Childhood Scars

So I’m following Daily Post and I stumble upon the 365 Writing Prompts which encourages you to write daily and gives you something to write about. And since I have a few surplus hours while sitting here in my office desk, why not spend it honing my writing skills? Might be able to come up with a thing or two about that novel I wanted to pursue along the way.


Jan 28’s topic is about a childhood place you love that is destroyed. Instead of doing an ode to it, I’d rather do a memorial to my childhood in general. I didn’t have an easy, happy lifestyle growing up. I have a drunken father and a weeping mother. Nights are usually spent for resting to prepare for school the next day. But mine was restless. I usually got up in the morning with red eyes, tired from last night’s wailing.

I remember I was seven or eight when I usually sleep with a pillow covering my whole head. Not that I don’t want to breathe but I just don’t want my father to hear me crying. And I don’t want to hear him shatter our little pieces of furniture. We don’t have much, yet he had the strength to break them. I remember I was thirteen or fourteen when the school administrator of the high school I was attending as a freshman ¬†told me that I cannot carry on studying because of our outstanding tuition debts. I cannot go to any other public school because they won’t release my credentials. My parents cannot pay for my tuition because I have two sisters who are in college. So I waited a year for one of them to finish so they can get a job and pay for my studies.

I was fifteen or sixteen when my father finally got a decent job as a baker in one of the big hotels in Asia. He had to live home and just remit money every month so we can buy food on our table. I admit I am relieved more than anything else. Finally I found peace at home. No more sleepless nights. No more red eyes in the morning.

I am now twenty-three. I have already earned an undergraduate degree and now working in a global investment bank. I still live in the house where my father used to rattle every night. I still see the scars in the wall and the stains in the floor which always remind me of the rough childhood I had. I was afraid I’d grow up angry. I was afraid I’d toss back to the world all the sufferings I had endured. But with all the bad things that has happened, better things have come out of it.

To my childhood, thank you for making me strong. Thank you for teaching me how to look into the goodness of people.

I might’ve digressed too much. But I felt good writing it.¬†

Photo from Life as a Divorced Dad.