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What I told my broken 19 year old self.

I had a dream last night. My life replayed itself, and I watched from a distance, soaking in everything that happened to me.

The man who abused me when I was 4. I watched him roll his eyes with pleasure as he scratched and bruised my vagina. I watched him moan in pleasure as I cowered to his touch and he didn’t stop. I watched as he squeezed the breasts of my 4 year old self, and didn’t stop till I was 14. I watched as he flung me across a corner of the room and threatened me that he will slit my throat if I tell on him. I watched as he convinced a child that she was impure and filthy and nobody would want to touch her anymore.

I watched the 14 year old me fight with an identity crisis. I watched as she finally got the strength to push him away, but instead flung herself at any other guy who made her feel beautiful. I watched as serenades of guys told her they loved her, and each left. Marching away with a broken piece of her soul.

I watched her as she cut herself. Her healthy thighs scarred, her waist cut up, her wrists bandages and her eyes blood shot red as she spent countless days and nights questioning her existence.

I watched her eat her way into depression. Desperate to fit in. To have one conversation that made her feel like she belonged. That someone loved her, or cared about what she felt about the cosmos or the latest celebrity couple.

I watched her struggle with her weight. The way she looked, the way she dressed, the way her teeth looked. I watched her claw her face out in front of the mirror and walk on shattered glass after she flung the ugly reflection she saw.

I watched her dance. I watched her give up on everything else in her life and invest every being of herself in an art form she practiced since she was 4. Every time she felt broken, she danced and she disappeared in the frills of fairy tales and mythology stories that told her stories of strong, confident women. She hoped one day, she’d make history.

I watched my 17 year old self fall in love for the first time. I watched her blush and tremor with his touch. I watched her doodle his name with hers, and fantasize a family with 2 children and a dog with a bookshelf where she’d lose herself to the pages of her favorite book.
I watched her make love to him, surrendering every broken piece she had hidden inside herself. I watched her feel alive for the very first time of her existence.

And then, I watched him hit her. I watched as she lay limp on the floor, eyes wide open in shock as he punched and broke her nose. She hid the bruises. He loved her. He deserves another chance.
She forgave him and poured more love, hoping it would seep into his broken pieces and they would be happy together again.
But he choked her instead. Stabbed her thigh and pulled the hair off her scalp. She forgave him because she loved him. He would change.
One day, he kicked her and slammed her on the floor. He broke her spine. She couldn’t walk. She couldn’t breathe. But she loved him, so she stayed.

But he cheated on her. Called her a whore, an attention seeker. She fell back on memories where others felt the same. They couldn’t understand why she needed bodies and faces to make herself feel accepted, feel wanted, feel loved.

I watched the 19 year old me stop dancing. I watched as she cried in pain every time she leaped and fell on the floor instead. She howled as her knees shook instead of taking on the firm dance position she had mastered in the fourteen years of dancing.
I watched her fall into an abyss of pain as he left, and she still couldn’t stop herself from loving him. I watched as she kept dancing even when she knew she couldn’t dance the way she did. I watched as she drowned herself in cigarettes and whiskey and dark poems that connected with her Demons.

I watched from a distance but I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t tell her that she will make it through, and she has an entire universe of happiness and love awaiting her. I couldn’t tell her that I was watching her life unfold before my eyes, and I could see that she would turn out to be the beautiful, confident woman she always dreamt she would be.
I couldn’t tell her that I saw several other broken beings, holding my hand, feeling everything she felt, doing everything she did. I wanted to tell her that I’m here, and I will save her when she flings herself to the ocean. I wanted to tell her that I won’t let her break anymore, that she is strong enough.

I wanted to beg her to not give up.
And as I held her close to my chest, weeping with her, I woke up.

I am still 19, and I am still broken. I am terrified of loud noises and anybody who could break through the shell I created to protect myself from his blows that ricochet in my brain every night. But now, I know, that it’s okay to be broken. It’s okay to wander from one place to another, fall in love with one face or another, and not belong to a group of people.

I now know, it’s okay to be broken. And I want to tell you, it’s okay to be despised, judged and out of place. Just don’t stop loving, don’t pretend it isn’t hurting.

Fling your broken pieces to every corner of the world. Maybe someday, someone will gather them for you and make you feel whole.

Originally published on : https://rantingsofanartist.wordpress.com