Holding On To Memories Unknown

Why do I write? Is it supposed to be a sort of vent? I wonder what my incessant writing means? Does it mean that I am constantly thinking about what happened and therefore, penning down the medley of emotions that attack me from within? Does it mean that I remind myself how I was violated through my writing? Does it mean that I am trying to hold on to something that is already over and done with? Does it mean that something’s wrong somewhere because I am still holding on to something I’d rather forget? Does my writing show how I’m holding on to something I don’t even know fully? And probably, don’t even understand completely…

Today Baba asked me if I think the medicines are working. He asked me if I am sleeping better. I am. I don’t worry so much before sleeping. I don’t look for reasons to not sleep. I don’t dislike sleep quite as much as I used to. But I didn’t have to talk about the part where I am awake. That hasn’t gone. Sometimes I feel like it has intensified. I can’t even daydream anymore. I slip into a faraway memory that threatens to bombard all my waking moments now that my sleep is relatively better. A faraway memory that’s only half known anyway. What is this middle road? I can’t describe it.

There’s only one sad part though. He’s one of my first memories of feeling loved. No girl should have to be violated… but no girl should have to be in a situation where the violation feels like a form of love that the victim needs. I am disgusted at myself. Mirrors show me the body of a girl who let her body be used as putty in someone else’s hands. Mirrors show me the lips that willingly let someone else in at the tender age of five. Mirrors don’t show the empty feeling I have inside me. No one can see that. People are blind. Blind…


4 thoughts on “Holding On To Memories Unknown

  1. Your writing evokes a strong response. I cringed and the world felt wrong for a while. Disoriented. Untethered. Floating away into nothingness.

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