This is the pattern of emotional suppression: You grew up learning to swallow every thought, every emotion, including those inflicted by the adults around you.
You were alone, somewhere in the euphoria of heaven, playing and having conversations you never truly understood, yet they soothed your soul and brought you genuine peace—until your parents chose to engage in combat.
It was a struggle that was sometimes sweet, rough, or enjoyable; you couldn't really tell. Or perhaps it was the kind of combat where only one person took wicked pleasure while the other wailed in pain and shame.
It wasn't until you grew up, gaining a bit of sense, that your "rabies- infested mouth" aunty blurted out the truth: you were a child born out of rape.
That was when your emotions locked down, knowing you couldn't be claimed, that your identity was nothing more than shame, anxiety, and a long trajectory of trauma. You choked on your pitiable condition, not knowing what you wanted, and ultimately, not wanting yourself.
In a bid to give you a sense of belonging and some form of closure, your distant cousin-aunty brought you to stay with her in another part of town, far from the life you had known and the people who knew you.
The first night, you didn't sleep well; you were wide awake, wondering what this new environment held for you. The thoughts were loud and terrifying until the tiredness of the journey drowned you, and you finally snored yourself to sleep.
As expected, you always awoke to a new day. For reasons you couldn't tell—be it sheer luck or some invincible wickedness you were gifted with—life defied your pleas to die in your dreams or the pills you took that didn't kill but nourished your body. Such supernatural acts were inconceivable to you, and you hated it altogether.
Now, it was nighttime, and you had worked yourself ragged with the many errands and chores for your aunt and her household. During the day, you had noticed how your aunt's husband looked at you; he stared at your young, ripening breasts that were visible through your cheap crepe dress, the only garment you had, lacking the privilege to demand anything better.
You saw his eyes travel the full circumference of your bouncy buttocks and fully rounded form. He made you hold the bowl of water so he could get a better view of your full posture. You changed the water three times, and he made you walk fast or even run so he could lustily watch your bouncing movement.
Now, it was time to rest from your labor in the stuffy corner where you lay, staring at the darkness in the densely packed room. You had barely succumbed to the exhaustion of sleep when you felt something crawl around your body. It was sweaty, heavy, and choking... The figure rubbed its hands on your tender breast, briskly brushed your nipple—you felt a sharp pain—then it squeezed your buttocks and hushed you, whispering, "Don't shout, it's me."
Then, you knew evil had come, and evil must be met. You pretended that you liked it, making him comfortable enough to bring his face close to your mouth. When you had a clear view of his face, you summoned the inner demon—the one that had helped you play dead—and quickly bit into the flesh of his right cheek with the determination to finally take a pound of flesh: a retaliation for the shame of your birth and the identity this violation was about to steal.
You held your teeth tightly to his cheek until your mouth tasted of raw flesh and blood.
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