Chapter 10: My First Collapse

I was just a child — younger than twelve years old. That’s the best reference I have, because I moved out of my home when I was around that age. I remember being in the living room, and for some reason, I opened the heavy wooden chest. We used to keep our bedding inside — sheets, blankets, comforters — and decorative handmade lace.

I always helped with cleaning the house, making the beds, doing the dishes, and I had even started learning how to cook. The only thing I didn’t learn was how to make handmade lace, because my mom never had the patience or time when I asked her to teach me. That was really unfortunate… but oh well. So that day, I must have gone there to grab something to finish decorating the house.

Before I go deeper, I want to remind you of something. My brother was going into my room at night, which gave me nightmares. I was being bullied by classmates. My own family constantly put me down like I was the dumbest person on the face of the earth. Having a heart and being honest seemed to be seen as weakness and stupidity. But those who cheated and destroyed, like my brother, were seen as smart. Add in my abusive neighbor and uncle, and it’s clear I was not okay. It was far too much for a child to carry alone and in silence. What a heavy weight.

On top of that, my parents argued every single day — yelling, screaming. I was exhausted. A few times it even got physical. The environment was terrible. The house slowly started getting messier and dirtier, even while my father was still living there. My mother began to care less and less — even more than before.

Yes, I’m stalling a little. Because what I found in that wooden chest was a gun.

I didn’t know how to use it, but I knew it was dangerous. I held it in my hands, and something inside me snapped. All the pain I had been holding in — all the despair, the confusion, the mess — started flooding my mind. I just wanted it all to stop. I pointed it at my head… and I pulled the trigger.

I’m writing this with tears in my eyes, still wishing someone could hold my hand. I don’t feel lonely, but aloneness has lived in my life for too long. There was no support. Just silence.

Thank God I didn’t understand anything about the safety mechanism — or I wouldn’t be alive. I cried everything I could that day. At least I released something, because that pressure inside me had become a ticking bomb. And the longer it stayed, the more dangerous it became.

If that gun had fired, my parents would have felt so guilty. So helpless.

So I’m asking you this:

If you have a gun and you have children — lock it up.

You have no idea how deep wounds go when there are constant arguments, emotional chaos, and bullying in a child’s life. You never really know what someone is holding inside.

Please… pay attention to your kids. Make sure they feel safe enough to speak up when something isn’t okay. Or you may carry a kind of regret that never leaves. You don’t want to live with that weight.