Molestation, Rape and why somewhere I feel we are better physically dead.

“…We are better off as physically dead after that, because even after the wounds on your body have healed, there will be cuts and stitches on your soul that you will keep trying to stitch and put together but society. Society in every form that exists in your life will keep ripping you apart. A part of you will forever bleed…”

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Molestation, Rape and why somewhere I feel it is good to die after that-

So that there is no another mother asking her daughter to keep quiet about the issue as it would hamper the family’s image.

So that there is no child who is exposed to the demons of this world and feels suicidal or dirty at the age of 11.

So that there is no another father who beats his own child black and blue because they had suicidal thoughts and wouldn’t believe the incident they wrote on their suicide letter as the rapist/molester was a respected citizen of the society.

So that when she shows the courage to love someone and tell the person about the incident, he doesn’t call her a whore.

So that she is not constantly under the pressure of hiding her body and feeling dirty.

So that when she opens up to people about the incident and the insecurities related to it and there is an evident sadness on her face, people don’t say, it’s way too in the past it shouldn’t mater now and that you’re pretending to be sad about it.

IT MATTERS.

We are better off as physically dead after that, because even after the wounds on your body have healed, there will be cuts and stitches on your soul that you will keep trying to stitch and put together but, society. Society in every form that exists in your life will keep ripping you apart. A part of you will forever bleed.

I’m not saying we are week and vulnerable to the slightest finger that points to our past, all I am saying is leave it alone because it is none of your business.

We don’t want your sympathy, the consolation that would drip from your words or anything else. We just want you to k ow how common of an issue this has become, we want you to understand us and to build a better world where there are no rapists. No rapists of skin, no rapists of soul.

That little room with a window

 

I woke up again, 2.15 am on the clock, a different dream but the same room. Today I saw myself walking up the wooden stairs, stairs that took me to a room. A little room with a window. My actions would differ from dream to dream, but the room remained static. All I did, all I was, all my actions were contained in that same room. Standing on the entrance, I was looking for something. A ball maybe, or a doll, I don’t know what it was, but then, a beam of light fighting through the cavities of the wooden window distracted me. Scared of the dark and excited about what existed at the source of the light, I took one step at a time. Slow but anxious. I reached out to the window handle, just as I was trying to open it, I felt a tug on my shoulder, light descending from the window stung my skin; I woke up in agony.

In another dream, I saw myself playing in that same light, making way from the window cracks. It formed circles on the floor of the room. I kept putting my right palm on those circles, in order to hide it, but then it would appear on the back of my palm, and I would repeat with my left palm, and it would reappear. I did this for quite some time, but then another hand, placed itself on my palm. It turned my hand red. I woke up with a jerk, and checked the back of my hand, it wasn’t red.

In a dream I had some time after the previous dream, I saw myself holding yellow flowers, sunflowers maybe. Again I was walking upstairs. Happy, murmuring a rhyme maybe. This time I had no problem opening the window, but the moment I did and looked at my sunflowers and they were dead, dried and brown. First time in my dream, I had an emotion other than fear. This time it was an internal pain, an uneasy feeling within. When I woke up, the same feeling still persisted. I still felt like crying my heart out. I did.

That little room from my dreams, was the same room I was molested in as a kid. Some fine day, it all re-appears, in the form of a dream, in the form of a news headline, in the form of a latest hit movie, in the form of an instrumental music or even in the form of darkness. The memories still prevail, sometimes around and sometimes within. I wait for a dream where I can breathe in that room, not cry, not be afraid. Open the window like I used to and stare at the world outside. The open sky, the lush green trees, the fresh air, hoping it would fill my lungs again, which now felt hollow. A day I would have a dream, where that room felt just like it was, before being possessed by the demons of a paedophile.