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Happiest Birthday


Now that I've garnered care and sympathy for my struggles with mental health and mustered the courage to address them, it's time to dispel the illusion. Yes, my mental well-being has been severely impacted, but it's not solely due to misdiagnoses or misguided treatments by professionals.


I've endured a lifetime of mental abuse, beginning in childhood when I was powerless, not just from my father but also from those who should have protected me—people who turned a blind eye or, worse, participated in the torment. They, too, have inflicted wounds on my psyche, leaving scars that run deep. As powerful as it is, love from family and friends proved insufficient in shielding us from harm from the Tongues that became as sharp and cutting as the keenest of swords, inflicting wounds more profound than any physical blade. 

As a teenager, I seized the opportunity to escape my loving yet toxic environment, and I seized it eagerly. Despite facing financial struggles, I discovered moments of genuine happiness. However, like the little Hanuman, I naively believed I could reach for the sun with the world at my feet when pursuing my career aspirations. Instead, I was met with a barrage of hurtful words, branded as wildfire, and unceremoniously cast back into despair.

I had hoped marriage and being in America would be the turning point, believing once more that I could aim for the stars. Yet, I found myself entrenched in poverty, buffeted not only by the country's economic downturns in the initial years but also by misguided beliefs that not higher education or dreams but a job was the sole escape from destitution. I pursued independent study, absorbing whatever knowledge I could acquire. Despite enduring a toxic work environment and abuse, I managed to carve out a small piece of my dreams in 2015. However, any semblance of victory was shattered when confronted with the cruel truth that to them, my face's worth was a mere $1500, as if my entire existence could be quantified so callously. Despite some encouraging voices, they were weak and outnumbered by the relentless onslaught of sharp-tongued criticism, gradually suffocating the growth of my spirit like weeds choking a plant.


From a young age, I was not trained to use my voice to fend off such attacks, and I found myself paralyzed by the weight of years of conditioning to endure silently because of my father's shortcomings. I can only hope that those who have contributed to my mental health struggles will come to understand the depth of their wrongs as they witness my setbacks and failures in my career.

In matters of love, I was betrayed by those who fancied themselves righteous. To them, their suffering held weight, yet they dismissed mine as inconsequential simply because I lacked a job and children. They proclaimed their enduring love for the sake of family, all while screaming about their supposed tolerance towards me. But they failed to see that when I first arrived in the US, they poisoned my spirit. As I absorbed their hurtful words and actions, I began to feel the weight of their toxicity bearing down on me. It was then that I first noticed my mind and speech slowing down under the weight of uncontrollable tears and overwhelming sadness. Today, I realize that if they deem my voice unkind, then I find their voice no less than wicked for disabling me.

Yet another individual who claimed righteousness revealed their true colors, showing that their facade crumbled when it came to their own family. The empty nesters used us to fill the void until their children returned to occupy their attention. Then, without hesitation, they discarded us without citing what we had wronged. It might have been acceptable if they hadn't mislabeled me, causing harm without allowing me the opportunity to share my own narrative. While their children may admire their supposed honesty, they merely engage in psychological games, lacking a proper understanding of human nature. Their idea of truth and roots are deeply entrenched in their egos, and the rest of their followers are merely opportunistic, albeit selfish ones. If their commitment to truth and justice were genuine, they would have allowed me to share my voice and my side of the story. Instead, their silent treatment made me feel like my experiences were figments of my imagination. That marked the onset of my mental anguish.

The immense mental anguish I endured during my happiest moment in life in 2006, all because someone's business aspirations couldn't be realized, left me utterly drained. The relentless criticism and nitpicking of my family plunged me into a profound depression. It marked the start of my unhappiness as I witnessed the ugly colors of those I once loved. Until then, despite life's challenges, I had been a content and happy child. However, after enduring mental torture and abandonment, I developed anxiety and a relentless pursuit of happiness. Being happy became a conscious effort, and though I managed to succeed for a few years, it only compounded into a more significant burden over time.

I kept my agony hidden from my parents, not wanting to burden them with sadness. I believed I was coping adequately. Though there were moments of happiness, they seemed to evaporate as quickly as our moods shifted. At times, I felt profound sadness, yet my parents' solution was always the same: medicine and rest. How could they understand when they were accustomed to fixing their pain rather than confronting those who caused it? Feeling increasingly despondent and depressed due to their helplessness and lack of support, I chose to distance myself from them. Those who couldn't bear to see me in pain resorted to gossip and venomous words, unaware that hatred only begets more hatred—the absence of support, communication, and occasional thoughtlessness culminated in my mental isolation.

I remained devoid of the resources and knowledge to assert myself. Instead, I clung to the words of well-meaning but misguided advisors, hoping for a quick fix, only to find my agony intensified. My supposed best friend, whom I relied on for support and guidance, remained silent throughout the years, believing I needed to focus solely on myself. Perhaps I should have focused on myself with a firm foot. However, my efforts were met with even deeper disdain, with tongues wagging about my choice to distance myself from them. Regardless of my actions, I was bombarded with complaints and again inflicted with pain. I was already consumed by the torment of constant humiliations, misunderstandings, and the crushing weight of my perceived failure to start a career and family.


In the depths of despair, I found myself on the brink of ending my life not once but twice—ironically, once on the night of my birthday in 2016.

Perhaps this is why another person, maybe one who had been advising me to sever all ties with toxicity, had to enter my life and guide me through the personal hell I had unwittingly created for myself.

I've faced dismissiveness and mockery throughout my life from people who failed to comprehend the depth of my suffering, compounding the agony I've endured. But the truth is, my breaking point wasn't solely due to their shortcomings; it was the culmination of a lifetime of silent suffering, of shouldering burdens that were never mine to bear. I've been betrayed by those who should have supported me and been my pillars of strength. Instead, they added to the weight on my shoulders, their indifference cutting more profound than any insult.

I've played the role of the silent sufferer for far too long, believing that understanding and endurance were virtues. But I've come to realize that silence only perpetuates the cycle of abuse. It's time to break free from the shackles of silence and confront the demons that have haunted me for so long. Understanding may be valuable, but it's not enough. It's time to reclaim my voice; I deserve to be heard.

While everyone suggests to me the importance of friend support, they fail to grasp that their voices hold little value if they merely echo their desires. However, my voice should be prioritized, for I understand my needs best. I truly needed family back then, yet today, it's evident they do not care, and I lost my attachment to them. It's time for them to acknowledge the failure of the family system and for me to part ways.

However, as humans, we all carry traumas that limit us from understanding each other. Therefore, I don't hold anyone responsible for the events of that fateful birthday night. It was an act born of desperation in my quest to comprehend life's complexities, albeit one that led me to attempt to end my life. Despite everything, I still cherish the loving moments I shared with everyone. Despite moments of genuine care and love we shared as humans, doubts, negative mental states, and unfounded assumptions overshadowed our love due to lack of clarification or communication. It took enduring a great deal of trauma for me to arrive at this understanding, so in a way, I'm grateful for life's harsh but invaluable lessons. Suppose you were to ask me today how I perceive them. In that case, I see them as flawed and irresponsible yet fundamentally good humans.

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