Soon, fear became constant. My uncle wasn’t just strict; he was terrifying in a way no child could understand. He would scare me until I wet myself, and he wasn’t satisfied until it happened. I tried to understand why, but there was no explanation. Only coldness, only cruelty.
My aunt tried to defend me. Whenever my uncle said, “That’s not my son,” she would tell him, “We decided this together.” She tried to protect me with every ounce of her love and courage, but even her strength wasn’t enough. Eventually, even his love for her faded, and then hatred came from every direction.
Before I even knew what suicide meant, I tried to take my own life. I was a child seeking escape from unbearable pain. But I survived. Since I was nineteen, I’ve lived on my own, never once being evicted, never losing my home. I wish I drank less sometimes, but I’ve been strong, and I’ve worked hard to hold my life together.
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