The grave sound of my voice can never be silenced.
For as long as I remember, I fiercely believed in it. In the same period, punishment was what I got for speaking up my mind and letting my feelings out. I’ve always wanted to understand life and the things that happened around me, but I was never allowed to. My silence was demanded, but I kept on trying. I said and repeated it all, as many times as I could, until I got an answer to my questions or an explanation to what was happening. Was I wrong for trying to make some sense out of the situation? According to them, I was.
For many years, my words were spoken in between slaps, whipping and punches. The face in front of me was always outraged by the sound of my sentences and I still believe that if anyone would be looking from the outside, nothing would make sense. How could a question hurt that much? The marks in my body, my legs in burning red and my eyes tearing away were all the answers I had left. When it seemed enough for my aggressor, I would sit on the corner of my bedroom, sobbing in pain, confused and lonely. I needed to know, I had to understand. I couldn’t settle for silence and plain obedience. But no matter how hurting I was, it was all not enough to the one holding the whip.
As a child, I was told to shut up over and over again. I was hit with sandals, mainly. As a teenager, anything would do. Water hoses, tree branches, or whatever object which would swing over my skin and bruise it deeply. Everyone needed to know that I was a bad girl. I was forced to go to school in shorts, already as a teenager, for the simple amusement of her genitor. She would say proudly that people would see that I was properly corrected and that I had someone with a firm hand at home. When I told this at school, it didn’t matter whether they wanted to do anything. Where we come from, parents are considered to be in their holy right if they want to punish their children, no matter how hard or strong. It didn’t matter if I was right or wrong, if I deserved it or not: the parental judgement was enough to believe that I did something wrong in the eyes of… I don’t know, God, I guess. And for a long time, I felt ashamed of speaking up.
Growing up, I was told to forget it all and to let it be cause well, “they’re your parents and you should endlessly respect them and simply obey”. The pain they caused us for so many years was supposed to be set aside and let the feelings of love and care overcome it all. I played along, just like we do when society dictates us the rules by which we should live in. I never gave it a lot of importance, never thought it would grow in me. “Maybe I did deserve it”, I used to think. I developed a guilt that wasn’t mine and that’s how sick-minded we were taught to be. The years passed and as a young adult, some of the marks in our body disappeared. Some we still carry with us, but I often used to make up a story for them to not let her parents look bad. “Focus on the good things, they matter the most!”, I was told. Eventually, everyone believed it, but deep inside we knew. And with an aching heart, we would let it all go.
The real problems were the wounds that no one could see.
The lies that once consumed the true story revealed themselves as we reached the adult age. What I always avoided, what I always told myself to fight was the thing I feared the most, but that I eventually could not control: I became an aggressive person. I blindly entered the dominant world as an active punisher. If my voice was rejected, if my questions were unanswered, I would demand it by force. For a long while, no associations were made between an abusive childhood and the rage I felt inside as an adult. The reasons why I did it and why did it all happen were only clarified years later, but just like the ones that still stain our skin, I left many marks behind.
Perhaps this is a shame I will carry with me forever. I’ve never let her in, as I took full responsibility for all those actions. It was me who sharpened the nails to use them as weapons, and it was also me who chose anger rather than reason. These are the things that will be with me forever and that no matter what happens, I can only help her to not become like that as well. She is our only hope. She is sweet and caring and I know she wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone, but my actions reflected upon her and now there’s judgement to her face. There is shame to her face. We are facing our demons together and although she still wonders why I am still around, she knows that none of this is my fault, or hers, or our per se. Our soul was corrupted by rage at times where questions were supposed to be asked and reason was supposed to be taught.
The anger that once lived in my mind still lies around, within us. It pokes our thoughts, it craves to come out. Our quest to be heard and to get answers is still alive, but it has now a different place in our heart.
It is the silence that challenges us at times when nothing else makes sense.
