I was born in a small country called Malawi, one of the poorest countries in the world. Me and my family left for the United Kingdom in hopes of a better life. I was ten at the time, and the experience left me shattered as I was moved to a different part of the world where I knew no one, had no friends, and I was lonely. I kept this to myself and suffered my depression in silence, mostly in part because my alcoholic father refused to find a job and beat on my mother every other night when she came home after a night shift at 5 in the morning. This abuse continued for two years until one day I snapped and called the police on him. My mother was put in the hospital with injuries and TB, and I was put in foster care. During that period, I became socially withdrawn and my depression got worse. When my mother got out of the hospital, she brought us plane tickets to USA and we left the country without giving notice. The police thought we were abducted and began to look for us over the country. We remained quiet, never to see my father again, and began a new life here in the U.S. I never recovered from my depression, which caused me to be socially maladapted, but I had a positive outlook on life since I was young. A year in the U. S and my depression was getting a bit better. I spoke with teachers and didn’t shun group activities, and at a time I had a girlfriend too. But then she moved, and the long-distance relationship that ensued collapsed when she told me she was seeing someone else. I thought to myself, “it should hurt…shouldn’t it?” But I felt nothing. I never cried from that day. I graduated high school and began college, during which I heard that she became engaged (now 19) to the new guy. I just felt like nothing. There was no sadness, no anger, no envy. I kept an earnest and positive outlook, and this carried on until last year when I heard that my father passed away. I cried. I wondered if maybe it was my fault he died because I disliked him for being an alcoholic who beat my mother. Things from then on became unusually quiet. By the turn of the new year, my mother frequented hospitals for therapies she never needed before. In March, my mother passed away. Now I’m stranded in this country, unsure whether I can finish my education or even have a roof over my head. I keep thinking that I’m going to be dead in two years, keep seeing images of me languishing in apathy on a sun-drenched village back in Malawi, with hollow eyes smoking cigarettes all day in a drunken stupor. The noxious fumes intoxicate my lungs, but I could care less as we die the same one way or another–destined to become one with the pale, ashen sands of time.
Since writing this post ekireiso may have helped people, but has not within the last 4 days. ekireiso is a verified member, has been around for 5 years, 6 months and has 3 posts and 2 replies to their name.
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