AfriPulse
I grew up as the good girl until life happened. I was the kind who was in the group of mean girls but wasn’t one of them. When the girls in my circle laughed at the poor or anyone who seemed like an outcast, I stayed quiet and didn’t join in. And even if it sounds hard to believe, I held back on my exams just so the teachers wouldn’t beat the other students for scoring lower than me.
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When I was six and lived in Kenya, I was always dirty and hungry. Then I was moved to Uganda to live with relatives. That house was crowded, and food was never enough. People fought over it. That’s where the abuse started. The boys who didn’t get enough food began sleeping with me as if it would somehow satisfy their hunger. When I sought protection from my brother, he did worse.
He forced his way through me when I thought he should be the one to protect me. When I cried and was confused and disoriented, he beat me. He added to my blues and warned me never to tell anyone or he’d do worse things to me than he had already done. “What could be worse?” I asked. I shivered. I kept silent so he wouldn’t make my life worse than it already was.
During the lockdown, another man came to live with us. He tried to force himself on me. When I fought back, he beat me black and blue and said no one would believe me if I reported him. I was only thirteen years old, going through what a little girl like me shouldn’t go through.
This man claimed my brother wouldn’t believe me either, as if they had been discussing the sexual experiences they had with me. He was sure he’d get away with it. Another man tried to convince me to sleep with him, saying he knew I wasn’t a virgin anymore. It made me ask myself, “How do virgins look that I don’t look like one at this age?”
Outside of the torture I’ve been through, I don’t know what’s left for me now. It’s been hard trying to figure out who I am beyond the hurt, because pain and the flashes that come with it are all I’ve ever known.
I scroll through posts online about disorders and read psychologists saying things like, “If you feel outside your body, then you have this,” or “If you forgive too much, then you have that.” So I diagnose myself and wear it like a label. I don’t know who I was, I don’t know who I am, and with the way things are looking, I’m not sure I ever will. And honestly, it feels so empty.
I don’t even pray anymore, which is strange for me. I used to be spiritual. I prayed a lot, especially because I struggled with sleep paralysis. I believed everything could be done through prayer, so I prayed hard. I believed prayer could fix anything, but things have changed. I don’t pray now.
My self-esteem is so low that one comment, something small that shouldn’t hurt, can ruin my whole week. I can tell lies that would earn me a standing ovation. I’m so good at manipulating people you’d think I studied it.
In all of this, I know I’m just a seed of what I’ve been through. I’ve listened to podcasts and motivational quotes, even the ones people find annoying. I’ve done audio therapy. I’ve joined support groups. But I’ve lost the passion to live with purpose.
My mom thinks I’m a normal kid, and my dad keeps me home now, trying to protect me from men, but neither of them knows that the damage was already done. Back when everything was happening, my mom was living abroad and my dad was working in another country, and now they act like they’re shielding me from what I’d already been through, but they’re too late.
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I’m 18 right now, and I want to be happy. I want to stand in front of the mirror and stop pretending. I want to stop doubting myself. I want to be free from everything that’s happened to me. I’ve tried therapy, and all they say is “take your time.” But how do I do that when it feels like I’m running out of time?
#MyChildhoodTrauma
—Afaafa
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Source: SilentBeads | Read the Full Story…
