This is a piece of my story – I have been trying hard for them not to, define me.
Because you see sometimes,
no matter how many pills you pop,
you just can’t blur reality out.
So, here it goes:
She looks at me my younger sister with those intense black eyes
So full of meaning
She says:
“You know that you are incredible to me,
unique, super funny, strong”
I laugh.
It seems as though we are still kids.
There is nothing I can do wrong
to make this girl, this woman,
not look at me with admiration. With love.
I remember the bright lights of the courtroom:
she didn´t come.
I am there, by his side.
Always by his side,
not hers.
The fake yellow light bounce off the fake wooden tables, perfectly polished.
I am spoken to,
I am questioned, confronted.
My voice shakes,
my hands shake,
my body is paralyzed.
I can feel the paleness of his face, almost grey.
The judge speaks:
“If the victim doesn´t speak there is not much that we can do”.
I hear a sound,
a trembling, familiar murmur, shit it’s me:
“I am not a victim, my family lied.”
I take his hand, we leave.
The phone rings.
It´s her voice,
“I read everything; you know trial scripts are public?!
I read everything!”
My sister the law student;
“You lied, you lied!”
I hear her rage.
I hear her heart breaking, I feel my heart breaking.
And then
A year of Silence.
It’s her graduation day.
I am not there.
She is an exemplary student.
She walks up to the podium to receive her diploma
She is high, she can barely walk.
She is not present, she is looking for me.
And then…
I scream. “Let me go!
I am over 18, I am an adult!
You cannot keep me here against my will!“
She is there.
I don´t see her.
I don´t see anything, hear anything.
I don´t want to be anymore,
I don´t want to come back but
the leather straps hold my wrists down.
And yet, there she is:
She runs frantically through the house:
prepare, prepare, we have to prepare!
She is coming home.
She picks up the scissors, knives, razor blades.
What else, what else, she asks herself, must I hide?
Screams.
More Silence.
Love – or something that felt close enough.
Again I am by his side.
I am always by his side;
never by hers.
It’s the day of her wedding.
I am there.
I didn´t even know she was getting married.
I watch from afar.
I drink
I am wearing a pink dress, full of ruffles.
I can´t recognize myself buried in these ruffles.
I can’t recognize myself, a stranger to her.
He is prohibited from coming.
I have to get away from him.
I do, I am with her, whatever she needs I am with her.
Maybe life isn’t such shit after all.
Maybe it can get better.
Then, May happened.
It’s funny how the memory of the days after blur but the feeling is still so vivid
That night I broke the rules, and paid the price in my sleep
My home, my bed, my blue flannel pajamas, my safe place.
I froze, I am not there, I am silenced
The next day I get up and go to work, and the day after
Half a year goes by... I tell her.
I tell her
No more silence.
I had to throw them out –my pajamas they were my favorite pajamas.
“I wanted to tell you”
“I wanted to tell you”
I sent her a whatsup, an everyday whatsup.
She calls me.
I don´t want to answer.
“DO YOU KNOW HIM” she says
“no”
“I won´t make you accuse him because the Chilean law system is a piece of shit. But there are things that we can do.
We can kill him.”
The seriousness in her voice,
the rage, where is my rage?
the power,
Fuck him!
FUCK HIM!
“YOU ARE NOT TO BLAME”, she tells me.
Am I not to blame?
I wish I could see myself just one day
through her eyes.
You see for me to fight like a girl is to have to unlearn every day the lack of trust.
To unlearn, that a playful tug from your boyfriend won't turn into violence, to feel secure that those who care won't turn on you, when you show weakness. To be able to take a compliment or smile.
I have to unlearn that the world is not a place where I have to control every minute of the future and present.
Unlearn that fight or flight are the only two states I have to be in because otherwise I will without doubt get hurt again.
And most of all to be able to trust myself.
You see my reaction was fright, I froze, and I am trying so hard to forgive myself for this every day for this, to trust that if one day I see myself in a situation of risk with my 9-year-old daughter I will damn well fight with all the strength that I have, and more.
All I can hope for, for myself and all the women here is that one day "our strength will not be measured by how many times we are abused without breaking".
* Amanda Ahumada
I was born in Calgary, Alberta, Canada February 1979 to two Chileans. At 13 years of age, I started a new chapter of my life when my parents returned to Chile.
I have a beautiful daughter who fills my soul with joy.
Stand-Up Comedy The Chistolas:
Storytelling in Santiago:
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario