The whole truth and nothing but the truth

I have been trying to write the third part of my story for a long time now but the truth is I am not the type to sit down, think about it and then put it into words. Good or bad, emotions drive me so that’s exactly what I am going to do. Just let the emotions write the last part of my story.

The whole reason I started this blog is because I needed someone to hear my story and validate it, to say … “man oh man that’s tough!” Yea I know how it sounds like… like I was just looking for attention? But I was… I AM! And this is why…
Part 1 here
Part 2 here

A few months after my wedding, things in my parents house was getting unbearable. There was an argument that broke out between my parents and I and this was the first one we had had since my sister left the house. So it was BIG. In my moment of anger I asked my mum If she remembered the day I told her about my uncle. Mind you, we don’t talk about anything taboo in my family and in my question to her, I never specified which uncle or what day.

Mum says “Yea, I do. You were around 6. You were wearing your light pink dress, you were standing in the lounge and I was sitting in the dining room with your grandmother… you told me he touched you”

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Nothing

You know those movies that have this mother figure, that was never there for the kids. When she was there she was great but she was battling something else. So she runs away. One kid ends up hating the mother and the other kids ends up searching for the mother, only to be disappointed in the end.

I feel like I’m that mother.

I am trying so hard to be there for my kids. But it is becoming clear, more and more each day, that I am not right for them.

I think I have been using band aids all my life to try and fix what was broken. Honestly, I think my kids were a type of band aid for me to try and fix a broken marriage. I think they were that love that I had been craving all my life (Indian arranged marriage cliche anyone?) But kids only mimic what you do, and it’s kind of hard to keep up an appearance of love when you are not getting it yourself.

I keep thinking, if I run away, they are still too young, they will learn to live with it. It’s harder to watch them get hurt every time I have an episode, but then I think.. What if I want to come back someday… what happens then?

To be honest, I don’t know if what I am feeling is depression. I have never been officially diagnosed. I am too scared to be officially diagnosed, because if I do, then it’s just another excuse for family around me to tell me how insignificant I am.

I cannot, I CANNOT, see anything happy around me. Nothing. Not even my kids.I only see fake, made up happiness around me that was done to mask whatever bad deed that was done before. I don’t see love around me, I only see selfish people using the name of love to get what they want from others. I definitely don’t see peace, I don’t think any of us do. All I see is ignorance.

I have been here before, the last time, it took me months to ignore these thoughts and move on to whatever hope I had left. The last time this happened, I had a baby to mask the thoughts of death.

This time around, I have kids, who are hurt because of me and I am running out of time. I don’t have months to fix myself, Months means the kids would be hurting for all of those months. I cannot mask it either, because it is just going to come back stronger than it is now.

But I have no support to help me either. 

I don’t think I am going to make it this time. 

Daily Update

My dad sent me an email yesterday about how upset he was that I hadn’t wished him for his birthday. He said he’d rather die than live like this.

I was going to reply back to him and tell him If you felt that way just because someone hadn’t wished you. … can you imagine how one might feel for being called a liar for talking about their abuse. Should I kill myself then?

I didn’t. Not because I am the bigger person,  but because it will only fall on deaf ears.  They all only think about themselves.  So I simply hit delete. 

This decision is going to haunt me for awhile but I think I made the right choice.

The Whole truth and nothing but the truth (pt2)

I can’t talk about our first night. Because at no ones fault…   it was incredibly horrifying for me. My depression was the only thing to blame. To this day my husband has no idea about this. It will break him if he finds out. I cried myself to sleep that night. But I picked myself up again and I woke up the next day as if it was all okay.

A couple of days later I was at my in-law’s town. I would be meeting every single member of my husbands family here. Walking into my their house, felt like walking into one of those old ads that they show on TV. The mum with the apron in the kitchen making delicious food. Everyone smiling and laughing, the whole family together, joking around.

I wanted this life. I wanted the atmosphere,  I wanted the peace, I wanted to smile and I was in it and I loved it. My father in law would call me his daughter and my mother in law would tell me everyday how much she always wanted a daughter. She would take me out around her area and show me off. I never had to cook, i never had to clean. I was a princess.

Continue reading The Whole truth and nothing but the truth (pt2)

The whole truth and nothing but the Truth

I initially started this blog to tell the world my story. I thought I’d be creative and write like all those fancy writers and perhaps maybe turn this into a book. Then the whole world will know how unfair my entire existence has been.

But that’s not who I am. I am not creative. My story doesn’t have enough to pull in a crowd and heck I’d be lucky to get even one reader in this blog.

I’ve decided to be me. I am going to be direct. That is me. No filter.

The basics

I had a childhood like everyone else. I grew up in an upper middle class home. My mum was a teacher, my dad an accountant, my sister (who is 7.5 years older than I am) was like a second mum to me. Due to the age gap and the sheltered life I lived in India I was naive enough to believe everything my parents taught me. “Family comes first” “Girls wear dupatta everywhere they go”. Before you get ahead of yourself… I should tell you that this is not a story of feminism.

Everything I thought I knew about my family was put to the test the night my uncle used my hands to give himself a hand job. I was probably 7 or 8 years old. I did tell my mum and my grandma the next day but there’s only so much an 8-year-old can explain. I can’t quite remember what I said but I do remember my mum and my grandma saying “your uncle was showing you how much he loved you”. I knew that explanation wasn’t quite right. But I also knew, there would be quite an extreme drama if I kept pestering and I just let it go. He was leaving to go back to Australia that afternoon anyway.

We migrated to Australia when I was 13. The only logically place to stay was at my Uncles house until we got our life patched together in a new country. I did this thing subconsciously where I packed enough in-skirts to wear when I was taking showers but I didn’t let myself think about why I was doing this.

As luck would have it. I got my first period when I moved into his house. I turned clumsy, always aware of my surroundings and who was or wasn’t watching. Always timed it so I wasn’t home alone. Never took showers without my clothes. I was bullied at school and I had no friends. This was the first 8 months of my life in Australia.

My parents are proud people. My parents were now laborers in a factory. From a teacher/ accountant to carrying loads of God-knows-what from one end of a factory to another is enough to turn anyone to depression. And it did. I saw the depression take over them so I never said a thing. I didn’t tell them about my anxiety, I didn’t tell them about the bullying, I didn’t tell them how I used to eat lunch on my own in the nearby bushes at school.

We eventually moved out, got our own house, my parents eventually got into good jobs and our life was normal. My anxiety was somewhat gone and sneaking alcohol in my Coke bottles gave me enough courage to make friends at school and I could finally go through my normal teenage-y, “i-hate-the-world” phase.

The Sibling

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