Victus

Very very few experience compares to the mind-numbing, shrieking sensation of having your struggles and fears splashed across digital sites. For a solid 48 hour period, my anger and frustrations were boiled in the echo-chambers of seemingly everyone I knew, of virtual strangers, and the government. It was the pinpoint of the nation's attention. A hotpot of the warped entanglement of my real-life conflicts spilling over onto the internet and magnified a million times over. My very raw feelings, one that I had held back behind a veneer of patience for so long, was now permanently tattooed on the internet. There was no crevice into which I could step to be in denial, nowhere to hide the stark nakedness of my damaged spirit. Needless to say, it was not what I had prepared for. 

On 14th July 2023, I landed in the capital with my head and phone buzzing, finding myself with the very real issue of having my personal problems be a public uproar. Overnight, the abuse I had systematically endured for eight years was finally being recognised as an attack of epic proportions, and the public pitchforking was ensuing accordingly. My un-strategised outburst was understood as a cry of desperate help. There were no further underlying strategy when I took to social media and sent the alarm bells ringing for my distress. I was already scarred, already at the cliff edge of my sanity, and those posts were one more parachute I hoped to deploy before I succumbed to the depressing potential reality where I won't ever be free. As someone who despises conflict and disturbance, I felt immense shame at having my intimate problems be so publicly discussed. But it was a breaking point where I felt no other choice. It was a position I would wish on no one.

And so my trip back home became a circus ride through an emotional ordeal, where my sorrows were reflected back at me in a warped fun-house mirror. As if living through the abuse wasn’t enough, I had to Keep My Shit Together while navigating the procedures and engagements required of me. Amidst the whiplash of having my trauma be daily discourse, I had to go through every necessary process - mental, obligational, lawful, emotional - to see it through. The three weeks in Kuala Lumpur saw me juggling social reunions, work assignments, police procedures, family quality time, and media engagements in tandem. The sensation to vomit plagued my every waking moment. In public, there was no respite from having every day conversations dip through my case. I had to contend with my sorrow becoming a shared, community rage. It came to a point where I found myself comforting those who came up to me to express their sympathy and sorrow, to assure others, to process not only my hurt, but theirs too. 

With every new day, a new revelation and obstacle arose. There were so many ridiculous counterpoints of jurisdiction, so many banal questions to answer, so much Smiling and Controlling the Narrative required, to not come out like the insane, enraged woman I felt inside. At one point of the investigation, I almost wished he would abuse me in a harder, more forcible manner, just so I could have concrete proof on lawful grounds for the crime. And to top it all off, it was made known to me that there were elements of dark magic affecting my life. The gravity of this specific Nusantara experience would be quite lost in western retellings, but suffice to stay it was a baptism (or exorcism) into the very real spiritual realm that overlap our existence. It is an unfortunate (and very common) element of Asian stories, one that we all accept and brush under the carpet, to be handled more personally. So I did. 

I can't really eloquently conclude the essay of this damned experience, because there is no literary ribbon to tie this all up nicely, even though to the public, it may seem that way. Few people understood the magnitude of what it took for me to get to this point, in this way. The barrage of emotions and circumstance that I have had to fight through in this past year alone has burned me to my core. I am emerging from this battle a charred, scarred version of myself. I know that respite won't be long. The insecurity and trauma has hardened within me, fortified to be hidden from the masses. I have yet to cry and unleash my rage. I have yet to address and untangle my deepest wounds. I have yet to be caressed and validated, to be enveloped in soft comfort, to be assured of my safety - and I am not sure if I ever will be. Not where it needs to matter.