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Behind The Scenes


In 2017, following a harrowing experience, I turned to those I believed would offer love and support, only to find mere echoes of who they once were. The individuals I thought I knew had long since faded, leaving behind hollow shells. It was an illusion shattered, the belief in steadfast pillars of support crumbling under the weight of time, neglect, and the natural erosion of life. While I cannot assign blame, the realization was unexpected and painful.

Initially, I knocked on a door, and their concern seemed more focused on protecting their son than inquiring about any harm or events that had befallen me. My shock and inability to articulate my trauma left me speechless, resorting instead to tears. Yet, my distress seemed to pale compared to their sense of victimhood. It felt like they inadvertently sacrificed another in choosing to save one—I became the casualty of their priorities.

Seeking solace in another household, I intended to find healing within the embrace of community love. Instead, I was met with inquiries about my financial situation, followed by distressing warnings of potential physical harm. It became evident that they were concealing undisclosed information, casting me as the scapegoat again. In their efforts to shield another child, I found myself sacrificed yet again.

A door of goodness appeared, yet behind it lay only simmering anger for reasons undisclosed. Every aspect seemed to draw their ire; my career achievements were dismissed as mere luck, devoid of any inquiry into the journey or effort behind them. It felt as though they begrudged acknowledging our resilience in overcoming adversity, preferring instead to dwell solely on our perceived shortcomings.

The most unexpected encounter proved to be the most distressing. I hadn't sought help or divulged my ordeal to any of these households; instead, I yearned for solace and companionship. However, the atmosphere turned hostile upon expressing my desire to support my mother's independence and showcase her talents on a platform. I was met with repeated slaps for my seemingly innocuous words and not begging for help. Subsequently, they spread falsehoods, claiming I had become hysterical and needed to be restrained.

My father, who only resorted to violence when intoxicated, never raised his hand in sober moments. Similarly, my mother, even in moments of profound distress, never laid a hand on us. That night, I couldn't help but ponder: who was indeed afflicted with madness?

Every individual harbors the potential for harm; there is no discrimination. We all possess the capacity to be both perpetrators and recipients of abuse.

Amidst that moment of profound distress, I sought solace in the companionship of my sister. Despite her disagreement with the details of my story, she treated me with love and the respect I deserved. I never insisted on anyone believing; instead, I believed in the possibility of harmonious coexistence and communication, even amidst disbelief.

She mentioned the possibility of sharing the same wavelength of thinking with someone else, if not anything else, which sparked a profound hope and light within me. That simple sentence held immense significance, becoming everything to me. Tears welled in my eyes this time but were tears of love.

I hold onto the belief that not all is lost. Just because something ages and loses its luster doesn't strip it of its inherent value. Virtues in everyone are timeless, but individuals must polish their mirrors clouded with dust and introspect deeply.

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