You think I have nice breasts? You think I have skinny legs?

  You think you know me, but you don’t! You think you can judge me, but you can’t! Don’t think that I don’t know what you all think about me. Don’t, for one second, think that I am blind to all your stares and deaf to all your rumours. You think I have skinny legs? You think I wear too much eye liner? You think I only own black clothes? You think I have hot legs? You think I have ugly eyes? You think I have nice breasts? You think my blunt bangs don’t suit my small face? You think I have way too many piercings? You think I can’t smile? You think I look like a person who is only capable of listening to heavy metal music? You think I don’t have it in me to make a conversation with anyone in the real world?

I am abused. I have been, several hundred times. Or at least that’s what it feels like – it has been going on for more than five years now. It’s my uncle. He calls me his Lolita. After I read the book, my nightmares became worse than ever! I told my parents, after the seventh time he touched me. It must have occurred to my eight year old mind that the relationship between me and my uncle wasn’t exactly how it was supposed to be! They didn’t believe me. It shouldn’t have surprised me; they always thought that I was making up stories to catch their attention since my younger brother was born. But still, I don’t know what hurts more, the fact that the uncle I loved so much could do this to me, or that my parents, who were supposed to be my protectors, wouldn’t believe me. No one believes me. No one understands me. No one accepts me for what I am. No one accepts me for who I am. No one accepts what has happened to me. So I keep to myself. I cry into the pillow till I fall asleep. I don’t have any friends. I get bad grades at school and never make it on time for dinner. I dress the way I do because that’s the way I feel – dark and depressed. My headphones are plugged into my ears all the time just so that I can avoid communication. I climb onto the terrace of my building and spend several hours there every night. It’s not like my parents notice my absence. Most of the time, I try to visualize what my future will be like. I don’t like what I see. I don’t like what I see.

I am terrified, I am scared. I hate the feeling that someone can use me this way. I am only twelve, for god’s sake. You think you know me, but you don’t. You think you can judge me, but you can’t!

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About the Author: This article is contributed by Aashna Banerjee, our Intern.