I was born and grew up brown and Muslim and female in an all white and very affluent neighbourhood, in Canada.

No stranger to struggles and racism I was molested by an anger management therapist my elementary school sent me to because I used to stand up for myself by hitting the boys that would pick on me and call me derogatory names and slurs at school. The teachers had turned a blind eye and I was blamed by them and my parents for being angry.

I became further invisible and shut down fully after that. I kept my own secrets and did not really trust or understand people. Friends came and went. Since then although I had closed myself to people; slowly I opened up again. I was in my childhood relatively close to my family, and had a generally nice childhood apart from the above.

Since the age of 19 – 31 – I’ve been raped by 8 different people – 90% in Canada, all were men, 7 of them I knew, Once at gun point – that was the one I did not know. I’m highly educated, always cautious, and always tried to be kind and forgiving. Sadly all of my rapists are “educated” and considered to be kind people by their family and friend circles.

Since the age of 19 – 31 – I have been betrayed by Indian women and men, by white men, by white female professors, by my “best” friend, by my family immediate and otherwise. I have been in a coma, I have lost half my possessions and art in a flood. Through it all I tried to keep my grades up, to keep making new friends, to keep positive, to keep volunteering, to keep making art, to be a positive force in this world.

I tried and tried and tried and I am still trying. But now, everyday is becoming too much of a struggle.

I have sought help numerous times – from therapists who ended up giving poor advice, or not knowing what to do because my story is just too “unbelievable”, from famiy who has basically abandoned me until I can get settled and be happy and go back to “normal”, from friends who just cannot relate anymore. The only other person I relate to is one friend who has also suffered great struggles that many also believe “unbelievable.”

I don’t know if I can go back to normal after 8 times over 12 years. I have tried many times, sought help, but the raw truth is that I do not want to trust people anymore, I do not want to live in this world anymore, I do not want relationships with the people of this world anymore, I do not want children anymore. I have seen and lived the terrible side of humanity by people whom, if I had not lived it, I would never believe that they were capable of these things. It is not that my self confidence is gone or that I feel like used garbage. I honestly just feel like I’m too good for this world, and too good for many of the people I have come across, and that perhaps my time here is up, when I choose.

Also, it was only after the 6th rape that I really struggled to keep going – its just hard when your understanding of humanity keeps getting ruined – the racism continues, systemic racism faced as a woman, a coloured woman, a coloured woman artist, facing flack from “boyfriends” “family” “professors” “law enforcement” “therapists” – told and shown that my story does not matter, that I am a cast away, that I should keep quiet if I should wish to retain friends, relationships, etc. Hard when everyday becomes a struggle to live in my lonely racing mind that is quietly breaking apart into a beautiful mess that makes sense to me and not others.

Makes sense to me that clothing and make up and hairstyles are constructs that make me relatively unsafe, that putting myself out there in regard to social situations is not in fact safe, but its like a lamb going to slaughter because I refuse to become hardened and put up a million fences, so I just don’t go, that all that is really needed to live ok is a roof and food and self love. That the only reason I want to live is to make art. That I am happy alone working and being alone because alone is when I can feel relaxed and safe. So death in its aloneness seems a perfect refuge for someone like me.

I am an artist, so the only thing currently keeping me in this world is that I want to make art that really makes people think and reflect about the way we treat one another and of disposability in an over saturated world. But of course I also want to make art that is beautiful so that I can try to believe that maybe somewhere out there is a glimmer of hope for me a glimmer of hope that I can gift to another. This is my mission.

When I have completed my own mission or feel just too exhausted, I know I can end it – no stranger to pain the thought of suicide does not scare me. Suicide for those who know me will perhaps hurt a bit, but if they can understand my perspective because of where I am coming from and my experiences they might see that suicide for me is like a great window of opportunity to escape this world – my exhaustion and struggle into a brave new beginning.