I only remember the beginning and the end.
The middle is a black hole. And sometimes I do wonder what exactly happened to mini-me that she just decided to shut everything down. At what point did mini-me say she couldn't deal with it anymore?
Then, I realize, I already know.
I remember the beginning and the end - the hands that touched my chest without me knowing how wrong it was and the hands that ripped my innocence without me knowing how cruel it was.
Knowing yet not remembering certain moments is haunting. Not remembering yet still feeling the hands on my skin is a heavyweight to carry.
I was just a child. It happened for years, and I had no power to stop it. When you're a kid, and someone is abusing you sexually, you don't know at first how terrible it actually is. You do have a feeling that something is wrong because you see the other kids around you, and you notice that they are different from you. But it's only as you grow up, you realize how cruel and damaging it actually is.
It was only until I started to get the help that I realized I got a lot of problems. I was diagnosed with PTSD, and it triggered anxiety, depression, two dissociative disorders: amnesia and depersonalization, as well as alexithymia. I still struggle with depersonalization dissociative disorder that basically makes you feel disconnected from your own body and alexithymia that makes it hard to recognize your own emotions and others.
However, before I got help, it was terrible. After my neighbor finally left, I was just there. I was a pile of confusion because my life and experiences were completely different from everyone around me. I was a teenager, and I was a mess. My emotions just shut down. I was like a mannequin—so inhuman despite looking like one.
Living like that was terrible.
And I had to apologize to so many people for something that was done to me. I had to apologize for not showing sympathy. I had to apologize for flinching away from people. I had to apologize for being me.
There was a time in my high school where this girl got so close to me; I flinched back. I guess I made this scared facial expression despite that I couldn't recognize that I was scared. I kid you not; I had to bow down my head and apologize because she was making the biggest deal about it. She said I offended her.
If there are people flinching away from you, don't take it the wrong way. There are people out there that are trying to protect themselves because they went through terrible things, and moving away is a natural reaction.
After many years of living in silence, I reached a point where I was thinking of ending it. I was suffocating in my own house. I could not deal with people anymore. The weight of my body was so overwhelming. And when I grabbed a knife, I thought about my family.
I couldn't do it.
Around that time, fortunately, I heard that my high school had a therapy program. So I went. But because I was a minor back then, my parents had to sign papers. I lied and told them it was a syllabus (perfect timing, right?), and of course, they believed me since back then, their English was weaker.
The moment I stepped into that room— I cannot put it into words. I don't think there's an actual word to describe how I felt at that moment. But it was like everything just cracked.
For the first time in years, I broke down crying. I couldn't speak properly. I was confused because I felt this tremendous pain that I hadn't felt in so long. I was feeling emotions. I was feeling so much pain. I spent two hours crying. I couldn't speak to her.
I think I cried because I made the first step to get help after so many years of silence, but I have no regrets. It took a lot of courage and bravery to get to that room. But I'm glad that I did.
Because I wouldn't have known all of my mental problems, through the therapy, my behavior started making sense, and I started to see how much the events of being abused hurt my life. Facing that drained my energy. It isn't easy to relive the past. But let me tell you, it does help.
Step by step. You don't have to throw it all out there to your therapist; I mean, I still don't remember that black hole, but I'm facing it. I have for the past half a decade.
And I have done stuff I didn't think I would ever.
Around my second year of therapy, I told my parents and my brother. It wasn't easy. I was a sweaty mess. I got a migraine.
But I told them.
At first, my mom did blame me, telling me I wouldn't have gone through that if I had told her about it. But my therapist pulled her away and talked to her alone for a few hours. I have no idea what she told my mom, but after she got out, she was just crying.
And my brother— it was the first time I saw him sob and break down. He's a strong and buff man, so it was strange to see him looking so small and broken.
But I have to say I'm lucky. My family has been supporting me. If I have a therapist appointment, they take me. It doesn't matter when or at what time or if they are tired. They take me without hesitation.
Their support has been huge. But they don't understand, and I hope they never do. Sometimes my mom tells me that the healing part is taking a long time.
So each time she brings it up, I say, "I'm doing my best."
And each time she tells me, "I know. If I could have taken your place, I would have."
But, no. I don't wish this on anyone. I hate it when my parents say they would have rather that happened to them. I get it, but no.
During the whole process, I started writing. English isn't my first language, and I'm Latina. But my English was so bad. However, I loved it, so I kept practicing and studying English. I read books, trying to figure out a pattern.
One day, I was in bed, and the image of a man smoking and thinking of his past came to mind. That was the birth of Crooked.
I wrote my main characters male because I couldn't write a female character and focus on her. I would see myself as that female, and I couldn't handle it. I also didn't write it from the first point of view because that was too close for me.
It was a male and the way he was just thinking, felt the same way that I did. I was going to therapy thinking of the past, talking about the past, and it felt right to start it that way.
But because English isn't my first language and it wasn't great, a lot of teachers didn't expect much from me. It was pretty obvious by how different they treated the other kids from me.
Except for one English teacher. He was brutal to everyone. He pointed out everyone's weaknesses in writing.
And I have no idea why the hell that day, as we passed by each other in the hallway, I shouted at him that I loved to write.
All he said was to see him after school on Tuesday.
I will never ever regret reaching out to him. I owe him everything that I know about Creative Writing right now.
He was so brutal with my writing, but because of his honesty, each time I got better, he would get so happy. So happy.
I felt supported by someone from the school system for the first time. I felt like I could change. He would show me off to other teachers and students, telling them I was a writer.
I spent four years with him. He is my mentor, my friend, and now I see him as family. We studied diversity in language, classics, modern books, styles of writing, and just so many things. Each time I wouldn't understand something, he explained it in detail.
I gained a little bit of confidence. And I started to feel gratitude.
But most importantly, I was done. I was done with apologizing for something that was done to me. I was done just facing my past instead of my future.
I opened my eyes and realized I had a supportive family and a supportive teacher. They all believed in me. They all helped me in their own way.
So, I started to face forwards. I was an editor of a magazine, then I was the chief of finance and finally I got to be a creative writing teacher. Of course, now, I’m trying to create my own business.
But it wasn’t easy because even working for a magazine you have meetings to go to, And there's people sitting next to you. I still get triggers. I'm still healing.
But I don't let that stop me. I won't be silent anymore. I have goals in life I want to reach, and I understand that reaching those goals will take time. But I will achieve it.
I won't be chained to my past anymore.
I will become a businesswoman. I will become an author.
I am living.
I refuse to be just surviving anymore.
And it's hard as hell. I know it. It's scary.
But you're not alone. I'm here.
And there's thousands out there who are speaking up. And there's thousands more who are remaining silent.
But you're not alone.
And I hope one day, you won't be silent about it.
And I hope we can live again together.
- AliseAsorr
***********************************
The scars of somethings are deep, they just remain there reminding you Time and again of their existence, refusing to heal. To look at these scars and still realise your worth and self beauty is commendable. To rise from something dark and force yourself to move forward with the hope that there are better things in life is tough but once you go through you emerge stronger.
Thank you AliseAsorr for sharing your story, for pouring your feelings out and gathering the courage to write it with your own hands. I cannot fathom the amount of selfmotivation it must have taken to go through something like that.
Support her by reading her book Crooked ❤️❤️.
Also Heartstrings is not just about these warriors it's also about small tiny bittersweet moments. Do send your memories. If they matter to you they matter to me.