That’s me in the corner. That’s me in the spotlight losing my…

Ah, I ‘lost’ any religion I may have had years ago. Seems I am now losing my family, too.

The very last thing I imagined when I started this blog was that it would turn into some misery memoire – little did I know the surprising turns life would take.

So, my family have accused me of lying. Of it all being in my imagination. My father refuses to discuss it, says it didn’t happen. Says the doctors don’t know what they are talking about. I think if he really believed that, he’d have gone to the mosque when he nearly died a couple of years ago, instead of the hospital. He doesn’t go to the sheikh when he gets sick, he goes to the doctor.

This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been accused of lying. Many, many moons ago, when in my first (arranged) marriage I called him to ask him to tell my husband of the time not to rape me – he accused me of lying then. He said no, that’s not rape, you are lying. It’s not rape if he is your husband, you should not say no to your husband – it is his right. A teeny bit of me died that day hearing that inhuman response, and a teeny bit of me has died again being accused of lying now.

My family think I’ve brought this up to tear them apart. No. I just wanted them to care about it, rather stupidly of me. I just wanted some support, some empathy, some love. I keep forgetting what blind faith in dogma can do to a person. That denial and accusation is preferable to dealing with the unwanted truths and realities that are part & parcel of religion. How sad. My own sister has turned on me, I never knew she had that inhuman side to her. She has two daughters of her own. I may never see them again. I’m so heartbroken by that. But not broken. Sad and pained, but not broken. They can’t break me, I know I’m right. I know I’m going to do something to stop other girls going through cruel inhumanity. And that makes me stronger than anything that they can be. I don’t need a book to tell me what’s right or wrong.

I have friends and I think they love me. So, am lucky. And I’m going to do the right thing and that will give me more strength than they and those that condone mutilation could ever imagine or take away from me.

Even if I am having a weepy-feel sorry for myself kind of day. Inside I feel freeer, it’ll just take a while for it to manifest in my mood.

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Boobie Prize

Ah, be still my beating breast… My beautiful beating betraying breast.

Which has a lump in. A small lump, but it’s size is entirely disproportionate to the amount of anxiety it has awakened within me. I keep telling myself, this shock could ultimately be a good thing, that it might be the kick up the backside I need to figure out what I want to do in life & to go for it – make the most of it, more often. But mostly, my mind is filled with fear, and betrayal, by my own body.

On Christmas Eve, I’ll be at the hospital while I have my boobie poked & prodded by clinical strangers, something necessary that I absolutely hate. I feel alienated by my own body & I know it’s about to be violated, even if it is for my own good. For some reason, I can’t shake this sense of self-violation – especially after having my home burgled a couple of weeks ago. First, my home violated, now my body will be too. Not sure what to do to shake this feeling, I want my autonomy back.

I feel strangely proprietorial over my own flesh, too. If they take some of the lump out, what will they do with it? I want it back. Strange to think that there’s a living part of me that will be extracted. A small part of me will be dead. A small part of what it’s suppose to be to be a woman. Will I be diminished in some way. Will I miss it? I already feel haunted by this phantom bit of my now-still-living breast.