I’ve only told two people so far about my true feelings about this life. It’s hard for me to open up because personally I’ve gone this far of hiding it, if I told anyone, they would think it’s a phase that I’m going through. The thing is, I’ve been dealing with depression as long as I can remember. It’s kind of hard writing about this and I am not sure if I could ever tell the people I love about the situations that I’ve been through. I guess one part of me is scared with how they would react, but the thing is, I’ve survived through it without having them knowing ANYTHING about it, but I’m just so close to breaking, so close to telling because one part of me knows that they might want to hear this. Well, where do I start? Did I have a bad childhood? No, I didn’t, I was loved and raised wonderfully. Yet, I cannot say everything went as smoothly, I know nothing ever is but, when you made to be the “golden child”, I guess depending on who you are, but for me I find, because of it, I feel more in need of just wanting to be in the background. I can’t stand being in the center of attention, because I know as much love I get, I get the same equivalent of hate with it, or even more at times. Maybe we were just kids, but my grandmother always showed favoritism towards me and this only led my cousin to pick on me and call me fat and pretty much make fun of me every chance they get. Maybe subconsciously this lead me into hating myself because hey, if I’m hated over the things I have no control of, maybe I am a fucking monster. Going to school had only hurt my confidence more and gradually my self-worth drowns into nothingness. Thinking that going to kindergarten I would have friends, but being the shy little shit that I was (still am), I kept to myself and it’s something that I’ve gotten used to. I really don’t know what I did to make people hate me, I have done nothing and already in those kindergarten/admission years, I’ve got my lunch box stolen, I’ve been picked on, bullied, beaten up till I was bleeding out of my nose abused, molested and raped. These aren’t metaphors, these things actually happened to me around 1999 – 2000, although during that time, I didn’t know what was going on, I thought it was just things people do to each other, I knew I wasn’t strong, so I took up the beating. I remember vividly my mother telling me, if anyone ever picks on you, you just ignore it and I also remember her seeing me with a bloody nose and saying “Forget what I said about ignoring it, when someone hits you, you hit them back!”. I was so broken seeing my mother worried sick over what happened to me, I was even more sad when she said “how come the teachers didn’t do anything?!”, it didn’t come to my mind before, but my mother was right. I was a 5 year old kid, bleeding out of my nose, crying, walking past the teachers and they did nothing about it. This kind of attributed to “Wow, I am so unlikeable, even in my most vulnerable state, no one cared to attend to a little 5 year old me in pain”. Please excuse me if I find it hard for me to love myself, because in all honesty, I am just so close to just ending all of this. My whole primary years in school was pretty much the same, I sat in the corner my whole life, not having any friends. No one talked to me, no one wanted to talk to me. I was shamed for being a quiet kid, I was shamed for getting praised for good behavior, shamed for writing with my left hand, shamed for bad handwriting and terrible fucking grades, I was shamed for fucking every single thing I did. There’s nothing I could do right, people in my class always had reasons to hate on me, to complain, to whatever. My life took a turn for the worse when my mother left for Kuala Lumpur and my sister and I had to live with our father. I know my father is trying to be a father to us now but, it kills me to say it, I don’t think I could grasp the concept of having a father, not because I don’t want to, but because the idea of having a father is strange to me. Yes my father was kind of there for us… But, kind of doesn’t necessarily mean he was there to be a father. I can mostly remember him setting off to work early in the morning and coming back in the afternoon for like 10 minutes and then he heads out to go somewhere with his friends to do some shady things. I say shady things because, this man had children he needed to attend to, I’ve been holding onto the question of “what was it that was so important to this man that he had practically no time to take care of his children?”. I can’t complain fully, yes we had food on the table and roof on top of our heads, but we were living in our grandmother’s house. I can’t say at a young age, I had a bond with my father, because all he ever did was told us what to do and if you don’t I’ll yell at you and I’ll make you stare at the wall. In those years of him ‘raising’ me, He never asked how my school day was, if I needed help with homework, or asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up. All I’ve ever learned from my father was to follow orders and nothing more. My mother on the other hand, she stayed strong when she needed to, she made time in her very busy life to spend time with her children, she made the whole world know that we meant the world to her. When my sister and I moved back to living with our mother it was already too late for me to ever want to tell anyone thing. I couldn’t because when I try to talk to anyone about my problems, they tell me I’m just a kid and I should get over it, it’s not a big deal. So at this point at age 9 to 10, I was already a depressed fat kid who hates himself because hey, if everyone fucking hates me for existing we’ll I might as well hate myself. It’s hard trying to keep a conscience knowing that people just say mean shit to empower themselves, but as a sensitive little bitch that I am, I take everything I hear as a personal hit and whenever I look into a mirror, I see a flawed man, I see a very very flawed person. Knowing that I could never be perfect, this opened doors for me into worlds that I never thought in my whole life that I would set foot into, the world of drugs. I’ve fantasized about smoking at age 11, because I see everyone doing it, but never would I ever thought of taking drugs. Moving to Jakarta, had made an impact on my self-esteem, I felt like I’ve managed to get away from every negative aspects of my life, i.e Brunei Darussalam as a whole. However, of all the things that I’ve left in Brunei, my insecurities stayed and my self-loathing habits were stronger than ever. In Jakarta, it’s easy to get drugs, I got my hands on weed in 2 weeks of being there, I don’t know what got me into it, but I was a massive Nirvana fan and I wanted to be like Kurt Cobain, too much like Kurt Cobain. At this point I’ve lost a fuck ton of weight, I was a chubby fat kid turned anorexic. People asked me how I lost weight, I told them white lies like exercise, puberty and diet, even went as far as I had an eating disorder but none of those were the main factor. At that time I did things that I wasn’t proud of, which was heroin. It was so easy not wanting to eat because all I wanted to do was that. I saved up my lunch money just to buy smack and after one hit, I wouldn’t have any appetite to eat whatsoever. I mumbled and slurred a lot but no one had noticed, I went through a heroin phase without any of the people I was close with knowing that I had that phase. It was easy for me to get off it, because I knew that feeling’s not going to last. Around 14, I’ve experimented with LSD, Ecstasy, Cocaine, Ketamine, Ether, Ice, Stax, anti depressants and I can say in all honesty, I am not addicted to any of them. If anything, the escapism is only fun for a while, but I am not going to lie when the come down hits and the idea of lingering in loneliness and depression comes to my mind, that is the most addictive thought I have in my head. I’ve attempted suicide 5 times in my whole life, call it fate, or god’s will, but I always regain consciousness, either the sweater I used for the noose gave in, or the closet hanger breaks before I could die, but the results are always the same, I always ended up on the floor and thinking shit, I was so close. I remember waking up with carpet burns on my neck from using the sweater as a noose, my eyes had darkish purple circles around them and my face was very pale. My stepfather, being the smart guy that he is, laughed and automatically assumed that I was drinking alcohol the night before. I can’t say I’ve dealt with this chemical imbalance in my brain very well, but hey man.. I’m still alive.