SEVEN YEARS OLD - me
I was seven years old. I don't remember much but I know I was feeling horrible at the back of my mom's car. She was taking me to some event that I was forced to go to, I am not sure why I was unhappy, it could be because I was not fed a proper breakfast, it could be because my mom always stresses when she has to go out to a wedding. During those days, wedding banquets were sometimes celebrated during the day with biryani being served as lunch under decorative tents. I already told you that... I don't remember much. I remember that my dress was of a pale color but it could be an enhancement of my mind to place a light color on my dress because the memory itself is dark. I remember my mom screaming at me as she dragged me on the concrete. I remember sitting in a corner, crying... constantly. People were passing by, looking at me, patting me on the back. I remember a man sitting next to me trying to comfort me, was it my dad or a stranger? I can't tell now. Some people were judging me because my mom told them how hard of a kid I was.. but again I don't remember much. I wish I did.
What I do remember is the pain. I remember the judgmental eyes, I remember the gazes of strangers while I sat on that chair. I don't remember eating and I don't remember what happened afterwards but that feeling of shame, of guilt of being left alone to soothe, I remember clearly.
That must have been what we call, trauma. Left unattended and emotionally wounded. It would have been fine if it was a once off thing, but I have several memories as such. My mom at least had a car, a luxury vehicle that women did not even possess back then, but what was it that made me so ungrateful?
Reality check: I wasn't. I was just a child. A child that needed her mum's attention. She wasn't giving. She was always too busy working. My father was emotionally absent anyway so I never cared for his presence, but my mom, I was waiting for her. I deserved someone who saw me for who I was, a child. I deserved to be loved in the way that a present parent would. I deserved to be cherished and spoiled because all girls were. I deserved all of it. I deserved to see a smile on my mom's face when she saw me and not that look of disgust I would get.
On that day, she should have been patient with me. Even if she didn't, she could have acknowledged it. She could have accepted that I too, was paining, not only her. She could have tended a more comforting gesture at night, then I would have remembered that, not the vile memory.
It may sound like a fairytale when I talk about it, but it is what it is. I had to be valued and cherished in the way that I wanted.
TEN YEAR OLD - me
I grew up alone mostly, my brother was 8 years older than me so when I was in primary I don't remember him much, somehow. I only have memories when I was in secondary but there could be events that triggered that, I am not sure.
When I was around 10, my cousins used to come from france. It was the highlight of our year, we would get gifts, there were outings, the families would get together until they would fight and stop talking. It was weird but we found our fun in those times.
I was still in primary school back then, my mom would work till 6ish and after 3.30, I would usually walk to my grandmother's place to spend time until my mom came. My dad was home but I was staying rather with my grandmother. Her house was not far at all. So one day, I was just there after school and we were all playing together. My cousin had this habit of being mischievous.. he was tickling everyone. Then he saw me laughing and cunningly he came on me and started tickling me as well and I was just laughing and laughing... My grandmother saw that and did it flip her so much. Now as a parent I understand what triggered her but at that time, I didn't understand and I still think her reaction was wrong.
She started swearing at me, calling me "bitch". I flipped that day and screamed back at her, calling her bitch as well. I went to sit outside until my uncle came and walked me home. I think that event marked the last memory I had at my grandmother's in primary. I went again when there were functions, but it was no longer the same. Here's where I feel that memory marks me, no one acknowledged what happened. That day I walked home, I remember my dad just opening the door and letting me in, then he went back to his room. Zero words spoken, it didn't bother me it's not like he spoke to me anyway. My mom also didn't acknowledge what happened. I don't remember any conversation, any follow up... zilch, zero, nothing, that.. my friend, was emotional abandonment.
If that was my child, the first thing I would do is call my mom, ask what happened. There should have been a follow up of the event but it was just brushed under the table, because the business was always more important than me.
That's how it felt. Always. That's why I hate business and I will never indulge in it.
TWELVE YEAR OLD - me ( The original scar, the start of the wounded self)
