A crack in Outlet

After 20 years of living, I can still remember vividly the first time I wanted to take my own life.

And I was just a small kid.

In hindsight, I just knew what a pain in the ass I was when I was a child. I spoke too much. I was bossy and a know-it-all. Some people do not like know-it-alls. But what did I know at the age of 7.

I threw tantrums, threw things, swipe stuffs down from dressing tables when I got angry. I shouted when I got irritated. And being angry and annoyed were not a twice-a-week occurrence. I had a short fuse. Every one of my siblings too. And my dad was the one who passed that ‘gene’ to us, because when he was cross, the house shook.

But I always thought I was the worst because they made me feel like I was.

I was an outcast in my family. My siblings did not like me and they made it known. It was five against one. The feeling of being isolated amplified when they were together, in on it to taunt me. They thought they were just having fun, jesting around but being kids themselves, they did not realize the impact they had on me, the scarring they inflicted. I was always felt like I was alone. It would make sense more if I was the youngest, or the eldest for being a outcast. But being a middle child did not mean I could be closer to everyone seeing that the age gap between all of us was only one or two years apart.

It did not help that I was the darkest amongst all six of us. We were Malays but we also had strong chinese blood. That said, my family was relatively fairer than other Malays. But I had always been the darkest. The six of them used that as ammunition when taunting me. They called me names in our mother tongue.

“Yo Black. Can you shut up?”
“Throw this away for me Black”.
“Just go away Black because you were adopted”.
Black this. Black that.

My nickname was practically Black. But I am not even black, I thought back then, crying to myself. Far from it.

Last updated February 20, 2019