A different kind of battle. Pt. 2

Riding further along on my pot-holed journey. A trail of immense vulnerability, peaking confusion, concocted misguidance and organ-freezing trauma(s).

TRIGGER WARNING: The butter knife that was, the read until now, reveals itself as a cleaver.

GRAPHIC CONTENT AHEAD. IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TOWARDS DESCRIBED. INCIDENTS OF ABUSE(ANY KIND), PHYSICAL & MENTAL TRAUMA AND OR VIOLENCE(ANY KIND), STOP READING RIGHT NOW.

Pre-teens into teenage years are pretty(yes, I use that word loosely) much a blur at this point, whether it’s just a symptom of onset Alzheimer’s or my own brain trying to somehow protect my sanity, I will eventually find out at some point or not.

My life, or at least the one I exhibited, was in almost all aspects that of a privileged young “lad”. The land where I took my first steps was quite a ways afar from the glitzy sheen of bejewelled architectonics and cloud parting monstrosities of construction that it’s perceived of being in today’s times. Unpaved dirt roads, brown houses and the occasional shrubbery, were the inner lanes of residential areas amongst which I lived, an upscale neighborhood. nonetheless. Today a giant sail with elevators ferrying guests into their luxurious temporary abodes(not so much nowadays, given the clasp of the pandemic), stands a short walk away from where I laid down every night through those years.

So, as I said, privileged. The glow of that privileged aura enlightened everyone but me. The darkness in my mind and the hellish daily existence was the burden designated specifically to my tender shoulders.

The most cherished memories I have from those days were two very specific recurrences, one being those of the mornings, waking up from dreams I couldn’t recollect but an excitement drenched eagerness of somehow everything being magically correct or at least my perception of it and the other being the absolute giddy-with-joy along with the feeling of relief when I would answer the home phone and be conversed with as one would with a girl of my age, yes, right up until puberty rubbed its devilish hands together and sought to decimate everything that was me, I had quite the low pitched vocal note.(Not appropriating this widely accepted and practiced sexist viewpoint in any way, but this was me in a different time)

Approaching the teen years, the sensations from within of discomfort under my skin had made themselves pretty prevalent. Not so eloquently but nonetheless, now I know it was that. By now, in the company of my slowly increasing boy – friends(not in the copulatory sense, not yet at least) I had slowly been ushered into the cool “Trump’s Locker Room” talks. Eureka! Eureka! Eureka!, if only I had that expression at my disposal then, smh. The excitement was short-lived as I came to grasp with what really was going on inside me. I felt humiliated, the gut wrenching kind. Incomprehensibly, I had discovered myself processing those statements in the shoes of those they were pointed at. Why the Eureka? Well, for the first time through my short yet tiresome existence I had found some sort of solace in my sentiments. A feeling of relatability. I literally had no sense of belonging what-so-ever prior to this. I found myself excusing myself to leave the gathering at the gym to hurriedly head to the nurse’s office where it was common practice to complain of a headache and get to lay down there for the duration of a period.

What I was unaware off, was the existential crisis I was sprinting towards.

Laying on that gurney behind a sheer curtain, the downpour of questions just burst upon me.

What was that? Why did I feel like that? Well, if I did feel it, why did the sudden gush of shame pour over me preventing me from expressing my true feelings about the conversations/discussions? Why was it that my mind processed my inner conversations and thoughts using female pronouns for myself? Was I sick? Was I a “خنيث‎”? Are my parents going to be ashamed of me? Are they going to be angry at me? Am I going to be subjected to more bone wrenching, tear gland emptying thrashings? Do my parents already know off whatever this is, hence justifying their expedited unleashing of wrath upon me? Was I a disgrace? Am I hurting those who “Love” me? Am I just another obligatory expense on the weekly grocery list? What is wrong with me? Is this why I had to learn how to smile?

The questions piled on with each passing minute. At this point, as clear as the waters of Blue Lake, I remember, almost feeling it too, the shudder of fear that ran from the nape of my neck right down to my toes, of going back home. My fate in question, the darkness crept in. Exposure to movies and the ever-lingering stench of the locker room talks, had a few times insinuated to me the advantages of leaping off of a precipice. The seductive thought of all the pain(physically endured and introspectively acquired) ending, questions stopping and most of all, the soul-hurting pain of being a pathetic burden lured me into final thoughts. This was it, I had to make it happen, for the sake of those who “loved” me and as a penance, I had to cease to exist.

Ever felt disheartened at not achieving a set goal? I failed at the one task that I had earmarked as the conclusive relief from myself.

I stood under the luke warm shower, staring down my naked body splattered with blues and blacks. The omnipresent tremble in my legs served as one of the innumerable mementos of torment elicited by my fruitless endeavour towards ending the catastrophe that was, Me. A paroxysm of fear, defeat and anguish made their presence violently felt, so much so, I failed to realise the warmness trickling down my thighs was not that of just the shower only to notice it moments later while mapping the bruises across the stomping ground, in this case, yours truly.

The physical manifestations of the displeasure of my existence were abundant, frequent and in no measure or manner, a new development.

Moving along, on the timeline that is my life, early teens, by now all brain warping thoughts, doubts and self-assessment bouts had been thoroughly pummelled into the darkest and deepest caves of the squishy goo that is making me write now. Admittedly, at some point I learnt to make peace with myself and it’s journey that was my life. It was an uneventful but brief period. The glands secreting hormones into my bloodstream decided, that I had not had enough demoralizing discombobulations and decided to subject me to physical attraction towards the only two genders I was aware off. Yes, at this point, what others my age found themselves enlightened to be introduced with, I was bewildered and retarding rapidly towards the darkness again.

My method to this madness that was the inner battles, was immersing myself in academics.

To be continued…