Math

When I was in secondary school, I stapled my arms in maths class whilst my boy friends expressed excitement and adoration. The truth is that I didn’t feel the staples and I would examine them afterwards, along with my friends. Look how you pierced your skin, gnarly. During my school years, I was friends with a lot of boys and often flitted from one group to the other. I always had a base group of girls that were all huge personalities but just preferred to spend time with the boys. I feel I have an answer to this now.

My brain feels excited at the thought of making a connection that fits perfectly. Between the ages of 1 and 7, my father taught me how to self harm. There was punching glass with your fist - but my skin was too soft at first so he came up with an alternative, crushing glass in your hands. You hold the glass and make a very tight fist. We did this behind the arches he built that stood opposite our house. The only thing to separate them was the farm garden we had. We planted carrots, potatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, tomatoes.. the list goes on. However, methods would evolve over time into something more. Another one was when he would take me to cafes and restaurants after he sexually used and abused me. I could never eat the food because it made me sick, so we would end up staying at our table for a long time. He pushed a lit candle towards me and his hand floated over to the flame. His smile was so wide and he never showed any suggestion of pain. Now it was my turn. We could spend the rest of the day just trying to get my hand to sit over the flame. The wide smile returned to his face. At home, I spent a lot of time in his garage which was next to our living room. He would cut his skin open and show it to me and then continue on with his work, bleeding. He would look over and smile - no pain.

In time, he built a sauna for us which was nothing new to our neighbourhood and town. Almost everyone had one because it was a part of our culture. It wasn’t the roomiest of places but there was enough space in there for four people. It was behind a door in our hallway and the sauna was divided into two seating areas which were on both ends of the room. My father locked the door and put me up on the upper seat, which is the hottest part of the sauna. I felt like a dragon and breathing was intense and hard for me. I sat up there battling with 80 degree heat and humidity thinking if this is how it feels like to die in a fire. The idea of saying any words seemed impossible to me. Everything was hot and thick. I’m drowning in a fire. Shortly afterwards, my nosebleed begins and I see my fathers eyes. They were more reflective - like when you see the rays of sunshine on water shine back at you. We were in a different place now and I could tell just by his eyes. My mum is on the other side of the door, shouting at him to immediately open the door. He doesn’t listen and watches the river of blood travel all the way down to the wood of the sauna bench I was sitting on. He didn’t do this often because it was hard to get away with it without being caught. Not that he cared at all — when my mum or any other person protested his behaviour, he would simply break their ankle, slap them or do much worse to shut them up. He reassured that he was protecting me and that he would never do such a thing to me. Uh huh, I nodded. I didn’t believe him, I didn’t believe in anything in this world.

I didn’t have a choice in the matter of self harm or suffering for the pleasure of my father. I was the object of his pain and I was a mirror to him. I was his reflection and he could do whatever he wanted, because it was him and not me. I exist behind the mirror, on the other side of it.. or more realistically, I do not exist at all. When he put my hands into the fireplace to test my pain it would seem that he made me into his salvation. When the pain was too much for me and tears rolled down my face, he would push me to hold on a little longer - and I did, I held onto pain for him. He was thrilled and his eyes were so shiny. I had no other expectations of my father.

So when I sat down with my emo friends with maths class, I had no other talent than to show than the pain that I was forcing onto myself. This was much easier than confronting my bad maths skills, which started back at home in reception. Imagine going through these trials every single day, all the whilst seeing your mother being tortured and your brother being beaten - this was playing in my mind every single day, even into my years of secondary school. Imagine trying to learn maths whilst you still know your mother is tied to a tree outside; hoping she’s not dead, hoping to not find her lifeless body on the forest floor after school.