Yours, Hatefully! (ORIGINAL)

13

«Michelle»

Once upon a time, if I were having a bad day, my mother's smile and her stupid ass lame jokes would cheer me up.

Her tiniest brush on my skin would fill me up with joy. Growing up, I starved for physical touch. As a little kid I thought if someone loved me they would want to touch me.

Like hold my hand, or kiss my cheeks, or hug me but I am a touch deprived child.

The highest form of affection my mother gave me was a pat on the back. And gradually I became used to it. That's why I would flinch if someone came too near to me or if their hands brushed against mine accidentally.

I craved for it for a long time. I needed to get rid of the feeling of emptiness and the mindset that if people loved me they would not be afraid to hold me close to them.

But it never happened.

I would look at fathers playing with their children in the park swaying them in their arms and that empty feeling would return.

I would look at mothers hugging goodbye to their children and that empty feeling would return.

My mother usually just waved her hands from afar.

And slowly I started settling for less. I expected less, less, less, and then not at all.

I felt unloved. Maybe people I loved didn't touch me because I was unworthy of that kind of tenderness.

But one day my perspective changed.

The very thing I craved for became the biggest thing I hated.

Unexpected things happen at unexpected times. A storm came in my life and snatched away the innocence of a child.

A girl who saw love in lazy morning hugs, in soft feather touches on the knuckles, in forehead kisses died slowly.

And a new girl who was disgusted by the slightest touch on her skin was born. Someone who didn't saw love in touches anymore. A girl who'd want to die if anyone touched her.

If I could go back in time I'll save the old Michelle.

Killing myself with my own bare hands was the cruelest thing I did to myself.

No one had a clue what I went through because I never let them know.

My mother thought I was growing up this was my maturity. But she had no idea that my innocence was ripped from me.

I can't believe she never sensed that something was very wrong with me.

What kind of mother she was if she couldn't sense my pain without me opening my mouth? What kind of mother she was if she could not feel the pain in my eyes? What kind of mother she was if she believed my lies and would never want to know why I always returned home with so many bruises?

The eleven year old Michelle was no longer a confident child.

If my mother raised her voice slightly, I'd lock myself and cry for hours. If someone touched me, I'd spend hours in my bathroom washing myself until my skin was blood red. I'd grow wary of people. If too many boys were crowding a place, I'd change my route. I'd show no skin if I went out. I was afraid to meet new people.
If someone stared at me too long, I'd want to hide. If someone was affectionate to me I anticipated the moment when they finally realize that I was unworthy of love.

They always did.

I was no longer a soul and a mind. I was a body holding million pieces of my heart in my hands.