playing victim

I know empty pages will always be there for me. Even if the words that I spill out onto them are invitations for misinterpretation and misunderstandings. Sometimes a simple diary entry is enough to prove abuse or an assault.

The three older people in my family will never understand my words, because their English is not good. This is the truth, but if they ever hear me say this they will get defensive and accusations of me calling them stupid will rise. It might even end with a broken plate, or a thrown chair, or a bruised face.

Perhaps that is where our miscommunication lie. I have the ability to twist the words in this language around, making them either powerful or ugly with truth while they can barely form full sentences. While they can barely understand me without tripping over themselves.

I am not ashamed of sharing the truth, which is why I have written a lot about them in here over the years. They are only triggered because their tendons are exposed. God, the one they don't pray to, forbid that anyone sees the dysfunctional family that they are.

My dad is right, I have been giving an attitude. If that is what he calls standing up for myself or taking the knives pointed at me to fight back, he is right. Only because I have never wanted anything as much as I want to get married. Not even the dreams of being a writer since I was seven.

So I have been fighting for a new life with someone who treats me well. When I was a child, simply commenting a dog was cute warranted a scolding from my parents. You can't say that, it's wrong because dogs are wrong! Just as well, it would be a ticket to hell saying someone else treats me better than my parents. You can't say that, it is wrong to speak ill of the people who gave birth to you! Even if they have abused you your whole life!

Here I am at twenty-five, finally speaking up for what I want: a wedding with the person who doesn't lay a finger on me. It is ironic that I have to seek permission from the very man who has beaten and kicked me since my childhood. Apparently because this is my test from God, of course this man and his wife are the ones who make it impossible. Him with his ego and her with her moneyface. My partner has his own tests, of course, but those are his stories to tell.

I've known for a long time that speaking to my parents is difficult. Not because of miscommunication yet, but because they immediately lash out when I'm just enquiring. What do you want a fifteen thousand dowry for? Because you are the only girl Eindah, and I am your mother! Why do you want it to be at a CC when we found a nicer and cheaper place? No I don't care, I say CC means CC!!!

With a snap of my finger I turn these simple enquiries into straight demands. No, I am doing it on this day and this place, no, I will not postpone it, no, I don't see you taking this seriously. And I know I have shocked poor old daddy by not taking his shit anymore, so predictably he retaliates. Don't you dare say I am not taking it seriously, don't accuse me of not doing anything when it's your fault for wanting to get married on short notice!

(It wasn't short notice. I had brought up the topic since mid last year and they both brushed me off because it was too soon and because my grandfather just passed away and we are all supposed to be in mourning.)

That came from the same person who was smiling to my future parents-in-law just a few days before. Giving beauty pageant worthy answers, encouraging us to marry soonest to escape accusations. No, I could not tolerate his deception and the taking back of his words, so I fought. And that is what he has called 'lawan', in the sobbing rants to my paternal grandmother.

These little conversations are what led from one thing to another. While my mother was planning the meals for the unnecessary merisik she insisted on, my father was reading the news of the first local Covid-19 deaths and told her to cancel. Rarely do my mother and I agree, but we both decided to ignore him and went on with it. He reacted by running away, and although I'm still unsure whether he did go to work, I give him the benefit of the doubt.

I believe that is the point the cold shoulder started. Ignoring me, refusing to be in the same space or dining table as me. My younger brother and I on our sahur, and he blatantly addresses only him with reminders that time is almost up. Even after I overheard him complaining that his backpack had torn and I'd secretly bought him a new one online. A forced thanks over text, and back to the cold shoulder.

Being forced to be home for two months is a fight for my life. Little things make me fear for myself, from the lightbulb buzzing that eventually merges into my head to the screaming of children outside my bedroom door. Little things like half empty cartons of milk and abandoned chocolate bars in the refrigerator. I did not need immaturity from a fifty six year old couple to add to the mix.

So I run away to the second roof over my head, somewhere in Mountbatten. In the past it was always a comfort, six cats and dreamless sleep. What more could I ask for? A question that turns into doubt and suspicions of just me being ungrateful.

I never had a problem with the hoarding, but of course the junk piling up is symbol of the little things accumulating inside me. A room where the only free space is the T shape on the floor that my grandmother and I sleep in. The lack of a mat to dry our feet outside the toilet door because the cats will pee on it, making dirt stick to the soles of my feet wherever I walk.

Waking up at four in the morning to sahur, and hearing scutter sounds when you turn on the kitchen light. The sight of huge roaches scurrying back to their hiding places behind containers of milo and bottles of soya sauce. By the time I wake my grandmother up out of fear, none of the pests are in sight, and she comes the conclusion that they're gone and won't come back. A cockroach lays 40 more eggs every time she says this sentence.

It has messed me up to the point where I could not remove a tube of toothpaste from its box without fearing there is something hiding inside. Where I could not sleep from the thought that a roach is crawling towards me, hiding among the junk all around me. Well, why don't you just clean? I admit I'm too unstable to clear these mountains without fear and paranoia clutching me with everything I touch.

The two people living there don't want to clean either. I know they are old and tired, so I want to help. But it is so discouraging to hear one say Eh, sayang about paper bags and food containers, and to see the other keeping used masks and apple covers to make crafts with. I am torn between staying there and not, but whenever I'm away I tear up thinking of that junkyard being the last place either of them rests in.

With that knowing of cockroaches scurrying around and the cats vomiting in places we can't see, comes the lack of appetite. You know how grandmothers will force you to eat, even when you don't feel like it looking at the state of the house. It makes you want to cry to her about it, but your family has a history of rolling their eyes and laughing when they see your tears.

So what do you do when the two places you sleep in and eat suddenly stop being safe? The fact that you don't have an answer builds more walls around you, driving you to dark corners where fear resides. That's the answer: you don't know. Your safest place was work, but it's closed because of the virus, and not even reading takes your mind off of it.

Yesterday I woke up from the strong fear of the house I live in becoming like my grandmother's place. No wait that was a lie, I woke up from my nephew screaming and one of the kids banging the scooter against my bedroom door. The anger was already there the moment I woke up and looked around my bedroom, from the baby mattress to the old televisions they chuck in. I wanted to spring out of bed to clean, but I couldn't do that without the light and my brother whom I share the room with was still sleeping.

From there the anger manifested, even playing stupid restaurant games and streaming reality television. The kids' voices were getting louder, the throat was getting dryer and the bedroom was getting more ominous. It did not help when I finally stepped out to find the accursed scooter right at my doorstep, waiting for me to trip on it.

Of course I hadn't, but watching my older brother and his family sitting there without any regard for the mess made it look worse. I wish I had lifted up the scooter and placed it in front of the television instead of the other side of the door. A subtle yet dangerous move, knowing the lack of anger management my older brother has.

Later on in the evening is where this fire of his comes into play. I started cleaning the dining table, so suffocated by the mess on it. It's hard to admit that it's my fault for doing this with a frown and an attitude, because I know the older people in my family will take this as the conclusion. They have a fear of being told their little rebel isn't the only one to blame.

Along comes a cake. What I saw was a cake in a huge plastic bag and two more cakes with the same packaging, so I decided to put them together. My mum says Hey, papa punya cake. I told her Rimas lah, and my dad snatches the plastic bag up with his own attitude and mumbles loud enough for me to hear, If rimas just get the hell out of here lah.

The next few minutes is a blur. I'm not sure which order they happened.

My dad mentions something about besar kepala.
I throw a piece of dirt somewhere between my mother and younger brother and she gasps.
My dad says, Sejak dia ada matair ni dia fikir dia dah besar.
I swipe  a basket of apples off the table and they scatter onto the floor.
I slam my first onto the table and shout Nothing to do with him lah!
My older brother shouts from the living room Eh kau asal?
He gets up and stomps over to me, repeating Eh kau asal? KAU ASAL?

I have seen that view of him coming closer and closer to me so many times, I didn't react. My childhood at home is flashes of my grandmother stirring me iced milo, my mother bringing home snacks and my older brother beating me while I lay crying. I was so used to being beaten, I hardly flinched as he came closer, but it was my mother's shout that shocked me.

My older brother stopped short, and being so close to me didn't make him stop shouting. I could clearly hear him speak, but he yelled Kalau bukan pasal anak aku, aku dah lama lah rembat kau! I've heard him say 'Rembat kau sampai mati' so many times, right now I can't remember if he had said this yesterday as well.

Behind him I saw his daughter peeking out at me, and I remembered how she once witnessed him throwing a chair at my mother. She actually recalled it, even though she wasn't even three yet. The irony was flashing in my mind, but not quick enough before I saw my father had stood by my older brother.

For a second, I honestly thought my father was trying to stand between us. But he stood next to my older brother while they both stared down at me. And my father said Eh memang dah lama lah nak rembat dia ni.

The two older men whom I was supposed to trust, the mythical creatures I was taught to believe would protect me. Instilling such fear in me in my own home since childhood. I always ignored it, seeing how other daughters and sisters have had it worse. Raped by their trusted men. It took so much effort to convince myself that my older men are just as horrible, and I am allowed to feel hurt.

All this happened minutes before Maghrib, but I was losing more and more tears without breaking my fast. The first person I thought of was my only girl cousin from my mother's side, who lived across the road. Almost ten years older than me, I know she already has most of her life together. And I always thought she was the best person to speak family drama with.

But after a while it was clear she wasn't for me. I went to her for comfort, but the conversation suddenly turned to me. I'm not saying it's your fault or I'm taking sides, but here please hold this blame for a while as I lecture you about your behaviour, oh and here's a lecture about your behaviour during the merisik too.

It was the last thing I needed, in bed and tired and scared. Two other faces flashed in my mind, the person I want to spend my life with, and the person who is difficult to make plans with. Even with unfulfilled plans and unread texts, the latter's home is my home again. We probably wouldn't be friends if we weren't cousins the exact same age, we are so different. But it is so easy to find refuge in her clean and quiet home.

So here I am now, having cried my eyes dry. It doesn't matter if my parents or older brother has made it this far, because they wouldn't understand much. It is why I am undeterred by being labelled 'playing the victim', because I am used to getting my words taken out of context.

I believe it is a vast improvement for me to find a solution in marriage and less so in suicide. Hearing my father accuse me of being big-headed initially made me angry, but maybe I can make it come true by following the good example of the person I spend most time with.

My father was right, I am different after getting this boyfriend because he treats me well, him and family and friends all. There is a reason why I am always laughing in their company and then I get home and everything falls apart again. There is a reason why my niece whispered to my mother, Uh, I don't like aunty's boyfriend because when he is around, aunty like action.

Months ago I told myself to endure my parents just so they could cooperate with me for my big day. But as quiet as I have been, only expressing myself through cryptic posts and blurry montages, I have my limits too. I've had enough of the physical abuse that I endured up to 17, and I will not allow anymore mental abuse past 25.