How significant a chair can be in one’s life, little I suppose? But here I am taking you on a journey of my life while you sit at your chair and read this.
I was 8 years old when my parents died. Moved to an orphanage I was told that it was going to be fun. There were many children, some abandoned, some alone. Every night we were made to play “musical chairs”. It was so fun; everyone had that wicked smile of winning. Little we knew what used to happen after the winner was decided. “He” used to do some weird things with us saying it was a trophy for our win.
I ran away…
I was 12 years old, moved to a new orphanage when a family came to adopt me. I was so thrilled with the feeling of having new parents. They loved me, a lot. Then few months later my step-brother came back from hostel. He was so caring at times. We would play together, eat together and sleep together. He once asked me to sit on his favorite chair and started slapping. I was the garbage, he said. Continuous hitting and when I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital.
I was terrified…
I was 15 years old when a boy in school said how much he liked me. I didn’t understand what likeness was. He took care of me, made me laugh, and brought chocolates for me. One day as I stood off my seat, there was a red spot. I was bleeding. That evening he said his parents wanted to meet me. I was so excited and in pain. I was waiting for him as he went upstairs in his home. Sitting again on a chair, he came back with a rope and tied me to it. His hands went beneath my skirt and removed everything. His “little penis” hurt me so much but I couldn’t move.
I was raped…
I was 22 years old when a boy came to see me, you see marriage purpose. I was yet again sitting on a chair and his family was evaluating me on various parameters, rating me on each. He wanted to talk alone, took me in another room and said how much he loved another girl and that he couldn’t marry me. Still he promised to come every forth night to see me.
I was angry…
I was 26 years old when I was sitting on a chair in my office desk. My boss came and asked me to do some favors to get some. Bewildered and tired, I shouted…
He never came near again.
I am 42 now, sitting on a chair, I write this. I am an independent women living all by her and cherishing the present.
I acknowledge I was a fool that the scholars’ would say. I agree the feminists will come and make me feel what I could do if I was able to shout and scream. Everyone says, yet only few will understand why I “couldn’t”.
Every man who hurt me once was seeking my love and attention. I had no one and there they stood saying I was the world to me. I was shattered into million pieces every time.
Did you notice the courage I had every time I collected myself back? No, because “understanding” is only for those who can understand.
Don’t offer a list of “what you could do and what not”.
They only need to hear one thing, “You were strong, real strong”.