// tw childhood abuse, violence
I still remember what it was like to be Her.
8 years old, being made to look after my little brother, 6 years old.
Vividly, the memories, good and bad emerge,
And she comes to knock every once a while to ask if I've forgotten her, asks me if it's okay if I hold her hand a while. If I can make her some food,
Whenever I find I have a moment to myself.
I remember,
i used to play in the trees with my brother, waiting for the morning bus for school, role-playing a life where it was just us, and no one to be afraid of.
Here would be the kitchen, over there is my room because it's biggest! You sweep up the leaves with this branch, and I'll go make the mud pies for us for lunch.
She always looked down when she walked sidewalks. there was beauty and strength, in everything, especially the smallest of things.
she'd see plants growing through the cracks in the pavement, from once infertile stretch of desert land. she felt connected to the plant. It must know how she feels.
she loved the moon and thought it sentient, following her, watching over her.
she'd speak to the moon, wishing that the people around her, and that all the people and animals in the world were happy.
I remember,
how much I'd hate being forced to wake up before dawn, pulled out of peace within soft, pretty sheets with the image of dark and bass of a voice booming with threat and irritation.
i'm sorry i took too long to wake up.
please don't hurt me.
now forced to wash with cold water. I hated being cold, I wanted it to stop. He was watching me though, I just needed to get it over with. I can barely reach the sink, I need the stool to do the final parts. Just do the morning prayer, Then I can go back to sleep.
I still hate being cold now, going into the freezer at work makes me relive those endless dark mornings.
when those pointless obligations were more important to baba than how I felt.
Rich inner world. yet didn't have the words, couldn't speak, couldn't express herself. Kept to herself. Poked and prodded at by family members. vulnerable.
Teased for being too quiet, and then also for speaking up and sounding too formal, touched when I didn't want to be touched. Hated hugs.
She kept me safe. Screamed, fought, baring teeth all the while. She acted nasty and like she hated everyone when she didn't. Hated lying so she tried to convince herself that she actually did. Mama called me heartless.
She loved me. and often thought of what I'd be like, wishing she could meet me. What would this older, more responsibile person be like?
I know she'd be so happy with me.
I remember so vividly what it was like to be her, the stillness of the mornings, still needing a light to sleep at night for a long time, my brother grateful I'm keeping guard of the bathroom to make sure he was safe to use it in the middle of the night. baba and mama's voices passing by while I pretended to be asleep, reading my comic books.
I am blessed with her memories. And I grieve her loneliness and broken dreams. She was always Fantasizing, wishing for a life she can call her own, not have to worry about endlessly noticing patterns, baba's footsteps approaching the front door nor the inflections in his voice, unless it was for the purposes of marveling at the world.
I carry her deep sadness she dared not to speak out loud. Days felt long, and endless. I have felt every minute. The pain was unfathomable. I wish I had someone to hold me while I cried,
instead of escalating things.
Did it make you feel all big and mighty to have hurt me, "just lost control", but just careful enough to rarely bruise me, always 'missing' my face?
Did you feel oh so powerful, to smack a small child "being difficult" about taking gross medicine into tears, and then again, into silence?
I didn't feel like a real person for most of my life. dissociative state. stoic. everything needed to be pushed down, invisible. I can't be seen or found.
Then, after years of screaming, fighting, and appearing violent and dangerous like a rabid dog, I have finally rewired my nervous system and found the words to the crippling fear and pain she felt was real, but unnamed.
I see her perspective. I close my eyes, I am myself now, but through the eyes of being 10, double digits. Being small, the kitchen table being taller than me, climbing to reach the dinner chair. Need to tiptoe to brush my teeth, too small to see my hair's a mess and that's why the other kids made fun. Small enough to have my whole head grabbed, and shoved into the lowest level of the fridge. I am still her, in essence of thoughts, only now, I can reach the cupboard behind the top of the fridge.
I still share the skin she had that was hurt by someone who was supposed to protect her. but I also share the same skin that held hands with friends, running and pulling them along, that offered lunch when somebody had none, that pet stray cats, and fed them plenty otherwise I'd cry. The same skin that now trembles when a loved one rests their head on me, or lays their hand on my shoulder. slowly starting to let the moment of it settle, finding comfort in the touch, how warm it feels. Instead of being too trapped in my head.
She was so scared to be touched, and to be seen at all. Wanted to ***** if so happened. So young, so full of Spite and blind hope.
Knowing the love I have felt since, the 'blind hope' then is as all hope is, embedded in the grand wisdom that things will always change.
I will always remember her, every detail I burned into memory, even the ones that hurt. Because I know her the most. Her bests, her worsts, her strengths, her why's. Her secrets. Hiding a deeply poisoned self- esteem and repressed feelings. It needs to be me who will always honor her.
I find myself today, at 23 years old. my body is mostly mine, I am alive, and I am breathing. I've been hurt so many times, have hurt others many too. Yet,
I carry her joy,
her spirit,
her love for the world and everything in it, a love so strong that it will hold you, make room for you, and envelop you in feeling that it'll all be okay.
I became the hope she prayed for, the person who saves her, the streak of sharp, warm white light that lets out through a gap into the cold, dusty room, splattering a spectrum of colors.
I want to hold every person who had been hurt like how she was, and protect them with all I have. I want everyone to be well, still.
I look at the world with keen eyes, her eyes, with a much taller body.
I still hug trees, kissing their leaves. I want to be friends with every squirrel, ballet dance, sing loud, joke with strangers and make my loved ones laugh, be my friend's shoulder to cry on.
I still feel happy to watch the sunrise, hearing birdsong, feeling safe, like I did when I was 9, when anyone who could hurt me was asleep.
Who I am now at 23, is the same person I was at 14 in arabic class, when asked to write about our life so far, one theme kept coming into mind, أمل.
I carry her with me. In my heart, and on my shoulders, pointing at the patches of flowers to make sure she sees what I see.
I am endlessly proud of how much she's fought. But I will be who grants her rest. A peace and safety that she's always wanted. I love you. Always, and forever.
Now that I've seen you, I won't let you be alone.
Apr 19
Apr 19, 2026 at 6:25 PM UTC
// tw childhood abuse, violence
I still remember what it was like to be Her.
8 years old, being made to look after my little brother, 6 years old.
Vividly, the memories, good and bad emerge,
And she comes to knock every once a while to ask if I've forgotten her, asks me if it's okay if I hold her hand a while. If I can make her some food,
Whenever I find I have a moment to myself.
I remember,
i used to play in the trees with my brother, waiting for the morning bus for school, role-playing a life where it was just us, and no one to be afraid of.
Here would be the kitchen, over there is my room because it's biggest! You sweep up the leaves with this branch, and I'll go make the mud pies for us for lunch.
She always looked down when she walked sidewalks. there was beauty and strength, in everything, especially the smallest of things.
she'd see plants growing through the cracks in the pavement, from once infertile stretch of desert land. she felt connected to the plant. It must know how she feels.
she loved the moon and thought it sentient, following her, watching over her.
she'd speak to the moon, wishing that the people around her, and that all the people and animals in the world were happy.
I remember,
how much I'd hate being forced to wake up before dawn, pulled out of peace within soft, pretty sheets with the image of dark and bass of a voice booming with threat and irritation.
i'm sorry i took too long to wake up.
please don't hurt me.
now forced to wash with cold water. I hated being cold, I wanted it to stop. He was watching me though, I just needed to get it over with. I can barely reach the sink, I need the stool to do the final parts. Just do the morning prayer, Then I can go back to sleep.
I still hate being cold now, going into the freezer at work makes me relive those endless dark mornings.
when those pointless obligations were more important to baba than how I felt.
Rich inner world. yet didn't have the words, couldn't speak, couldn't express herself. Kept to herself. Poked and prodded at by family members. vulnerable.
Teased for being too quiet, and then also for speaking up and sounding too formal, touched when I didn't want to be touched. Hated hugs.
She kept me safe. Screamed, fought, baring teeth all the while. She acted nasty and like she hated everyone when she didn't. Hated lying so she tried to convince herself that she actually did. Mama called me heartless.
She loved me. and often thought of what I'd be like, wishing she could meet me. What would this older, more responsibile person be like?
I know she'd be so happy with me.
I remember so vividly what it was like to be her, the stillness of the mornings, still needing a light to sleep at night for a long time, my brother grateful I'm keeping guard of the bathroom to make sure he was safe to use it in the middle of the night. baba and mama's voices passing by while I pretended to be asleep, reading my comic books.
I am blessed with her memories. And I grieve her loneliness and broken dreams. She was always Fantasizing, wishing for a life she can call her own, not have to worry about endlessly noticing patterns, baba's footsteps approaching the front door nor the inflections in his voice, unless it was for the purposes of marveling at the world.
I carry her deep sadness she dared not to speak out loud. Days felt long, and endless. I have felt every minute. The pain was unfathomable. I wish I had someone to hold me while I cried,
instead of escalating things.
Did it make you feel all big and mighty to have hurt me, "just lost control", but just careful enough to rarely bruise me, always 'missing' my face?
Did you feel oh so powerful, to smack a small child "being difficult" about taking gross medicine into tears, and then again, into silence?
I didn't feel like a real person for most of my life. dissociative state. stoic. everything needed to be pushed down, invisible. I can't be seen or found.
Then, after years of screaming, fighting, and appearing violent and dangerous like a rabid dog, I have finally rewired my nervous system and found the words to the crippling fear and pain she felt was real, but unnamed.
I see her perspective. I close my eyes, I am myself now, but through the eyes of being 10, double digits. Being small, the kitchen table being taller than me, climbing to reach the dinner chair. Need to tiptoe to brush my teeth, too small to see my hair's a mess and that's why the other kids made fun. Small enough to have my whole head grabbed, and shoved into the lowest level of the fridge. I am still her, in essence of thoughts, only now, I can reach the cupboard behind the top of the fridge.
I still share the skin she had that was hurt by someone who was supposed to protect her. but I also share the same skin that held hands with friends, running and pulling them along, that offered lunch when somebody had none, that pet stray cats, and fed them plenty otherwise I'd cry. The same skin that now trembles when a loved one rests their head on me, or lays their hand on my shoulder. slowly starting to let the moment of it settle, finding comfort in the touch, how warm it feels. Instead of being too trapped in my head.
She was so scared to be touched, and to be seen at all. Wanted to ***** if so happened. So young, so full of Spite and blind hope.
Knowing the love I have felt since, the 'blind hope' then is as all hope is, embedded in the grand wisdom that things will always change.
I will always remember her, every detail I burned into memory, even the ones that hurt. Because I know her the most. Her bests, her worsts, her strengths, her why's. Her secrets. Hiding a deeply poisoned self- esteem and repressed feelings. It needs to be me who will always honor her.
I find myself today, at 23 years old. my body is mostly mine, I am alive, and I am breathing. I've been hurt so many times, have hurt others many too. Yet,
I carry her joy,
her spirit,
her love for the world and everything in it, a love so strong that it will hold you, make room for you, and envelop you in feeling that it'll all be okay.
I became the hope she prayed for, the person who saves her, the streak of sharp, warm white light that lets out through a gap into the cold, dusty room, splattering a spectrum of colors.
I want to hold every person who had been hurt like how she was, and protect them with all I have. I want everyone to be well, still.
I look at the world with keen eyes, her eyes, with a much taller body.
I still hug trees, kissing their leaves. I want to be friends with every squirrel, ballet dance, sing loud, joke with strangers and make my loved ones laugh, be my friend's shoulder to cry on.
I still feel happy to watch the sunrise, hearing birdsong, feeling safe, like I did when I was 9, when anyone who could hurt me was asleep.
Who I am now at 23, is the same person I was at 14 in arabic class, when asked to write about our life so far, one theme kept coming into mind, أمل.
I carry her with me. In my heart, and on my shoulders, pointing at the patches of flowers to make sure she sees what I see.
I am endlessly proud of how much she's fought. But I will be who grants her rest. A peace and safety that she's always wanted. I love you. Always, and forever.
Now that I've seen you, I won't let you be alone.
i was gifted many words to describe how hopeful I've been feeling lately. I've been sad, but im slowly healing. My heart hurts to remember my childhood room that I feel I could almost walk into, and things I've been through, but it turns into happy knowing how much she'd be happy knowing who I am now.
Also, I consider myself nonbinary. But I see my younger self as "she", not necessarily aggressively gendering, but that's just what she knew, yknow? It didn't matter too much at the time.
