Today.

He did it today for the first time again, four years ago. I have grown so much as a person, and I have gotten through do much. Every single fucking thing has happened to me in these four years. Everything. Experiencing simultaneous. He did it today. Probably just around this time. He entered into my room and closes the door behind me. I was sleeping in my mosquito net tucked inside my favorite thick blanket with my other two much younger siblings. I was at the corner of the bed. He comes, slips his hand inside the net, then inside the blanket, then then trying to slip it inside my clothes. My siblings were sleeping just beside me. They were so young. I WAS SO YOUNG. I can feel it you know, his hand, the emotions I felt back then. I can finally cry about today. February 29, I do not like you, at all, only if you just didn't exist at all. I really do feel it. Weirdly. I will probably be never able to let alone like a boy. Makes me sick to my stomach. And I'm so full of being around girls all my life. But I don't want to be alone, I deserve love too because I am human. This was not the only thing he took away from me. He took ME. I am just a body of what I used to be. Every birthday a new layer of skin grows all over me to cover that hollowness and I think I've grown better. No, I have not. I am still in so much pain. MY OWN MOTHER DIDN'T BELIEVE ME! Irrespective of how much I love her, things will never be the same between us. When she finally did believe after ig hour(s) and taking all the courage I had built up for the past nine years or those 25 something days starting today all she did was give him one single slap at 6 in the morning and told him never to enter our house again. It felt she did it more for her honor rather than what her fifteen-year daughter went through. And the worst part us when I told her he did much worse to me as a kid she barely listened and called it "LOVE". Love Must be a very, very wretched thing if it's what he did to me as a child. I yearn for myself. My father didn't even talk to me about it even though my mom told him. They never talked to me about it. I want them to see the pain I felt and still feel. I am not well. I am not. I don't know what it will take to get me "better", but this is not it. 

In another universe, I get to torcher and kill him in live television. All the other people who went through the same and my mom praises and hugs me and kisses me on the forehead and tells me I did the right thing and everything will be fine. My father comes along and says that his actions do not define me and that I am a very capable woman. 

Sometimes I just want to die just to escape these thoughts. I know his hands are not on me right now and I know there's no use of living in the past, but I really want someone to listen and to understand and actually do something about it. I'm so SICK AND TIERD. I SM GOING TO PUKE. He did it to me. A child. A teenager. HE was not the only one. Others did it too. Even last year, on the beach where those men tried to touch me while I was swimming beside my father. Is it what men are? Hurting machines? 

The men I read in books and the men I come across irl are worlds away. 

That was not LOVE. I cannot even find comfort in my own parents, or anyone. I'm just a pile of unfulfilled expectations. I am nothing. I want to scream. I want to hurt those who hurt me. I want them to know what it feels like, every living second. I see these people in strangers, in my friends, in the ones I love.

When I was around six, before it all began probably, I had this dream where everyone was an alien, and I was the only human. They were after me. Maybe that is what my entire life has been since then. I regret being a child. 

stuck! stuck! stuck!

I'll soon be nineteen. I try not to use social media as my teachers told me not to, but I do use it sometimes. I was on Instagram and there was this trend of:

"In another universe do you still think we'd be" friends/lovers/mother and daughter, etc. And that makes me think that I survived in this universe, despite everything. 

Also, the older I get, I believe, I should be able to manage my thoughts and emotions well. Whatever happened to me is something of the past. Almost four years have gone by. I have dealt with a lot of negative emotions since that event and something that bothers me till this date is that all my parents did in response to him doing things to me for years was my mom giving him a slap and telling him to not enter our house, ever. But when I was at home, I'd still see him. His apartment is a few buildings away. I used to see him on the road so often. Last year I went away from home, and I've felt safe, but that is, safe from him. Today this old man approached me at the temple and his intentions were nice, but I'm not really accustomed to really old men with all white hair. My parental grandfather died two years after my paternal grandfather is dead and my maternal grandfather isn't really that old plus he dyes his hair so often. But this man who approached me today was almost exactly like the man who tried to assault me and other kids back in 2013. 

My father used to frequency visit my uncle. That was where he spent his childhood. There were three row houses and behind it were this building surrounding a circular space. In front of the row houses were another line of row houses. As a kid I used to frequently visit my uncle and his family. There were kids in the circle surrounding complex and the row houses. A lot of those kids were my friends. We would meet in the afternoon/evening which is generally when kids play. These kids meant a lot to me because this was the only time I got to play with kids except school, which was not very much either. So, there was this old man who lived in the third-row house. He was old. He was definitely taller than me, he had white hair, somewhat and used to wear all white cloths. He used to give stickers to kids, and I was obsessed with stickers back then. I absolutely loved stickers. The other kids were of my age or just slightly older or younger. Most of us were below ten. 

My uncle was about to shift because that whole area was going to be broken down and remodeled, so it was almost the last time I was visiting that place. It was almost routine to greet the row house people and then play with friends whenever I visited. Although the last time I went, he called me in. He was already sitting on a chair. He asked me to sit on his lap, I did hesitate but obviously I thought he had no bad intensions. But then, he started to touch my stomach over my cloths, his hand then went inside and touched my bare skin. And as things go, his hands started sliding downwards. It was scary. It almost reached when I let go off him and ran away. I was so scared. Everyone was like HIM my cousin brother who did things to me).

I went inside and told my mom about how this one uncle touched me wrongly and as always, she said he was probably trying to cuddle me. I HATE THIS THING ABOUT MY MOM WHERE I GENUINELY TELL HER WHAT WRONG OTHER PEOPLE DID TO ME EVEN AS A CHILD AND SHE USED TO BRUSH IT OFF. SHE ALWAYS BRUSHES IT OFF AND I HATE THAT. 

I went outside to play that day too. The other kids arrived. I asked them if they got any stickers from the old man recently. A boy just a year younger than me said that he's grown weird. Another girl said he tried to touch her wrongly. I said that he too tried touching my stomach. We didn't play that day. Talking about these things made us really upset and we went back home. This is the last memory I have of them and probably the only thing I'll remember about them till the end. Also, this event was the only one where I shared how something bad had happened to me and the people listened with attention and did not show sympathy or were trying to be sorry. Listening is enough. 

I went to school the other day. In one my big grid maths notebook sheet I wrote to one of my friends how this man tried to touch my stomach with a red something (I thought it would be symbolic of the blood I wanted after killing him) and my friend said sorry. I still talk to her sometimes. Her birthday is on fourth of July. It's also a song by Sufjan Stevens.

Play Pretend

I HATE TO BE PERCEIVED. I HATE PRETTY BOYS. I HATE BEING EMBARRASSED EVERY DAY. I HATE SUCKING AT CALCULUS. I HATE HAVING POOR ORAL HEALTH EVEN THOUGH I PRACTICE REALLY, REALLY GOOD ORAL HYGIENE. I HATE HAVING ACNE SCARS. I HATE TAKING TO PEOPLE. I HATE BEING NIVE AND KIND AND GIVING. I HATE NOT ACHIEVING MY EXPECTATIONS. I HATE SO MUCH ABOUT MYSELF. I HATE I HATE I HATE. NO. 1 HATER SINCE DAY ONE. BORN TO HATE. I HATE TO SLEEP, TO STUDY. I HATE I HATE WHOMP WHOMP. 

So anyway, goodnight:)

Awakening.

I'm tired. Self-improvement starts now. I'll write down at 8:30 pm, daily. 

Me. All about me.

At times, I get really upset with myself and just want to end myself. I'm angry at this world, angry because I exist in it. Again, I'm not being sewerslideal but then, you know, I feel this way often. Pure isolation is my only cure and hope. I want to be left alone. To starve or to live. I really want to achieve my goals. I want to be a better person. I want people to like me but my humor and kindness are running out. They'll soon see I'm a monster. How pathetic and unlikeable I am. 

I try/to forget/ about/ all those things/ I did to myself/ and how/ I found peace with it. 

I really, really, want to cut myself as if I'm the one who did those things to me in my childhood. I am the villain and I am the savior. No matter how hard I try to run away from it, it comes back to me. It's a loophole, it's my truth. It's an identity of me, rather, me completely. I'm nothing beyond their actions. But I want to be good, to like myself. 

Cry. Cry. Drown.

Pick me up. I keep falling into myself. I can't sleep lately, it's hard to breathe too at times. I've been hating food just as much I hate my lack of effort. I need to be, someone. I have to be. Please. I want to be okay. I want to remember living a happy life. 

His words ring in my ears. They really crushed me, even though they were just words, like any other.

"Why won't you let me love you, like the way I did when you were, a kid?"

And then, he pulls me close and thrusts himself into me. I was fifteen. I WAS FUCKING FIFTEEN. He kisses me. His spit and tongue inside my mouth, I remember the taste of his saliva, very clearly, as if, it's my own. I try to get off him and sit on my chair, trying to study geography, my favorite subject at the time, he again, comes from behind, touches me wrongly in all my upper body parts and then, his hand sinks below me till it's inside. I try to remove it, he's so strong. He finally takes it out, smirks, knowing he'll get me someday, probably in one of the upcoming days. Gets out of my room and closes the door behind him. Talks to my mom, sits on the sofa, drinks the coffee my mom made for him, recommended her movies, then goes away as if nothing happened. 

Sometimes, it doesn't even feel real, as if any of that ever happened to me, but then, it feels like, all of that, all those years, all those people, including him, are at me, at the moment, all at once. 

It's all an excuse at the end of the day, an excuse for all my failures and shortcomings but then, I really, really just want to run away from it, as if, that wasn't me, all of that never happened to me. But it did and it HURTS SO MUCH. I cannot cry enough about this. Even now, as I sit on my chair, typing this, I feel his hands from behind. I feel him everywhere, when I am lying on the bed, when I'm taking a shower, when I'm changing my clothes, sitting by the window, when I'm alone at home, when the period gods pay me a mere visit, when I sleep, when I sing, when I paint, when I do maths, when I eat burgers, when I watch tv, so much. He's more of an anti-god figure to me. So much. I'm still eighteen.

 How much can I improve?

Farewell for the night, mates.

we all (probably) die alone.

Adulthood is solitude. Living alone/Living with oneself. I don't like it. 

Sometimes I get so depressed I don't even feel like a person anymore. Just a shadow of what I used to be. But honestly, it's hard to live. I'm still young and my body works and my parents pay for my necessities but God it'll be horrifying when I have to earn all by myself with the old withered body of mine, let alone.

I want everyone to hate me. I want everyone who I care about to abandon me so I can bleed out and die in despair. 

Would it be silly of me to say that I miss having my clear skin? Since I've left home my skin has gone terrible even though I care for it. Even my hair has grown and gotten terrible. My body probably does not like change. I have to be the best person on this entire motherfucking planet and I'll start by impressing my organic chemistry teacher. His words give me a will to live, to probably try believing in God, again. I want him to be proud of me, to know my name. And I need to work hard. Hard, hard, hard. I need to work hard. I have to work hard, so hard. I have to make a man out of myself. I have to be someone. I need an identity. Maybe then, I won't suffer from this head tormenting solitude?