Saturday, 14 July 2018

Clandestine memories of childhood days

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

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Clandestine memories of childhood days

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...