I knew it, I’ve known it all along. Everyone who’s seen my blog or even if not, anyone who knew how open I was about the things I’ve been through in life asks me to shut the fuck up and never tell my the embarrassing dreadful bits to anyone. Okay they are right, for a reason. Most people aren’t as open-minded as I. I have known this, but that doesn’t stop me. Because my life and I am the outcome of everything that has happened to me. So we sugar coat the horrible bits and that leaves me with a perfect life where it doesn’t allow me to be as fucked up as I am. I am fucked up because of everything that has happened or didn’t happen. So how do I pretend they didn’t happen? How do I embrace myself without embracing the things that has made me the person I am today. Even I know, what the irrelevant people know about me today are 90% of the things I’ve written or talked about openly with someone. Of course trusting them to not spill the beans. But who can you really even trust anymore? I had no idea social media could become such a disease. But I think I always knew being so open about the worst things would come and bite me in the ass. But my policy to that has always been, a person who asks me to shut up about my issues or someone who is ashamed of my life isn’t worth being my ally. 
My mother was the first person who asked me to not tell anyone about what happened, and I asked her why? I was 19 then. And she told me because if I did I would never find anyone who would want to marry me. You know what Mom. That’s fine, because I don’t want a husband whom I can’t be myself around. And I think I’d rather spend the rest of my life just by myself. Who has the strength to love someone when they are nothing but melancholy.
And then there are the Anon Tumblr haters, who surprisingly “lol”s at the word rape. You know what? I may have been raped. Obviously sex without consent is rape. But I was too young to know what the hell was actually happening. I wasn’t saying yes. I wasn’t saying no either. The truth was I hadn’t been sleeping for months or even eating properly, I had no energy in me to fight him. And to this day, anyone whom I’ve told the story to, asks me, why didn’t you scream? why didn’t you run? You wanted it to happen, didn’t you? That’s where I stop answering. Because I do not know how to explain it any further. Where could I have run to in a foreign land with no one I knew ? How could I have screamed when I couldn’t find my voice to even ask him what the hell?
You see, this is something I thought I would forget about eventually. But its fucking annoying how it keeps coming back as I keep growing older. I mightn’t not made a big deal out of what happened. My parents may have glided it way easily than they actually should have. But the withdrawals are always there.
And today, I have to face horrible awful rumors that’s going around. Spread by I don’t even know whom, but I have a feeling someone I once deeply loved is responsible. I might have hurt someone really bad for them to turn the whole world against me, to make sure that I no longer breathe air but hate.