blush

The year I turned 11 wasn’t a good year. It was the year when my two paternal aunts discovered they had cancers. They didn’t live for long. The disease had struck them fast and hard. They died within a few short months of each other. I was devastated as I prayed so hard for their recovery.

While my aunts were dying, cancer was a hot topic. My mother was discussing it with the neighbors. I could hear the talk of growth, lump and the deadliness of the disease for it was as sure as a death-warrant. So when both my aunts passed away, it left no doubt in mind that cancer was incurable.

When I had budding breasts, I was all at sea about my condition. Terror was playing havoc with me. I thought I was dying and I had nobody to share my frightening thoughts with. It was a dark period for me as I had been crying quietly in the silent of the nights. It wasn’t death that freaked me out, but the knowledge that I would never ever set my eyes on siblings and beloved grandma was the cause of my unhappiness. Not that anyone had ever noticed I was deeply unhappy. Maybe I hid my depression well.

When my secret became too much for me to bear, I broke down and told my younger sister. Had I known it would bring such a huge relief, I would have shared my worry with my sister sooner. It was as if a burden was lifted off my back. Strange enough, the thought of dying flew out of the window the moment I felt released. Years later whenever my sister remembered my confession she would tease me.

Shortly after I’d recovered from my self-inflicted despair, my mother noticed that I needed training bras and bought some for me.

I came home from school to find my mother sitting on the twin swing with my neighbor and her daughter who was four years my senior.

“Hey, your daughter has reached puberty already,” she expressed her surprise. Woe upon me that an innocent remark would bring disaster to me. My mother rushed out of the swing and pounced on me like a bloodthirsty hound. I’d just walked past the gates when this happened.

She grabbed me by my shoulders just to check whether I’d worn bras or not. “Don’t tell me you haven’t worn your bras, you’re a disgraceful girl.” She was pulling hard at my blouse. I resisted as I felt she was stripping me in front of my neighbors. I was oblivious to her blows for at that very moment I was more concerned over my state of undressed. My blouse was pulled out of my pinafore, the top half was unbuttoned and the top parts of the pinafore were flapping on both sides of the skirt. In my struggle I was pushed down on the concreted floor, my upper body hunched over my bended legs with my both arms protecting my front.

I wonder if she had ever felt any remorse when she discovered I was wearing my bras. Had she ever realized her behavior was disgraceful? Strange things could happen every time a remark was made, no matter how innocent or otherwise. Even if it was innocently said, my mother would somehow see an underlying meaning behind it.

The episode of the bras was a good example. In some part of her twisted mind she thought either the neighbor had noticed that I’d not worn bras or implied she couldn’t afford to buy me bras.