There was never a moment or any situation where I believed that I could do something. The feeling of insecurity and the fear of being judged at every step were so overwhelming that my mind went blank every time I stepped a foot outside my box.

My box, which was my comfort zone, the secured gates of my garden, the brass dead bolt on my front door. It was my home, my world and I didn’t know anything else beyond that.

I was afraid, yes- so afraid to step outside and venture the world. The painful incident was never on my mind, but it was digging through my soul, eating me alive. I still smiled at him whenever I saw him, and he smiled back. Yet, I knew he saw that fear in my eyes, and he knew I saw those dangerous fire in his eyes.

People asked my parents, why doesn’t she ever go out? They had no answer. But they gave me everything. I had a home tutor, a nice friendly lady, my three puppies, my books, my music. And I had my agony too.

I read about women violence in the newspapers, watched reports on the television. And I felt sorry for them. Sometimes I wanted to cry. In my dreams, I saw myself being a wonder- girl, rescuing and helping thousands of girls, helping them live their dreams. When I looked into the mirror, I saw the hero, the mentor, an inspiration for the world. And as I viewed in deeper, I saw the pain and the reluctance.

I felt sorry for the women. But I also realized that I was sorry for myself. I saw their pain, but refused to see my own. I was making those news of violence an excuse for what I was too weak to face. I was grieving for myself, and living everyday inside my box. Living, but still dying. Dying for what he did to me. For what was never my fault. For the fact that I had been molested as a child. For being not an inspiration, but one of the victims. One among countless other girls. Not being able to say a word, and choosing this fateful life.

It is my fault I guess. But that was the way I was brought up. The curse of being a girl.