I must admit I am not too brave after all. I’ve been trying, for the past days, to maintain my composure, but to no avail. I am shattered to pieces, what I did is staring back at me. I cannot even look at myself in the mirror anymore. When I see my own eyes, they pore over my soul. Something has changed. I do not know myself anymore. I do not love myself anymore, like I thought I did. I hate myself to the core. I think I just gave birth to another one of my own demons. And I am scared like hell. And you’re not there for me. You cannot be there for me. You will not be there for me. I feel so used. I feel so abused. I feel so abandoned. Have you ever been lost in the forest at night? I wish you have, so that you will understand me right now and what I’m trying to say. Please don’t make me regret I ever trusted you – again. You know what I exactly feel right now? I just want to die. I just want to end this all. I wish I am brave enough to do it. I just hate myself so much I feel so trapped inside. Sometimes I feel I am talking too much already my words lose their meaning to you.
I grew up molested. I can recall very vaguely…there was something shoved inside me. Something rough. And yet some other things. I remember looking forward to it. I can remember there were mornings when I would wake up sore in between my legs. Discomfort in peeing. I can recall waking up at the wee hours, going down the stairs, to the gnawing darkness below, feeling very scared, but not stopping anyway… I recall playing alone with my rug doll, in the dark bedroom, crying to her. I can recall asking myself why I was crying to the doll. I can clearly recall, hiding behind the door, and playing with myself. I was 5. It’s not normal for a 5-year-old girl to be doing that. I can recall my cousin, showing me a photo. One woman, two men. All naked. They’re doing something horrible to the woman. Pulling her hair, pennies to her mouth, and another one to her ass. It was revolting. I can remember going to the bathroom after that, and examining myself, as if I was that woman. I can remember clearly rummaging through a cabinet, wanting to take a look at the photo again. I found out so much more of those… When I was 6, I can remember wishing and wanting so much to grow up fast. Indeed there was something unpleasant in being a little girl. When I reached high school, I would wake up all sweaty. Was it a dream? A huge hand touching me? It seemed so real I could feel the warmth of the hand in between my thighs. That dream came and went…and came and went…was I just molested? Or was something even more terrible was done to me? Was it too painful that my young mind chose to shut down that part of my memory? I want to know. I want so desperately to remember so I can make peace with that little lost, angry, confused girl. Why did I grow up not liking myself at all? Why did I grow up never knowing how to freely receive love? Now I do not even know how to give it properly either.
Even as an adult, married and all, I still experience abuse. I feel I’m good for nothing – at least for the members of the opposite sex. I’ve always thought I’m over it already. But apparently not. Each time I experience rejection, I am the molested little girl once again I hate men. I resent their existence. As long as they exist, I feel I am continually broken, and threatened. . I flirt my way to gain control over them. I enjoy dominating a conversation with them. I get turned on watching someone ogling at me like a stupid dog.
But I want to be healed. I want myself out of this bondage. I wish there is a way for me not to feel too sexual all the time. Sometimes I feel so highly sexed I get scared of myself.
I wish I can love you without burning inside. It’s crippling me. It steals away my reason. It confuses me no end. Your presence in my life has opened up the wounds of the past for me. But right now, I just want to hope there would be something else better, why you came along. I want to believe God sent you my way for a greater purpose. I wish you can at least hold my hand. Right now. I just need to know you’re there. I will rise from this rubble. I promise. Just be here.
I know it is foolish to live in 'what-ifs'. But lately I have been doing that. What-ifs mean regrets. They can mean cowardice. They can mean resignation. But right now, in the hope of salvaging myself from the rubble I have let myself into, I want to believe that living in 'what-ifs' could also mean ability to dream, to hope for what is beautiful, for what is desirable. For what can make me happy.
