Temporary Assignment & Talking Rats!

It's either I have my hands on a book, or on a pen. Reading and writing had become my escape route. I had a house, I have both of my parents, me and my siblings are really close
.

Except that I had a life-and death situation in my early years.

I got severely sick. My mother said that it was meningitis. I don't know. But she told me that only the medicines were able to make me live... again. After that event, there seems to be nothing wrong as I grew old enough to start schooling.

My preschool days was filled with mirth and nothing out of the ordinary...

Elementary:
It's usual for any parent to be so protective, especially if your child had undergone a critical event like what I had. I can't blame her. I have good grades - not failed, but not excellent either.

I was always in the first section. I am able to made friends. But never close ones.

I seem to have this complex about my height - I stand out, being the tallest girl among my classmates. Tallest - with brains: I am good at memorization, (due to my love of reading) I became the walking dictionary of my class.


Forward to highschool life: I got the highest score in the entrance exam test of the nearest university in my vicinity. I was automatically assigned in the first section.

As time went by, my classmates and teachers alike observed my skill in being a walking dictionary. They loved it, so I took the privilege of being one.

Whenever my classmates needed me to translate or edit their work, I did it gladly, providing constructive criticisms along the way.

I even made some cash in translating and editing, which I used to pay for the materials for my school projects whenever I don't receive school allowance from my parents.

I was able to made friends. I had a group that I felt belongingness.

Until...

Second year highschool. Me and my mother discovered that my father had a mistress.

Probable separation.

Possibility of having a broken family.

Puberty kicking in.

Bullying.

I saw ghosts and elementals. (My third eye opens whenever I am very stressed)

Bullying level 2: alienation.

Dermatillomania.

I had no one to talk to. I can't even trust my adviser because she is too chatty.

Guidance office has too many teachers clumped there, though there is a separate faculty office. Totally not a good place to confide with anyone.

I focused on academics. I need to finish my studies.

One day, even my adviser alienated me.

I found a way out by reading and writing.

My proficiency of English language improved immensely.

My classmates sought me whenever they need my skills and then they'll bully me again.

I still held my footing, unleashing my hatred in writing diaries. But it is never enough to fulfill my teenage needs.

A torrent of school projects came. The crappy thing is, most of these requires me to talk with my family.

My imaginary world was shattered.

I had broken down.



MY FAILED SUICIDE ATTEMPT:

I curled myself inside the bedroom, near the wall.

Crying for many hours without stopping.

My right hand still holds a fork that I used from my last meal.

I have my own extension that I use to plug and charge my phone.

It had some loose wires protruding from the wire.

It was plugged in.

Live wire.

A metal in hand.

Good conductor of electricity.

I am still crying.

I wrapped my extension around me.

I had my slippers on so I wasn't grounded.

Still crying, damning all the world.

The moment I had found courage to insert the fork in the extension's socket, my brother came in the room.

He told me something that made me not to it (I forgotten what those words were).




College:
An occasional visit of anxiety and depression comes in during my college years. The burden was lessened because my college classmates and professors were able to understand me.

I found a love in writing, especially poetry; probably inspired by a female college of mine who always asks to read whatever I write. She really knows how I think.

I stopped writing poems and short stories because no one would read them other than her. She had to stop studying for her family.



Present:

I was able to seize my pen once more just a few weeks ago. I managed to find back my style in writing poems.

Emilie Autumn's book, "The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls" had made me pick up myself and my pen. I know I could never rival the beauty of her poems, but this time, I will write because that is what makes me happy.

"Writers are like gods: they could create vast worlds and give life to anything. All they need are just three things: a pen, a paper, and a hyperactive imagination."