My foster mother did everything to prove me wrong. Jealous, a psychologist would say many years later. But what do I know.
If only I gave a little more. Be a little kinder, more capable? If I maxed out the grades? Just responded to summons. If I did all the cooking, everything cleaned up afterwards without prompting. Didn’t want anything. Didn’t sing, because they hated when I did. I, who loved it, had a talent for it. Like I didn’t see that grain of rice on the floor when I was sweeping the kitchen, how could I be so stupid? It was just to take the consequences of that, that became my foster father’s task. I was then six years old.
I quickly learned not to make the same mistakes again.
We were a total of six children but my new mother had seen Cinderella in me. A docile, desperate girl and…? I had to take care of everything. Never good enough. If I didn’t have time to clean the whole house of 300 square meters in the half hour notice I was given before the spontaneous guests would arrive, then there was a family meeting afterwards about my ineptitude. In the best case.
The stress and pressure were constant. In between I would sit quietly in my room. Not meeting friends. At least not outside the organization. Sometimes it let go of the reins so that outwardly it looked good. Then I hung out with my friends. Felt the sweetness of freedom. Be myself and be appreciated for it. Outwardly I was happy, laughing out loud and not least at my own jokes.
No one was told what was going on behind closed doors. Either what my new mother or my new father did. They had taken on different roles, and both were devastating.
If I survive this, then I will be free.
I have to survive because I had promised my mom to take care of my little brothers. If I don’t survive, I’ll never see her again.
Hold on Atefeh.
So, I persevered.
Atefeh Sebdani’s Face Book, June 14th, 2024