I will start by saying: these posts about my childhood trauma I’m telling you guys; are a heavy topic. Sensitive people and minors are advice to not read this. The content contains rape, violence, mental abuse, physical abuse, and death. Sociopaths, psychopaths and a lot of narcissism.
I write it here to sort out my flashbacks and memories.
But also, to leave something for investigation, in case something bad happens to me. I have survived a lot and it would be a shame to get this far and not be able to tell my story, just in time.
This is in Sweden.
I will tell you this story from two aspects. First from the facts and feelings from my childhood and second through the eyes, of me now, as a grown-up.
I can’t speak for Fatima as you understand. But I will take the freedom to explain what I heard and saw back then. And interpret it through what I consider to be healthy or not.
She is my twin sister
The power of stories. Stories with integrity, where do I draw the line. Obviously, I didn’t feel Fatima’s pain nor her very own feelings. We were twins. It was a total mess in our house and she was only a baby with no direction.
Those who were supposed to protect her were the wolves in her life. She lived in a broken world, way worse than the rest of us. Because she had a close relationship with her predator. Her own father.
So does this story even have any integrity or a moral sense? Maybe not but at least she had a twin sister. That felt her and wanted to be close to her, as sisters do. That went through some of the bullshit and hell she did. I’m now capable of putting it into words for the both of us. Now that I’m capable of sorting out mine and some of her feelings. I will tell what no one wants to hear.
We couldn’t back then… My dad left here with one leg and fed himself. She felt sorry for him and saw it as her duty to comfort him. Even if she lost a leg. She matured fast for a 3-year young baby. She stood finally up for herself on one leg. At the end of her life, my dad had chopped both her legs off.
I will make sure she will at least leave a one-foot mark for her legacy!
Fatima was sensitive and a helpless romantic baby girl. At the same time, a very strong personality and hard to impress.
When she wasn’t happy she couldn’t pretend. No, she was not fronting. She strongly believed in a happy ending for everyone. Mostly for her own dad, since he was crying all the time. She believed in fairytales.
She liked getting pampered as any baby would. Dress in pretty clothes, getting her hair done and wearing beautiful shoes. Too much for a baby maybe, but it was my mother’s band aid to Fatima’s mental scars. She gave her rosy cheeks, Kohl, and some lipstick.
She even put make-up to cover up her black eyes, bite marks and bruises.
To be perfectly clear, it’s called brainwashing and nothing else.
Fatima had to abide by his senseless torture. According to her mom, she had to give in. But Fatima couldn’t fake it. She remained unimpressed. The only reason she was being abused is that she gave my dad a chance after chance. She believed in the good in people. What is a baby supposed to do? Let’s not forget that we are talking about a baby. He gained her trust and abused a helpless baby.
She talked to my brother about the abuse she had to take by my father. She tried to win him over. But all our older brother cared about was being the best and fucking the rest. Fatima, couldn’t tell when Ali was drunk and when he wasn’t. That just shows how trustful she was and genuine in her message. She wanted the best for everyone. Ali was her boyfriend before he became mine. If the grown-ups didn’t know how to get under Fatima’s skin. He showed them how. Only 6 years old, he paved the way to her death.
Ali was her boyfriend before he became mine. If the grown-ups didn’t know how to get under Fatima’s skin. He showed them how. Only 6 years old, he paved the way to her death.
Summertime sadness; have you ever felt that. She loved the sun but the sun didn’t love her back. She thought. So she stopped loving the sun. She was very sad and exhausted even though she tried not to show. Because she just never ever felt that she was enough.
She had cried and cried and cried with no use. Mostly after midnight. At first, she had been such a thunder when she was upset. But somewhere along the way, she stopped fighting to thrive and started fighting to survive. That meant putting a mask on her face, a poker face hard to penetrate. My dad had one job now. To break down her walls.
She was not allowed to protect herself and she better understand that he only wanted what’s best for her. So as time went by, she changed and became more and more fearful. She became clingy and codependent on her father, only. Because no one else wanted her. No one else cared for her as he did. My mother was his supportive actor in this.
Fatima was sick of us, her siblings. We would play and make noise outside the bedroom. And all she wanted and could do was take naps during the days. I didn’t understand it back then, we went to her to wake her up. But I do now. She hadn’t slept during the night. My dad’s response was to take her and hit her. And she would cry even more.
There is a saying that people don’t change, they just reveal who they really are. I believe that’s true. But when you have a fresh baby, it changes with the manipulation it’s exposed to. Fatima never got the chance to reveal what kind of beauty she was to the world.
Thank you for reading through!