There was not one man – one person who I could direct all my hatred to. I was abused by many… Some were neighbours, some were extended family members and some were strangers on the streets.
Some showed me their penises as if it was a lolly pop. Some touched me and asked me to hold their penises.
I was touched in places that weren’t meant for men who touched me in that way. My body responded… this in itself felt sinful, painful and enjoyable all at the same time.
How could something that’s enjoyable needs to be hidden.
It must be bad. I must be bad… I must stop all fun and all pleasure…
I felt that my body wasn’t mine. It was for others’ taking. They could touch me wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted. I had no right to my own body. It wasn’t my home so I left it.
From the very early childhood, I think I stopped living in my body. Shutting down and freezing was my coping mechanism. I shut down my emotions. I shut down my sexuality. I shut down connections. I shut down love.
I buried myself in education. I buried myself in rescuing others. And the “real ruby” kept getting further and further away from me.
My “unworthiness” got me into a troubled marriage and years of illnesses, ending into a hospitalisation.
In one of my most bleak moments, I was crying on the bed. My husband at the time was lying on bed with his back towards me. I pleaded him to hug me and to take me into my arms and I was completely ignored and left to sob.
I felt that I died in that moment. There was just nothing left in me to even breathe…
Life wasn’t fair.