Child sexual abuse: The moon

Read part four here.

Read part three here.

Read part two here.

Read part one here.

"Jo log sucche raste par chalte hain unki sahayta bhagwan hamasha hii karta hei." (People who take the right path - God always helps them.)

I was reading a text yesterday afternoon which postulates the origins of the festival of Holi. Raisa, my Hindi tutor, pointed out, "Note that God is addressed in the intimate form in this sentence. It would have been the verb karte if it was formal, but here, the verb karta is used instead."

At Bible study class today, Carol highlighted John (13:23) viz. "Now there was leaning on Jesus' bosom one of his disciples, whom Jesus loved", a reference to John himself, written in the third person as was the convention of the time. The very gesture emphasised the close relationship, the intimacy, between Jesus and John, probably the former's nephew.

Growing up, I used to stare at the moon, my symbol for God. The moon was always there. Granted, the moon would go through different forms in its various stages, but it would hang there, this giant luminiscent orb in the inky sky. My comforter; pearly constant.

I was incredibly lonely. I felt singled out, different, because of my abuse. I feared that people would leave me if they knew my secret. I felt that I did not deserve love - that only God could understand me and be there for me.

One of my sources of pleasure as a teen was dancing in my room. I would switch off the lights, and twirl to my Walkman, my long hair flowing as I keep a watchful eye for any shifts in the shadows underneath the door that would signal that my mother was approaching. She was a strict disciplinarian and was against my dancing which she considered unbecoming of a young lady. I had caught myself in time several times, trying to keep my heaving chest still as she looked at me suspiciously. I called myself "Princess of the Night", indulging in these short, nightly escapades.

When I was younger, to escape my loneliness, I would disappear into daydreams, pretending I was a sibling of Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker in Star Wars. I craved attention and knew that I was different somehow. "Unwanted" different, not necessarily "good" different although at times, I did think that I was special.

As I grew older, I tried telling myself that I needed no one. But the self-talk dissipated everytime I moved country. The first night that I put my bags down in a new apartment, I'd burst into tears, wondering what on earth had compelled me to move in the first place. I was scared of being abandoned, of being left alone to fend for myself with no one to care for me.

I would go to the nearest window and gaze at the night sky. The sight of the moon would give me some solace.

I don't need the moon now. I think I've moved beyond symbolism, and I've grown to accept and learn how to trust people.

But someone asked me recently, "Whom do you trust?" The question stumped me - I thought I'd have a glib answer ever ready on my tongue but I didn't. The question made me pause, and for good measure too.

He continued, looking at me, "You trusted and leaned on your mother when you were little. Maybe not now, but you did then.

Forgive her. Forgive her and move on."

Maybe I will.