A lot coming from a 16 year old girl, but yeah.
I never raised my voice in school, public or any where. My family doesn't believe me, but I am kind of the 'golden child' almost every where I go.
But in my family? A monster. A murderer.
Nope, never killed anyone. Accidentally let my half blood sister fall from my shoulders and only at the age of 11?
I got my first title: A murderer.
Apparently, by their eyes, I am some jealous teenager who can't fanthom the fact that my mom secretly married another guy and got pregnant. Wow. They did the 'secretive' drama and then expected a 9 year old (then) kid to destroy some cheap party. A bunch of cowards.
All of them are. They talk all big and then?
Gone. Absent when voicing care.
I always wanted a father. A truefather. But by some fate, my real father happened to be abusive and my mom divorced him. Then the next 9 years, I was the heart of the 5 other members.
It was always my mom, grandfather, grandmother, 2 uncles and me.
My mother brought some new guy and a child. I never....really minded it. Like, I always wanted a father. I thought, this was my chance of experiencing a real father figure. A little sister too.
But the betrayal stung more than I cared to admit. I was only 11 when I developed my first obsession out of the usual children games: knives.
I found them sharp, cold and well, loyal.
Something that won't betray me as long it is in my hands.
My mother never admits it but it is true,
she ignored her own daughter for 2 years and made sure to coax that guy.
I got scolded, given less attention, felt more betrayed day by day.
The knife obsession ended up a tragedy when my mental state started to twist and I started to think of suicidal thoughts. I was just 13. This was the time to learn ways to cope strong emotions.
No one really helped me pass by that.
I mean, if you can't help, at least don't ruin.
Not a single person in my family, who swore to cherish me after I became fatherless, ever again comforted me while witnessing my mental health deteriot.
I was in a shell made of egg shells and hope. Again, I never lashed out on anyone outside. I was, have been, and still am, the extroverted sweetheart who everyone can get along with.
I tried to cut my blood circulation off at the age of 13....many times. Though, the knife it self broke in half. Perhaps God wanted me to live life a bit more.
What a pity. In the end, I just got more and more insane by the time this day occurred.
To give more context, the one, and only, time my fragile shell broke was when I saw my mom crying. She never cries. She is a police officer for goodness sake.
But seeing her maltreated or in a dehumanizing situation? I don't really know why but all I see is black. Like, black-black.
I don't want to sound all edgy and cringe.
But that is the truth. I lose all sense of logic and directly go to the source.
I mean, one would call it honorable or maybe disgusting.
But this is my mechanism. I tried a full year to control it. It did work. She got sad at the man's abusive shouting, I stayed quiet and just said controlled words.
Of course, as the family's professional scapegoat of 7 years, I got the entire blame every single time.
I am being eloquent; it was always the adults miscommunication and mainly the step-fathers idiocy and fragile masculinity that created a situation for me to break and lunge.
The first time it happened, even I was stunned. He shouted disgustingly loud at my mother for 7 days straight. I didn't know what to do. It was odd. I never grew up in an environment where people shouted, minus my grandfather who was old and just cursed at the air randomly; which is okay, I suppose, since it was quite hilarious to look at.
But when my step-father came back from his office, he kept the door open. I was only 14. I was not that much of the rude type. I found it confusing and asked him very politely to close the door. Then he shouted at me in that absurdly loud voice.
Something in my control....just snapped.
I don't know the details. I saw all black fog infront of my eyes and in less than 2 minutes, I was cursing and about to throw a punch at him as he was about to throw a punch at me. Why did no one in the family thought that it wasn't weird for a 40 year plus grown adult to get so fussy over a 14 year old who just wanted to fight for her mother; even if the way was slightly violent? I never really understood. My grandmother and mother held me down and my eldest uncle held my step-father down.
As I said before, I was the family's scapegoat; someone who always got the full blame. Not the adult who conducted it.
I was called jealous of a 'perfect family'.
I was called a murderer, someone who will destroy my mother's 'new family'.
Perhaps, that was another reason I turned violent and wanted to kill myself at every point in my next 2-3 years of life.
Oh, did I mention that I was the proud holder of another title? It is the 'ghost'. Since my mother was divorced, by her defense she tried her best to never tell anyone about her daughter; me.
I never really minded it. How long would it last? 1 year? 3 years? Alright, perhaps after getting a stable job where no one would bat an eyelash whether you eat donkey saliva or cat fur. The answer is: till this day. 16 years.
But ironically, when gossiping with her other police officer friends, she told my story. During a gossip. A gossip. That was my value. A topic with a cup of tea.
I never want to admit it but it felt lonely.
They expect me to be some douchebag when I actually wanted a father and a sibling. Then they never invited me to any official events or even a single place where the child of the officer could come.
Yet my half sibling and my step-father was allowed to go. Every.single.time.
I accepted that I would be treated as the legitimately illegitimate child for my whole life.
Then came another day when I asked my step-father that why didn't he wash his own dishes. It was innocent, really. Only a simple question that led him to shout at me at that infuriatingly disgusting voice. Yet, this time I learnt from my mistakes and didn't say a single word in reply and just stared.
My mom nor my grandfather, who were nearby shielded me or stand for me. I knew that. I always knew that the support a child or teenager receives, or should receive from her real family would soon vanish by an external force.
I suppose, that led me to just stare.
Perhaps, it was another horrible decision of mine but he left the house for a full week, never took responsibility of his own actions nor apologized. The entire week? I was to be blamed for 'atrocities' and 'monstrous' behavior. Oh my God, I never expected a 15 year old to declare WW3 in a skirt and a confused look while he left.
I, in a matter of time, accepted that this is my mundane reality of having no identity from my own blood and being a scapegoat.
Today, however, was a different case. My step-father threw a bowl of soup because apparently he was not in a good mood. My mother perhaps got a few brain cells back and demanded him to apologise and clean that mess he made. He shouted at her disgustingly again in that absolute loud voice of his. How the hell does a man have a voice box at this point. Only God knows.
Well, I knew my place very well and just helped my mother clean up and then my heart froze. Just. Froze. She was crying.
I barely saw her ever cry. I clenched my fist, ran inside the room and for the first time in my life, something inside me felt like it was in heaven when I punched him so hard that his face snapped back.
Then of course, he beat me up. I fell. Still getting beaten. Kicked. Punched and more.
My mother, perhaps I expected her to atleast call on his injustice. But I never heared a caring motherly voice. Both of them stood over me as if I am the monster.
As if I am a mistake. My mother said, "Look what you have done. See? You got beaten up. Leave this house". I told her very calmly, not the same person before who used to just cry and scream. Without crying, I clearly said, "I would give my blood for you." Perhaps my eyes searched for a hint of understanding in her eyes that she would feel the pain in my heart. The sorrow I have for her situation and mine.
What a joke. She blamed everything on me again. I left the apartment and went upstairs to my grandmother's. I fell on a sofa. Cried. No one came. They just closed their doors, ignored me. Why promise to cherish if you will just throw me away.
I cursed him. I cursed them. I never curse anyone. Perhaps God will punish me but I asked Allah to curse everyone here. Especially that man. Especially him.
As I am writing this, my tears falling, the knife slicing my wrist a bit, not killing me, with my period blood and urine covering my lower half, I can't help but feel...
I am smiling. You might ask, why. I am smiling because I have realized that once I get out of this house in a few years, I will never come back. I wouldn't feel the burden of a family who would hold me back.
I don't need to be scared of people thinking negatively or positive about me. All I need to do is cut ties and look forward.
If they can find it logical to make me a scapegoat and a threat to their reputation, then I can also become someone in the future not worth giving any attention to them.
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