Gaslighting flashbacks

I don’t feel like doing anything. If the mobile phone is in front of me, I keep scrolling Instagram. Though I see repetitive posts, I keep scrolling.

My personal pandemic

I think I should start taking my anti-depressants again.

Why I decided to run away (PART-2)

To read PART-1, click here.

DISCLAIMER: Loads of swear words coming up.

Why I decided to run away (PART 1)

I have written these blog posts when I have not yet run away, I just scheduled these posts to go public after my act of freedom. Plus, also because I am slightly paranoid my game would be up before my independence day itself, ’cause my sister knows about this blog and though she is busy with her studies, I do not want to take any chances. DISCLAIMER: Graphic violence coming up. 

For you to understand why I took this crucial step, you need to know the background events leading to this train of thought.

I was nailed headfirst on the floor by that sperm donor on 13 January 2016. I had a horribly disfigured potato-size swelling on my forehead. My hair was pulled and my face slapped until I couldn’t feel any pain. I think that’s why I am so accustomed to pain since childhood, so accustomed that I enjoy the pain when I slice my thighs open with that mini-cutter.

I was dragged across the floor by my legs. I felt like a dead body being dragged after being shot in the head.

I still have nightmares where I wake up screaming and kicking the air, as I replay that scene in my REM sleep. And when I wake up, I just can’t stop thinking about how to smash that “manhood” of his, that “manhood” of his which gives him the utopian right to slam me and my mother in front of me and my sister.

I repeatedly cut my hands in college in February 2016. I did not want to contain those cuts only on my legs, I wanted to show to others what I am going through. I do not care if a thousand people around me think I am nutsy-loco and bitch behind me, but if one human would help me in spite of all those tears and blood loss, I’ll gladly take that one attention-giver for once.

My therapist and doctor advised me to avoid him as much as possible and concentrate on my studies as much as I could muster up shit up. Because it would be only one year later than I would complete my graduation and then I could go away from this place which reeks of nightmares.

So I stayed dormant for one year, hoping for freedom in a legit way.

Read my Open Letter to my nightmare here.

Open letter to my Nightmare

For my ex-narcissist nightmare,

Congratulations, Mr. Gaslighter! You just saved Rs.2,00,000! How? Why, if the money spent on me is 8k per month, it’d be Rs.96,000 in one year. And if you were willing to free me from your clutches and follow my dreams, that would cost Rs. 1,20,000. Let’s add them both, shall we?  Total Rs.2,16,000. I have run away from my otherwise destined prison.

YES. I HAVE RUN AWAY FROM “HOME”. FINALLY. FREEDOM!!!

Sons and Lovers

HE(father) mops around like a damp towel on his soul and I don’t feel too poisonous on him these days and I just regard that soul with pity. I know it’s no good trying it over again. My views about HIM being a blasted aspen have changed ever since I read “Sons and Lovers”. A sound novel. A very sound novel. My life changed after reading it, my doubts cleared and my soul deepened.

This novel is basically about Sons, and well, Lovers.

It reeks of Oedipus Complex from within and without, but I would say it’s much, much deeper than that.

My black hole exsistence.

Today I am going to tell you more about 13 January 2017.

HE said ravenous sh*t about it all being my fault and I got so damn volcanic angry that I got real explicit and blasted out. ( I don’t like calling HIM as my father and so call HIM as, well, “HIM” )

It’s all mummy’s fault, is it? Then there are only two possibilities :

• She is a Mother Virgin and I plopped out of nowhere.
•  Mummy slept with another guy, got pregnant, married HIM and hence gave birth to me.

Manhood my ass!

HE said I am not being logical at all. I am being logical. I am being crystal clear logical. And HE slapped me. It’s like he has been waiting for all these days to slap me. HE said “fuck” is a bad word and that mummy taught me such words. I told HIM that it is not a bad word. Penis is not a bad word. Penis is the name given to the male sex organ. It has a specific name. When something has a specific name, you call it by that name. You cannot call it “that” thing and all.

It’s just ’cause HE has a penis, HE has a fucking “manhood”, HE has to be a man, HE has to use all his testosterone and show how dastardly bastard he can be. I always wanted to kick his worm out of his unworthy body.

The Art of Turmoil

Let me tell you about the kind of relationship I have with my father.

” My hero…….. ? “

When I was a child, I worshipped him and used to regularly go out to parks, shops with him. I used to say ta ta every time he left for office and every morning, we used to go and poke the alert touch me nots and make them wither. Everything which he says is true. And so it went it…. until I became an adolescent. 

Soul Sister

Today, lemme tell you about my sister.

We sisters have an age gap of five years, and we share a deep bond. Though, I must admit, it wasn’t so at first. When she was born, I was jealous because everyone had their attention on her now. Another person who just plopped in from nowhere. I even tried pushing her off the chair once,