I won’t
call it maturity nor would I call it experience, I
think I have come across all these troubles which shall remain as black dots of memories, hope for the betterment of the future
When I was
six, my mother died in an unexpected diseases being needled to her. Five years
later, my father mistakenly married to a women of two children, at times
of his unfortunate day.
She hated
me, though it wasn’t personal, she would have hated any child who wasn’t her
own. She was masculine, vehement and real cruel women but her main weapon was
emotional abuse. Every single day, no respite. Her energy was remarkable, she
had inexhaustible supply of hatred, expended daily, yet burning fiercely for years
and years, unstoppable war of attrition: relentless, humiliating, terrorizing, degrading,
twisted, trivial.
She
destroyed what mattered to me: as I turned thirteen, she hit upon the idea of
abolishing a father-daughter relationship and took all glorious belonging on
her name. At sixteen, it was a passport which was created for the travel
opportunity rendered me to Sri Lanka for the excelling as the best student from my school, out of her jealousy, it was thrown into disposal bin.
This
iceberg tip of her loathing was visible to all but because my gentle and kind
father chose to ignore it for her own benefit, friends and family were
powerless though. For the friends and relatives i was passionately spoiled as
the adults tried to compensate her treatment with acts of kindness.
My best friend
and I pretended she was a witch, and laughed at her at her back.
Another
thing, Nimo, her daughter from her previous relationship, never makes her own
breakfast rather than making it she neither makes rightful choice of salt
taste. I have made my breakfast, lunch and dinner for as long as I can
remember, otherwise must have faced her systematically terrorized harsh
beatings.
As a
metaphor, The Cinderella law, was just a fantasy story which really happens
only in the stories yet was wrongly perceived, it was thrown to my life too as
a perfectly apt in my life story. As a story related to my storyline to Cinderella’s,
my stepmom too made me wash all those inner pants of her shitty monthly period
being dispose of openly in the toilet area with bitterly cold water keeping
aside washing machine as it is just to let me do it for her own satisfaction,
nimo, was never asked to lift a finger, but I didn’t mind doing house chores, instead
it satisfied stepmother’s need to dominate and humiliate me, which meant a
brief drop in her anger level.
Her insatiable
fury was mentally exhausting, when I was in tenth grade, she said,”I don’t care
about you if you don’t qualify for higher studies but don’t expect for study
privately” I became a robot. i didn’t respond to taunts. I desensitized myself
to being hit, Inside, though, I was defiant, I did excel in what I was studying
for which made her veraciously jealous of my excellence.
When every
child at my age Acclimatize to their choosy world, I did suffer from depression
in my twenties, yet I wasn’t emotionally destroyed because I had my secret
supporters.
I was
traumatized though, I dissociated from my younger self to this zenith pinnacle
of life which was real harder for me to accept yet my father chose to ignore it
because I knew he loved and care me, stepmother wasn’t rough in front of him
and once she ordered me to use her expensive Tego and kiras but dad’s refusal
to acknowledge her treatment of me or that family unity was a charade. Gave me
no option but to play my part.
On the
surface we were functional family, each day was a mental assault course, trying
to minimize the threat, attempting not to nudge her simmering and scowling
disapproval into explosive rage. Only at school and college was relax.
When I left
the house today, the witch wasn’t there, I am 99 percent sure she would have
hit me to the hell had she been there at the zenith of unpacking my baggage and
coming out from that dark room.
P.s: Fictional stories
P.s: Fictional stories
