To be honest, I don't know who I am.

And I don't know if I have a story to tell yet.

I wasn't a very expressive child.

I grew up with a lot of adults around me, so my opinions were shunned because they were foolish, they were silly and of course they were childish.

So because nobody wanted to listen to me, I automatically believed that they didn't want me around. 

I remember drinking Septol and chewing blades, just so I could remove myself from their presence and when that didn't work, I believed that I had no choice but to exist.

I was desperate for attention from my parents. I remember packing Vitamin C tablets into my mouth just so that it would be orange enough on my tongue so that it would seem like I was bleeding. I remember running to my mother's room with my orange tongue and lying to her that I was bleeding, which of course she did not believe. When she turned me away that day, I automatically believed that she did not want me.

I liked to dream and make up a world where people actually liked me, where people wanted to talk to me, now that I think about it maybe I wouldn't have felt so strange if I had friends as a child. But I didn't have any friends so of course I thought that I was strange.

Is it weird that I became more expressive the day that I was sexually assaulted in a church?

I think I learned to speak up for myself that day, when I came back from church and I lay in my bed, covering myself with sheets because all I wanted to do that day was hide. I felt so ashamed of what a stranger had done to me. I felt like if anyone else looked at me at that point, that was all that they would see, my shame.

My mother came to my bed and sat beside me, dragging the covers down from my face to ask me what was wrong, and then I told her how a man had followed me into the toilet and he had kissed me. I remember how fast my heart beat that day, how I didn't even know whether I should cry, I remember being so terrified of what she would do after she found out, I remember wondering if she would like me even less.

But what my mother had done shocked me, she had gone to my father and they had taken me to the car and drove me back to church. My father screamed at the children's church management and yelled at the security to find the man who had assaulted his child (they never found him).

And while my father screamed at them, my mother held me close to her body and she looked at me, she looked at me like she wanted to protect me.

And that was when I knew that I was loved.

That day after I got home, my father held my shoulders, looked me in the eyes and said, "I will kill anybody that hurts you,". 

That was when I knew that it didn't matter how silent I was, that whenever I chose to speak up, they would always be there to listen.

I had never been aware of it then, I had never been aware of how strong my voice was before then, how much danger that it could cause.

How strange is it, that an issue of sexual assault made me aware of how loud my voice is?

After that incident, I learned to make friends, I became more outspoken, more loud, basically, I grew up.

And the older I grew the more I realized that my parents weren't really the heroes I thought they were.

I loved my father so much as a child, but the older I grew the more that love faded, because all of a sudden I was no longer his little girl. I was suddenly this growing angsty teenager who was sad all the time.

I was sad when our house help ran away, because I knew why she did, I knew that my father was exactly the kind of man that he desperately wanted to protect me from, 

When I found out what my father was doing to her, I wanted to tell my mother, but my mother was always busy with something and every time was always the wrong time for us. So I would bottle all the anger that I felt at being left alone by her and I would throw tantrums and get angry when I didn't get my way. 

I disliked her for a long time because of that, I disliked her even more when I told her and she was unfazed, she had known about it or suspected it for a while. I had expected her to cry or get angry or do something.

But she did nothing, she did nothing until our house help ran away.

But now that I think about it, what would she have done? 

Would she have divorced her husband? 

Who apart from me would have understood why she had to divorce him?

The older I get, the more I want to tell my mother's story. The more I understand it, even if I don't fully support it.

I think of how strong she had to be, to bear that alone. I think of how the marriage that was supposed to be a union, a partnership has done nothing but punish her.

And I want to tell that story.

I want to tell the story of our house help, a girl who was going to be assisting with chores and attending school while living with us, until she was assaulted by a man that was supposed to be her guardian. I want to tell that story.

I still don't have a story to tell, but if I did, I know who wouldn't tell my story

It is definitely not my father, the man who beat me severely to teach me that a girl must be bent into submission. To teach me to fear the men in my life.

It is definitely not Mr Majek, the teacher that made fun of me in front of the whole class because I stained the toilet in primary school.

It is definitely not my music teacher who always wanted me to sit on his lap even though they were other perfectly working chairs.

And it is not the stranger who kissed a six year old girl in a church toilet.

It is none of those people, because I have decided to take matters into my own hands, I have decided that I shall not allow myself to be ruled by my bad experiences.

I have decided that I would not be that six year old girl who could not even scream when a random man walked into the toilet I was in.

I am not scared of my voice anymore, I still haven't decided who would tell my story or what story I would tell, but at least now I am aware that I have the gift of choice. 

I get to choose who tells my story in the end.

That is the point, I can choose now.

Happy Women's Month!!!

#WM2024