My blood boils. You think it will evaporate, leaving me dead and pale after all the irregular menstruation every month, but no. I exist. I still feel the anger in multi folds that I used to. Even after almost a decade now. Wow! About ten years. And it still feels like yesterday.

My earliest memory of my sexual abuse is my first cousin feeling my per-pubescent chest and remarking that I don't have any breast. His hands felt cold I think. I have a feeling that they were cold. That filled me with a feeling of not being 'enough'.

I was at my home. A place till date marked as 'Safe' by my parents.

My mother and aunts (his mother too) used to leave us children at home to go shopping. Our favourite pass time was to play hide n seek by making the house dimly lit. He used to keep me with him at most times. Touching me when in dark corners or when no one was looking.

There is a long tale that follows on similar path from here. For the next ten years I was this person. The next 6 years now I have spent not to be that person. Spiraling and screaming in every direction. There is a monologue running through my mind 24x7 now. I am successful in silencing that when I am busy with work. Because what I fear is that I will come closer to my reality if I start giving into the monologue.

I am writing this. I always knew I would start writing this one day. I didn't plan this and I am thankful for that. Because I am certain now that more will follow after this.

The Childhood Was Lost. Again and again.