It was a time I thought of all the time but never talked about. A time I wished neither to recall nor to forget. Two things happened to me then. Both occurred in august. Both almost ended my life-my real life, as opposed to my physical existence. I was never the same person since then.
On the second week of August, I failed my parents. The following week, he failed me. For a person not accustomed to failure, I was devastated. Compared to the 312 incident, this was a catastrophe. My first instinctive reflex called for an emergency retreat. For the 180 successive days, I was a wreck. I shut out the world, avoided everyone I knew, refused food, slept for excessively long hours and spent every waking hour on computer games.
Once in a while, whenever I told myself that I could never go on like this forever, I tried leaving my room, but instantly realized my mistake: I wasn't ready to face the world. Whenever I met someone, I clenched my fists, bit my lips, averted their gazes and shrunk away physically from them. Even around my friends, I deliberately avoided any conversations on classes and exams, changed the subject incessantly, faked a smile at every jokes and feigned interest in their daily happenings. Eventually the pain was so unbearable that I stopped seeing them.
Looking back, I was amazed I managed to pull through the dark hours. Nevertheless, what I'd been through neither took my life nor make me stronger. In fact, I was still haunted by its aftermath. I never admitted to anyone how badly wounded I was; how many sleepless nights I had; how often I planned on ending my life; how reluctant I was to point out the fact that I wasn't a regular batch student; how hurtful it was to feel like I was not good enough to belong.
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