Bullied to Blossom
“Apne aap ko jaane kya samajhati hai!” (“What does she think of herself!”) came the piercing words targeted at me, as I happened to look outside my window sill. And there she was! my bully, my main abuser right in front of my window standing across my house, in the balcony of the house right in front of mine, along with her accomplices, nearly all the children of the front house which belonged to a huge joint family.
As usual, it was another attack on my psyche, the likes of which had already broken me from within. Terrorized and shattered, I tried to escape and vanish somewhere, every time I heard a nasty comment or faced a brutal act of being pulled down. This had become an everyday affair, mainly because my bully (let’s call her Deepti) was the same age daughter of our tenant who occupied a portion of our house, refusing to vacate, which basically meant, no escaping my perpetrators.
There was no respite for me, no matter how hard I tried to not be seen by this gang; especially as the leader Deepti, and her main partner (let’s call her Srija) had developed a favourite past time to have fun at my cost.
Those were the days when I was in 12th std., and I needed to concentrate on my studies more than ever. But I had not even the slightest idea on Earth, about what was going to unfold in the next few years.
I also remember an incident when on a 1st of April, the gang played a prank on me, and this time surprisingly with that whole joint family involved. In that era of the black landline telephone instrument, it was normal to receive any important call at some neighbour’s house who owned the prized possession. I was told there was a call for me, which I without any doubt went to attend, only to find that there was someone playing on me on the other side, which happened twice, the second one at the front house.
Much to my confusion, as I kept back the receiver wondering why or who would call me, the whole family gathered around me, pretending to be surprised at the situation. That was the precise time when the aha moment arrived and I could see the prank as clear as day. But what broke my heart was that even the grown ups who were supposed to be sensible about what was going on, happened to be part of the mischief. With deep humiliation and a shattered self-esteem, I silently returned without having said a word. And the fool’s day continued to haunt me for years, like no other.
In those times, it was very normal to keep your feelings and vulnerability inside you and keep pretending as if everything was normal, especially in some families, even if they had good intentions for you. This was also one of the major reasons I had no one to look up to when I badly needed a shoulder to cry on and listen and assist me in handling the situation. I was all alone in the entire world to face all the brutality, with absolutely no one, not even a couple of friends, I could share it with, as what stopped me was the toxic shame a scapegoat encounters when approaching the world after an emotionally traumatic childhood.
The non stop humiliation, the brutal attacks, the cunning side glances, the camouflaged smiles, and the wicked gestures continued to give me sleepless nights for the coming years.
And as if all this was not enough, there were parallelly more in my class (school) to make the best of my shyness and apparent lack of self worth which made me a soft target for them. The guy who self appointed himself to be the smartest looking one in the class, tearing down on me to show himself off whenever he could, who I became the narcissistic supply for every single day; the trio of girls who never left a stone unturned to make a joke of anyone they could, in order to keep themselves amused at the expense of the introverted classmates. (The distortion the four of them imparted to my name was extremely painful to me, so much so that I developed a dislike for my name and felt ashamed of it.), the backbencher who went on to become a doctor later who enjoyed passing sarcastic comments teaming up with his like minded friends, showing off his intelligence, feeling a blow to his ego, when I surpassed him in the final exams by just a few points.
The pain I endured was too much to handle, and that too with all the loneliness for not being able to express it to even a single person. I would not have been able to come out of this with sanity, had I not taken to…
…writing. All the bottled up emotions without any outlet, had to pour out somewhere safe, and that happened to be the end pages of my notebooks. The tears, the unspoken words, the unanswered prayers, found their way out through scribbling and doodling, which I used to keep safe and unseen like my babies.
Also fortunately, the blessing my Higher Self bestowed me with was the books on positive thinking by Norman Vincent Peale. (I somehow stumbled upon these, gathering dust, tucked somewhere high, far from sight in the local bookstore, which even the storekeeper was disinterested to pull out.) His books inspired me to connect with Christ, who supported me as a spirit guide when I was totally surrounded by utter darkness.
Eventually my writing became my refuge and that was what sailed me through that ocean of intense turmoil. My notebooks were the ones which embraced me like a mother’s womb, my words their soothing lullabies, and the pages crippled off with tears became the eye of the storm, all of which held me in deep healing. Even today as I pour my long buried trauma out, I find it healing me at a very, very deep level. This feels like a sequel and completion for what remained unhealed and hidden.
It was one of those experiences of drowning into my disempowerment which drove me into the quest for life. It was what due to which my inner self became my sanctuary to live in when the outer world became too intolerable to inhabit. It was what shaped me into the human I am. The only thing which saved me was my connection with the Spirit, which brought resources day after day to help me through inspiration, wisdom, and sometimes soul connections, when the time was ripe.
Healing is not always energy work, nor it is always writing though. Sometimes healing is messy, extremely painful, an expression of emotions, spoken or gestured. It requires courage to speak up when no one wants to listen to the truth, when you face the risk of being not only abandoned but also punished for bringing out the uncomfortable on the table. Healing is not confined to penning down your thoughts and feelings, though it does help a lot, but it is the facing of the fears hidden beneath all the unaddressed trauma. Sometimes all it requires is an intent to face self by breaking your silence or setting boundaries.
I have come along way after that episode, and at this point in time, it feels like coming a full circle, integrating loads of lessons learnt along the way, the credit for which I would give to ‘Presence’ within, which held me like a baby, and continues to see me through till date and timelessly. I am not alone, and neither is anyone. For the ‘Presence’ is inside everyone, waiting patiently, even when one is lost in the conundrums of life, not looking for it.
Today I not only wear my complete name on my sleeve like a badge of honour, but I have absolutely fallen in love with it. Understanding more of life, I could also see that a lot of this was my ancestral karma meant to be addressed and dealt with, so I could empathize with my family, as I could see where they were coming from, their own painful childhoods, and the trauma held through so many generations. But all of that had a huge role in moulding me into my true self, and putting me on my most aligned soul path; and above all, the most precious part was all the learning that helped sprout the starseed in me into the star blossom I was meant to be
As someone has said…
They tried to bury us…They did not know we were seeds.
