believe.

But I'm also glad I don't. So I will just exist, till one day I don't. And you won't remember me, and He won't care, and no one will greet me at the Gates of Heaven or throw me in the depths of Hell, because neither exist.

I hope.

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