Pekanbaru, May 2nd 2022
It seemed that I really neglected you, my Den of Mind, and whomever you are, my dear good fella, my reader.
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It's been a full decade, since the very first day I decided to make this blog, by which my initial purpose is to pour my thinking process, of whatever topic I'm curious and how I think through whatever topic at that time.
But before we goes too far, let me pulled back a bit,
far far in time, way ahead to the very first.
To the real beginning.
Myname is Joshua, I never liked my own name, sounds too biblical.
I felt as if the very name put burden on my conscience, like it's enforcing me to act like my name, all as it supposed to be.
My real full name supposedly Joshua Immanuel Gracia, supposedly, because due of a single typo, my dad submitted the name as Joshua Imanuel Gracia, lacking a single letter in it. Well, no biggie, but this full fledged biblical name in and out, is a burden in itself. Well, at least for me, that's how I look at it at first.
My parents married early, in their early 20's.
And my whole childhood consist of this one monotone repetitive following scene:
Screaming, Yellings, some good beatings and a couple good stomps and kicks.
Yes , my dad is an abusive father.
My parents got married because my mom got pregnant with me, and that is the very beginning of this railway to misery.
As a boy, growing up was far fetched from easy.
While other kids grow up into their silly kid's things, I never really get to express and understand my own feelings.
People always told me that I was a naughty kid, and seems like there is this unwritten rules: naughty kid need some good beating to straighten them up.
The same familiar good old scenario goes like this:
My mom report to my dad, about my latest achievement in life, my naughtiness as I may say, by which may or may not be a real crime, it's just their perspective of how a good child suppose to be, but how I failed to obtain that threshold, that they demanded me to be but this failed offspring turned out unable to do.
Then, come this big yelling, calling my name, that soon followed by my Dad running toward my,
followed by my panicking voice of my mom from behind,
Then came the big and rough hand of his squeezed on my neck,
One quick jab arrived not long after,
Then a puch on my skull which soon followed by one big slap,
Then another one,
And another one,
Lastly a good threat telling me not to cry.
This sure takes a while to write and explain, but all happened in a matter of quick succession, not even a minute passes by.
The crouching boy that just fall from his hand is me, that scream the plea for forgiveness "Ampun pi.." (please forgive me, dad) is chanted like a mantra out from my mouth, directed toward him in hope that he will make the pain to stop, for no more beating to follow, while trying my best not to let a single hiccup escape from my mouth, not a single tear escape from my small eyes, all in all while enduring the sudden barrage of pain that invades me.
But woe is me, he saw my tears, and here comes another stomp, his foot kicked my back, the rough kick nested on my spine bone, mostly my upper body, and my crouching body is now his "welcome rug" for some series of kicking and stomping.
While the background music, is the histerical crying plea from my mother asking my dad not to hit me any further, for him to remember that I am his child, for him not to kill his own child, et cetera, and so on ...
That good friend of mine, the painful memories, is proof of my existence.
In my kindergarten years, my 5 years old me.
got hit on my nose, that leave a trophy, my battle wounds which make my nose bridge crooked and sunk into my face,
I was previously trying to fill the ice tray mold, since the child me likes to drink iced drinks.
My granny, being the worrysome old lady she is, warned my not to, in case I spilled the water and made a mess, and also the big water thermos is now out of water,
but I stubbornly insist of doing it.
The executioner known as my dad is seated there, eating his dinner. And the insisting and nagging goes on.
If there is one thing he hates, that must be children voice arguing.
Then comes the familiar strangle and a big series if punch and slapping.
My nose broke that night, blood flows like river, and I vomitted some fresh billows of blood.
The next day, school like usual.
The other time, both my parents tried their best convincing me to eat a banana.
Ever since I was little, I had a sharp sense of smelling, and one thing I cannot describe as pleasant, is the smell of fresh banana.
The cornered me, was seated on the stairways, forced to try to eat a single bite of banana, and I didn't find the experience as pleasing.
But here we go again, that quick to anger dad of mine, shoves the whole banana into my throat and threatened me to keep eating.
I vomitted, and the rest is history.
Some near death painful experienced.
The next day I got myself brought to hospital.
Minor concussion the doctor said, well, the big egg sizes lumps on my head explained all.
Going to school is always a shameful memory. how's not? the chubby boy, with face full with concussions, blackened blue face is me, not hard to distinguish between the rest of boys.
From the 7 years of age, daily routine is such: school, then on goes to the tutoring lesson, and lastly some good beating to close the day. Constantly, the days repeated the same way, and days replaced by months, and months years
All the while I never realy got time to interact with kids my age, nor some warm moments with my family.
Ever since I'm 12, I struggled to understand my own feeling, and perhaps I grow to unconsciously punished myself for being unable to grow to be an acceptable human being version I supposed to be.
I often stole a couple of medication laying around. Some fever medication, cold tablets, cough medicine, oral suspension, you name it, I've snacked on them.
The moment the heavy sleepiness came, in my tiny single ventilated bedroom with some classical music on the background playing from a walkman radio. I felt the heavy guilt in my heart, and some tiresome excitement, the familiar conflicting guilt.
Maybe this is it, maybe this is the final moment.
As I goes to sleep, and finally never get to open my eyes.
How exciting...
But another guilt came,
So sad, that this is it... Life as I called it, but also, guilt for having to end it in a sinful way.
You won't get to read this if the story ended that way.
2 decades afterward, I'm sadly still alive.
Sorry to pop the balloon of climax of the sad story.
I am not dead, and nothing much happened that day.
Late in the afternoon I wake up with heavy head, tired yes, refreshed, no... And more than that, still alive...
The very same thing occurs at least once a week, a weekly thingies, until one day my mom sounded her confusion, why did the medication supply got out too quickly, while nobody is complaining being sick. And the newfound hobby of mine, snacking for medications ended.
...
I'm 15 now,
As usual, good old mom reporting to good kind dad, and before he took it to his hand of doing as it should.
Before he entered the room, I quickly drink a couple gulp of insecticide, while 15 minutes prior I sprayed half of the container into my bedroom atmosphere.
He got mad, but he didn't hit me, instead he shooed me out of house, telling me not to return.
Maybe it's luck, maybe it's destiny, the neighbouring aunty, from 2 house away, asked me to come to her place.
To her and her son, I admitted drinking poison prior.
The rest is history, some hard smack on the back, forcing me to vomit, a huge forcing to drink milk, and I'm fall asleep in my house.
And tomorrow as if nothing happened, good kind dad, now without neighborhood reprimanding him in the watch, threatened me, why not drink another insecticide right in front of him.
After some good scolding to go, then I got to go to school, act like normal, as if the series of last night episode is just a mere dream.
Don't ask me where my mom is last night....
I got some counseling session to go through, where I finally for the first time in this life, I confessed all my life experiences.
The session is co-oped. mine on Monday, and my parents on Wednesday.
In the middle of session, Mom decide to quit, she need to work, beside, the counseling center is too far. Then, the following week, it's just me on my own, and the next week, nobody is willing to take me there anymore. Counseling help stopped, but life must continue like normal, isn't it?
Until this far, there is a new understanding, a new awareness grow within me.
If twice suicidal attempt didn't go well, the one and only explanation must and must be God.
I will update it in my next post, since I've typed for too long and my fingers sore by now. Soo, till next time.
Toodle~do..
