Self-Help

Of Tormented Souls – A Tale of Molestation

#MeToo Molestation

His hands didn’t clench my body but the soul within me. My childhood extorted to satisfy his desire for lust. Every moment he came near me broke my soul into pieces. The time when I should have played with dolls and thought of fairy tales coming true was spent weeping and in fear. Every night when mamma sang me the lullaby, I pretended to sleep, but even after hours passing, I cried until the moment I fell short of breath. According to my parents’, teachers are most respected after God, even more than parents, but how can someone so important in your life leave you with such murk?

Yes, this happened to #MeToo. It might be just a word for you, but I have been through this and I’m still not over. Every time I go back to my room, it flashes right in front of me. This fear embedded inside me holds me back from trusting even the person I love. I remember my friends fantasizing about love stories, but, the fear inside me could never do so.

I had hit puberty still trying to figure out what menstruation is and how to deal with the changes in my body, didn’t have any idea of what molestation means. I remember him sitting next to, he would slowly move towards me and lay his hand on my hands. He would whisper “If you say anything to mamma or make any sounds, I’ll tell your mamma that you are disobedient, and she will get angry.” The fact that my mamma will get angry scared me to such an extent that I didn’t even mumble a word when I wanted to scream and run away from there.

I would silently sit on my chair, tightly adhering my legs together pressing my feet against the floor. I could hear even the meter in his breathing as he slipped his hand inside my t-shirt and squeezed my boobs. It hurt me not only physically but also psychologically. This continued for about 14 months.

Although he could never get beyond this extent should I consider myself “lucky” for having suffered only this or should I consider myself “unlucky” to have suffered this much? 

I sleep in that same room today and every single moment I spend there haunts me with the dark past. Its been over six years but I still cry until I fall asleep. Time does not always heal your wounds. Now it has become more of a habit waking up, trying not to think about it and end up suffocating in a tornado of negative emotions. I felt so low and depressed at one point in time that I even wanted to end my life. But as I drew the knife closer to my wrist there was a call within me “Was it really my mistake?”

They say don’t wear short dresses; well I was wearing long dresses. They say be careful when you go out; well I was in my home in the very place I was born where my parents were a few steps away in the next room. They say don’t trust strangers; well he was the very teacher who was responsible to teach me.

I never dared to speak to my parents about this. I tried to tell them a few times but could not. Having been so close to my parents, pretty much-sharing everything with them, it was like a heavy burden tied on my back while swimming, pulling me deeper even when I want to rise, and breathe.

It’s hard to forget someone who has given me so much to remember. Something that I learned from my experience is that you can heal yourself the most when you find inspiration within yourself. There are not only predators outside but also within you, and only you can be the hero of your story. Life is like a song with both high happy notes of joy and low sad notes of depression. We all have our battles to fight, and I won a part of it by being able to depict my story in front of the world.

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