246: What if you could never be what they wanted?
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This Is Actually Happening features real experiences that often include traumatic events. Please consult the show notes for specific content warnings on each episode and for more information about support services. When you feel like somebody has punched you and the life has been sucked out of your mouth, it was that but tenfold. It was a complete out-of-body experience.

From Wondery, I'm Witt Misseldein. You're listening to This Is Actually Happening. Episode 246. What if you could never be what they wanted?

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To start listening, download the Amazon Music app for free or go to amazon.com slash ad-free podcasts. That's amazon.com slash ad-free podcasts to catch up on the latest episodes without the ads. Check out our recently completed six-part series, The 82% Modern Stories of Love and Family, ad-free with your Prime membership. I was born in Canada.

My parents and my eight siblings were born in India. That's where my parents are from. They came from quite a poor village. They had an arranged marriage. And from what I hear, they were very much in love since day one, even though they had an arranged marriage. My mom was around 17 when she had her first child.

They moved to Delhi. They settled into an apartment flat and they had eight kids and they all lived in this small room. Six girls and two boys. We come from a Muslim family and so my dad was very much into his faith. He was very religious.

My mom was sort of like, yeah, I'm Muslim, but I'm also kind of liberal and out there. But back then, the rules were already set for them. The wife will take care of the duties at home and the husband will take care of the duties outside. And that's what life was like before I was born. And then my dad got a job offer to come to Canada.

So my dad packed everybody up and decided that, okay, it's time to move to Canada. When my dad got here and went for the interview, they had told him that they will hire him if he wears a suit and not traditional wear.

He said, absolutely not. I will not change my attire. This is who I am. I am Indian. I am Muslim. And if you can't hire me, then so be it. I can't imagine what that conversation was when my dad got home and told my mom. There they were with eight kids and they didn't know what they were going to do.

He got wind of a position that was opening up on an indigenous reserve for a high school teacher. So he drove three hours away into the mountains and he got hired immediately. So here's an Indian family, the only Indian family in this indigenous reserve.

There was a lot of discrimination from both communities because they were so weary of each other. But once my dad started teaching, the amount of affection he showed the students, all that went away.

I was born in the mountains with this beautiful Indigenous community. From what I remember of my childhood there, it was absolutely amazing. It was a very loving childhood.

Eventually, we moved back to the city. There were like three of us to a bed. My oldest sister was married. Her husband was also living with us. And so it was a full jam-packed house. It's around the age of seven that I realized that there were dynamics in our culture and in our household.

The idea of women beautifying themselves became a prominent part of my understanding. So I would see like my sisters putting on makeup and waxing their face. The women were cooking, cleaning, and then beautifying themselves.

And this is also the time where we started hanging out more with our community because now we were in the city and that was a larger Indian community. The girls that were lighter skinned were always considered more beautiful. They got a lot of attention from the aunties. I also noticed that girls who were little got a lot more attention than girls who were chubbier.

And so my idea of how the world worked was really learned through these relationships. So if you were light-skinned, you got more attention. If you were petite, you got more attention. And the kids that were dark-skinned or chubby, they didn't get as much attention. And I would never get that attention again.

Most of my siblings were light-skinned. One of my sisters particularly always was favorite in our community. She has light skin, she's petite, and I would always be so sad because I would be sitting right beside her and I was dark-skinned.

When we would go to community parties or functions or events, I was always grabbed or tickled or talked to by aunties and uncles. Like they would laugh and they would say, oh, you chubby girl, you need to lose some weight. And they would always laugh at it. And that's when I started thinking in my head, like, is there something wrong with me?

I felt so hurt, but more than hurt, I was confused as to why I was being outcasted. And I was trying to understand what am I feeling? But I certainly knew that I was something bad and I had to be fixed.

People who are dark skinned are not worthy. People who are chubby are not worthy. I'm not worthy. This was my culture. And that's what I believed. There's something wrong. And I'm going to need to fix it. And now when do I fix it? How do I fix it?

I didn't understand how to feel hurt as much as I understood how to want to please. The hurt could have been there, but certainly what overpowered was the desire to fix, the desire to please, the desire to be just what they want me to be.

I would look at these rituals that my siblings would do. They would use bleach to lighten their skin. So I would internally take notes and say, okay, this is what I have to do. And then I reach the age of nine.

Some more of my siblings got married and the house became a little quieter. So my parents decided that we could start renting the basement out. One of the first tenants was this guy who had just come from another country. And I'm not sure how old he was, but he didn't have much. And my dad gave him our television. I was like, what?

I love watching TV. I loved watching wrestling. And so we were all just very upset. So my whole thing was, I want to go watch wrestling no matter what. So I would go downstairs and I'd be like, can I watch my wrestling show? And he'd be like, yeah, yeah, you can watch.

In one evening, I went downstairs and I was just sitting on the couch with him and we were both watching wrestling and he started to come close to me. Suddenly his hand was like on my thigh. It would go into him touching my thigh the next day and then it would go further and further and I would just freeze.

Every night that would happen for months. I know that I felt that it was wrong. I know I questioned why I would go. And I know that I wanted to watch the show.

And a couple of times, my nieces, who were younger than me, but not by much, they would be like, we want to watch wrestling. So we would all go downstairs. And I remember thinking, oh, no, what if he does it to them? So I will make sure I sit closer to him. So he does it to me. So he doesn't have to do it to them. It was just a very natural inclination.

I don't remember feeling hurt or pain, but I would go back upstairs after wrestling and think, this is wrong. And I remember his friends would come over and then wrestling would start and I would go down and watch. And a part of me felt like they knew what was happening. That's when the guilt set in that, oh, okay, we're both not doing something right.

Closer to the end of this is when I really shut down and I really grasped that I am not okay.

Because I almost felt like this is how I'm going to feel wanted. I'm not pretty. I'm not thin. This is going to be where my value is. So when the sexual abuse stopped, in some ways I missed it because I was getting attention.

Continuing on into 10, 11, 12, 13, 14. That's what I can offer the world. I can offer my sexual nature. Keep in mind that I was also still from a practicing Muslim family. And so I was living the complete opposite life of what my faith was telling me to live. And I didn't know how to manage that.

Faith in my family played a huge part because my dad was not only a teacher, but he was also a minister. My father was quite strict with certain rules, so...

dressing modestly, certain TV shows we couldn't watch. We were certainly not allowed to date. So if we ever did date anyone, we were hiding it. So the lifestyle in our family was you practice, you pray, you read the Quran. How

However, one of the most important things that we all got taught as Muslims was getting physical with the opposite sex. All of this was like a straight ticket to hell. If you do something wrong, you're going to get hit and you're going to go to hell. And we believe that now.

So after the sexual abuse, I was extremely scared and I was very confused as to how I move forward because I wanted to move forward sexually because I thought that that was where my worth was. That was where I was going to please people. But I couldn't because I would go to hell. So I'm having to deal with all the shame from being molested.

And then all this shame because I'm exploring my sexuality because of being molested. It's just a mountain upon a mountain upon a mountain of shame. I was thinking about, am I going to be dropped in a bowl of fire? And if I'm not dropped in that bowl of fire, how am I going to be liked here?

I don't think that I can make anyone happy. So I don't think I should be here. And I finally got the courage to tell someone in my family. And they didn't respond back to me. They said nothing. And they walked out of the room. I remember thinking...

Okay, this happens. This is normal then. This happens to everybody. It must have happened to her too. I escaped into the idea that this is what everybody goes through. This is okay.

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So that I could be physical with them. Only to find out that I'm not liked by anybody. I was called a fat pig, a fat cow, hairy, that my skin looks like poo. And now I'm thinking, oh, my situation isn't only a problem within my culture. I am just a piece of garbage to anyone.

Someone that looks like me is repulsive. This was very consistent in my teen years. So my story played out, you're nothing. You don't mean anything. The only thing I had was boobs. That was what I got attention from. If I wore a tight top, I would get looked at. So I would wear tight t-shirts in high school because at least, at the very least, that was where my attention was.

And my parents would try to make me feel better and they would like reprimand my siblings and say, you know, that's not nice or whatever. But I just wish that they would have had a personal relationship with me that they could have sat me down and said, you matter and all this is nothing. It doesn't even mean anything.

Instead, my mom, her way to try to make things better was give me advice on how to lose weight. So it was like, let's try to make you what people want you to be. But I couldn't. I couldn't understand how to do that.

I tried the diet pills. I tried working out. But I couldn't keep up with all of that because there was so much going on in my head. And so I would fail constantly. Like, why am I here? Is there anything I'm here for? The idea of me not wanting to be alive again.

was a consistent feeling throughout my teenage years. And I remember just going under the blankets and trying to make it as dark as possible to just feel some sort of peace. And then when I got my driver's license, I felt a lot more comfortable just leaving the house and escaping.

I was one of the first children that was actually allowed to drive on their own at 16. So I would go for drives all the time. The darker it got, the better I felt. It would feel like the sky would just close up on me and I could just breathe.

I also started smoking and around that time, smoking actually saved me a lot of times from killing myself because I would get that release.

As I got older, in my 20s, I would gravitate towards girls who were considered very pretty or very popular. A part of me wanted to be them. I could never be them, but at least I could be near them. We would go to clubs and I would never get attention until the internet came about.

I was able to talk to somebody without them seeing me. It was a totally new space for me. And within that space, they had actually created websites just for Muslim people to meet Muslim people. This is the first time I had ever made a connection with a male person.

Some of them accepted me, some of them rejected me. It's when I had my first physical experiences. And with those experiences, I felt so much guilt and so much shame for what I was doing. And then another side of me would crave those physical experiences because that's the only way I felt worthy.

I met this guy in this city through the internet and we both just liked each other. And within a few weeks, we said, let's just get married, even knowing that neither of us wanted this at all.

And it's scary. It's fearful. But it's not as scary as the rejection from family. It's not as scary as the rejection from our culture. It's not as scary as the rejection from society. You just want to feel accepted. And that's what I wanted. And it was one of the toughest times.

and worse decisions I had made. And it was four years of just feeling even less than I did before, if that's even possible. It was our fourth year of marriage and my mother had a heart attack and I was going through a rough time in my marriage.

She ended up staying in the hospital for months. And she had let me know in that time. She said to me, it is better to be alone for the rest of your life than to be with somebody who doesn't want to be with you. And I made the decision to leave. And a few days after I made the decision to leave, my mom passed away.

It was such a cathartic feeling. Even though I was mourning my mother's loss, it was almost like a loss and a rebirth at the same time. I felt this sense of joy and freedom that I hadn't felt probably ever. I had wondered at that time,

If the joy was because I was leaving my ex-husband or because with my mother passing, she will no longer be disappointed in who I am. So it was at that time that I decided that I would move forward as I want and do the things that I want to do in my life, regardless of the setbacks that I have.

So throughout my 30s, I traveled so much to Brazil, to Italy, to France, Argentina. Years later, I dated a bit more. I met people in my own city. I met people in other countries. They were all just not good experiences. The underlying factor was always, can you lose weight?

As a child, I couldn't really comprehend or grasp how that felt. But in my 30s, I was angry. I was upset. I was hurt. I was feeling all sorts of emotions, but I didn't let that stop me from doing what I wanted to do.

And so I kept going. I kept traveling. I made a bucket list of things I want to do. I was getting this sense of confidence that I hadn't gotten before. I was starting to really feel this energy come through me. I was starting to set some boundaries. I was starting to go to therapy. And then I turned 40 and it was a great experience.

And somewhere in that I decided, I think I'm going to try my hand at Tinder. I met this guy who turned out to be Muslim as well, although he wasn't practicing. And at this point, neither was I. I believed in Islam, but I wasn't very religious.

We were both similar in age, similar in values, and we would just go on dates. And those dates led to us being physical. Nobody in my family or our community knows that I am getting physical with people.

Neither of us really thought that this was it, but we had a good time together. And I found the best part about this relationship was I was learning to be myself. I had some insecurities, but I was just feeling like I was in a really good place. So January comes around and I start feeling like I have the flu.

I also am feeling some other types of symptoms. And I'm like, I'm going to go to the doctor tomorrow. But you know what? Let's just do a pregnancy test. I was in the bathroom and I didn't even think I was going to look at it. I thought I was just going to throw it in the garbage. And I just glanced at it quickly and there was a deep, dark blue plus sign.

When you feel like somebody has punched you and the life has been sucked out of your mouth, it was that but tenfold. It was a complete out-of-body experience.

I'm not thinking of the pregnancy test at all. I'm thinking of what the fuck am I going to tell my family? What the fuck am I going to do with this in the community? Because my dad is very well known, as a lot of ministers are.

So what the fuck am I going to do? I was at work. I walked out of work. I walked straight to a walk-in clinic and I said, I need to verify that I'm pregnant. And we did the urine test and he said, you don't even need a blood test. You're extremely pregnant. I just felt like I stopped breathing. And the doctor gave me a folder and said, you have so many options.

But I knew in my head that I wasn't going to terminate this baby. Not because I felt it was wrong. Not because I felt it was a sin. I just knew. And I walked out of that doctor's office and I walked in the rain. I just started wailing loudly. And I didn't care that people were looking at me. I just felt so bad.

alone and so confused, crying so loudly because I knew that everything in my family was about to change. I had become paralyzed with fear of what everybody was going to think.

I had never thought of children, and now that there was a baby inside of me, I had all these thoughts of wanting to run away just to protect this baby. The first person I decided to confide in was my brother-in-law. I'm trembling just thinking about the knock on that door.

Because I knew that my family had love for me, but I knew that a decision like this, whether you're 16 or you're 40, makes or breaks people in our culture. So I knocked on the door. He answered. He could tell that something was wrong. He said, what's wrong? Come sit. I sat down and I said, I have to tell you something. I know you will judge me.

He's very religious. And he said, I will never judge you. And I said, I'm pregnant. And he leaned back in his chair and he took a breath. And he said, okay, tell me what happened. And I said, you know...

For so many years, I just wanted to be liked by somebody. And for so many years, so many people have told me that I'm not worth it. And I tried so hard to meet Muslim men. And I got lonely and I got tired of not being liked. And I deserve to be liked.

And he said, "You absolutely do, and I don't judge you for anything that's happened. And I'm here to support you." And that was such a special moment because it could have gone so bad if he had said, "You're not welcome back into the family," I would have understood. And if anybody in the family had said, "You need to terminate this baby," I would have understood.

But as I kept telling people in my family, everybody showed so much support. And they said, "We'll take care of you." For the first time in my life, I felt that I had people that said I was worth it. The next day, I called the guy that I was dating.

When I said I was pregnant, and immediately he said, well, you need to abort this baby. And I said, I am not. I felt bad because a part of me thinks it's a two-person decision. But I knew that I was going to keep this baby alive.

And he said, "You've lost me now. You're such a bad person. I can't believe you're doing this. You only think about yourself. I don't think you'll make a good mother." And that was the last I heard.

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You know what the magic of family support is? It is like a shield against the things that people tell you about yourself. So when he said, "You won't make a good mother," had I not had the support of my family, I would have taken that to heart.

Now that I had what I always wanted, support and unconditional love from my family, I wasn't bothered with what he said to me because that wasn't true.

So my family found out I was pregnant, but we didn't tell my dad. I didn't want to tell my dad until three months had passed and that I was okay in my pregnancy.

My father was in his 90s and had a heart condition. And we had decided to tell him that I was in a long-term relationship and that I was going to lie and tell him that we had gotten married privately and that he left when I got pregnant.

That's what we told my dad. And I was sitting there just trembling and my sister was telling him, this is not where I want to be right now. I just kept praying and praying. I kept saying, God, just let me pass this. Just let me pass this. And he said, oh, okay. And he looked at me. He's like, you don't need a man to raise a baby. And when he looked at me, I knew that he knew the real story.

And I knew when he looked into my eyes, he meant to say, I know, it's okay. You'll have this baby and he will be part of our family. It's just one of the happiest moments of my life. Even though I wish that I could have received this kind of acceptance as a child, I also know that

That they come from generations and generations of expectations that were fallen upon them also. And I forgive them. And I love them. And I hope that I can break that cycle. As people started to find out about my pregnancy, I was shocked and surprised at the amount of support I was receiving.

I had lost everything. I had lost my self-esteem in my life. I had lost my security. I had never been accepted and everything I was doing always was just not good enough. So it was shocking to me that at 40, I was feeling good enough finally.

So after I had the baby, and after having felt all these emotions of love and support and me feeling confident that I can do this, I was unaware of what postpartum would feel like. And for about a month, it completely derailed me.

There was a point where I thought, "I need to give him up for adoption." It was a horrible feeling because it's a push and pull. This baby is a part of you, but postpartum really plays a trick on your brain. It took time and I fought through the sleepless nights and I had the help and support of my family. And then one day it just changes.

I didn't feel love at first sight right away. I didn't feel a connection right away. But once you feel that connection, you feel like there's no other connection other than that connection. It's almost like it's you two and then there's the world. And it still feels like that now. And so I decided, okay, we can do this. This year, my dad passed away in January.

There were thousands of people at his funeral. And I knew that a lot of those people would see my son for the first time. And it was so nice to be able to know that my dad was best friends with my son before my dad left this world.

Throughout my pregnancy, I had actually talked about my pregnancy on social media and how things were going. And then I had the baby and suddenly I just didn't have time to take care of myself. So I had started gaining the weight. I couldn't do my hair anymore. Yet I wanted to tell people how my baby is, how everything was going. I wanted to share all this news with the world.

And it just dawned on me that I need to stop fucking caring what people think about what I look like. And through a few Instagram posts of me just kind of looking disheveled, I said, who the fuck cares?

I just couldn't believe that 40 years of my life I had worried about why these losers cared about what I looked like.

What little lives were these people living that they had to comment on my flesh? And the more I just posted about the reality of mom life and how you literally don't even have time to brush your teeth, I started empowering myself and saying, you know what? Good for you. Fuck everybody because I'm done.

I am done worrying about your fears of my weight. Oh no, but we're just worried about your health. Fuck you. I don't want to live till 90. I'm aiming for a good 70. I am just going to live as happy as I can in every moment that I have. And I know I'm a great mom. Nobody has to tell me any different.

We don't give a flying fuck. I literally do not care what anybody has to say. And that has made me into the rock star I am today. If I had just had this feeling at the age of 11, I think I would have changed the world because I would have been such an extreme badass at 11. I cannot tell you

The rippling effect that has had on the kids in our family who tell me now that because of me, they have the courage to go on social media and be who they want to be. It feels so good when you actually get that the whole reason you're here is because you have something inside you.

You are here to leave a legacy, not for a child, not for a spouse. You are here to leave a legacy of who you are to this world. So what initially started as me not wanting to care about things like what people think about my hair or the way I look turned into something so much bigger. You go from

I don't even care what people think to all of a sudden. Well, what is it that I really think? What is it that I really want? I realized that most of my life, I didn't even want to be married. I was just doing it to be accepted. Not caring what others think gives that space in your body to care what you think of you.

And it's not even so much what I think of me, it's more of what it is that I want out of my life. For the first time in my life, last year, I wore a two-piece bathing suit. And I felt fucking fabulous. I felt so good. I felt good because that's what I wanted to wear.

Now that my son is three and after years of not giving a fuck, I have now come to a great place where I'm back on my bucket list. I jumped off a 30 foot cliff. I went skydiving.

I picked up my son the other day and we went on a road trip for seven days where we did some ATVing in sand dunes and we just did a bunch of crazy hikes. But I'm living now.

And I just want people to know that you can live even after you think you can't. You can still choose to live at 40, 50, 60, 70. There's a moment, and I like to call this moment a wave. It's like the wave is coming. And you know that that wave, either you have to catch it,

Because you know you're being catapulted into another dimension of your life. Or you choose to stay back and you choose to repeat this story. And I feel like I caught the wave. And it catapulted me into a space of, I'm done. I'm done giving a fuck. And it doesn't make it easy. I'm willing to have that moment of discomfort. But I'm not willing to go back. Ever. Never. Never.

I'll never go back there. Whether that be the story of my sexual abuse or that be the way I was completely bullied for most of my life about what I looked like. All of that crumbled when I caught that wave.

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I'm your host, Witt Misseldein. Today's episode was co-produced by me and Sarah Marinelli, with special thanks to the This Is Actually Happening team, including Ellen Westberg. The intro music features the song Illabi by Tipper. You can join the community on the This Is Actually Happening discussion group on Facebook, or follow us on Instagram at ActuallyHappening.

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She struck him with her motor vehicle. She had been under the influence and then she left him there.

In January 2022, local woman Karen Reed was implicated in the mysterious death of her boyfriend, Boston police officer John O'Keefe. It was alleged that after an innocent night out for drinks with friends, Karen and John got into a lover's quarrel en route to the next location. What happens next depends on who you ask.

Was it a crime of passion? If you believe the prosecution, it's because the evidence was so compelling. This was clearly an intentional act. And his cause of death was blunt force trauma with hypothermia. Or a corrupt police cover-up. If you believe the defense theory, however, this was all a cover-up to prevent one of their own from going down. Everyone had an opinion.

And after the 10-week trial, the jury could not come to a unanimous decision. To end in a mistrial, it's just a confirmation of just how complicated this case is. Law and Crime presents the most in-depth analysis to date of the sensational case in Karen. You can listen to Karen exclusively with Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.