My first struggle was to silence my love for you, which wasn't allowing me to even acknowledge how brutally you had damaged me. To let myself feel sorry for what was done to me and not for the fact that you were probably feeling guilty. It was an ordeal to shift the locus of my thoughts and emotions, from you to me. To see myself as a priority. To choose my pain and it's healing over yours. And realizations came in drops... bit by bit... over the parched ground of my cracked open heart. With each droplet that trickled down those crevices... I winced. The pain was unbearable. I'd wake up in the middle of the night... doubled over... with my hands over my chest. Trying to physically shield my heart from everything outside. It was breaking with every breath. And I wanted to give it the time... to break at it's own pace. I was in no hurry to collect the pieces. Or to bandage the wounds. I knew they needed to breathe... rather learn to breathe... anew.
Forget men, even women of this generation cannot fathom the depth of the pain that our mothers and grandmothers have endured... in silence... in the name of virtue, in the name of religion, for the sake of honor, for the sake of their children. Entire humankind stands on the graves of the stifled sobs of countless women who spent an entire lifetime blackening their eyesight in smoke... who looked at the world through the hazy partition of a veil. Who lay like a corpse every night while their husbands or men who paid, or men who forced themselves... lay over them... releasing all their toxicity into her birth canal. The same birth canal that was to be the passage of generations to come. Maybe that is why we are a generation of sad and confused souls. Because we've come through that space. That canal... that birth canal that was abused. That birth canal that was shamed. That was used as a cuss word. That birth canal that was violated and molested. We've come through that narrow space and seen it's walls up close. We've seen the tears and lacerations there. We've seen with our own eyes, the bruises of a forced penetration. And our heart wails... wails with the pain of our mothers and grandmothers. We've heard the tales of the resilience and determination of our grandmothers, from the ovaries of our mothers... in utero. We've spent nine months listening to every incident that turned our great grandmothers from carefree toddlers to child brides. And maybe that is why deep down... in it's silence... our soul weeps. Because it remembers... somewhere in a previous lifetime... it was her story indeed.