Years ago, I wrote a blog entry about my predicaments as a child. I recalled, how at seven, I almost stabbed my mom because she did not want to take me to the hospital where she worked as a nurse. I remembered how I almost broke my dad’s motorcycle because he did not want to take me to the town with him. Well, every child has her or his share of foolishness growing up. My own story is never far from theirs.
As I grew older, I have become self-effacing, trying to conceal myself to the whole world, repressing my emotions, out of fear anyone who discovers the real me would shudder at my laconic demeanor. For almost thirty years, I tried to live a very normal life. A life people want me to live, things people want me to achieve. But deep inside, there is a child who seriously needs help. Acceptance. A child who manages to control himself despite doubts and fears. A child who tries to understand himself despite the darkness that adumbrates his psyche.
Growing into maturity has been a wayward journey, an unending quest for answers. I turned to religion. I turned to magic. I turned to arts, which greatly plays an important role in understanding my self more. Without poetry, without music, without painting, I could have drowned myself into the pit of despair. I could have killed myself sundry times already. But no. I wouldn’t just allow that.