I have a confession.
Not less than ten years ago, I was molested by a relative.
This is something that I have kept secret for the longest time. I never thought of sharing it with anyone because I was scared and ashamed of how people would react. Besides, I did not want conflicts within the family.
I was between fifteen and sixteen years old when it happened. And although almost ten years have passed, I still remember everything that happened. Every detail about it.
I can still remember how I was carressed at that very ungodly hour. How I was undressed. How I was licked. How helpless and disgusted I felt at that very moment.
Yet, I have kept my mouth shut.
Whenever we had small family gatherings, I remember getting infuriated by the sight of this relative. I remember walking out, leaving the room and locking the door behind me.
The four walls of that room have stood witness to my anger and frustration. My screams. The curses. The tears.
I remember talking to God, asking him why he allowed that to happen. And I vividly remember at that instance, I prayed for his death.
But it never happened.
Over the years, I managed to wear a mask that I was okay. Well, that worked for sometime but I eventually developed a different persona.
I started doubting everyone's intention.
I ended up not trusting anyone. Not my family. Not my teachers. Not my friends. Not even God.
I carried on with this attitude and stll putting that facade on. Still pretending that everything was alright.
Eventually, it did not take that long when I lost my faith.
What kept me company was an intimate group of imaginary friends who only go by one name.
CIGARETTES. BEERS. CLUBS. DRUGS. SEX.
Fast forward.
As I look back, I can't help but feel terrible on what I have done. I can't help but feel sorry for creating that gap between me and my family. I can't help but cry for destroying that relationship with God. For turning my back. For not believing in him. For failing him. For constantly disppointing him.
While everyone else is still holding the Philippine flags for the Independence day yesterday; well, I am holding this little white flag. Strong and tight.
Some say Indepence day means freedom. If that is what it means, it looks like I had my "Independence Day" just a week ago. I had it when I was at the Don Bosco Retreat House. When I joined the Love Life Retreat. When I left all the baggages. When I broke free from that miserable life I once had. When I welcomed the Lord God once again. When I acknowledged His love that has been there all along.
For the first time, after such a long, long, long time, I was freed.
I have surrendered everything to the Lord.
I guess this is the reason why the holiday yesterday never felt this relevant now more than ever.
