THEY SAY pain and suffering can make one a strong person. But it doesn’t seem to work for me for I have endured a lot of it as a kid and yet, today, I still succumb even to the slightest of pain.

Back in my grade school days, I have always felt that I’m the underdog. I did well in school but nobody seemed to be happy for me. Some people appreciated my abilities but nobody appreciated who I am. I felt unloved, even unwanted.

I am not blaming my parents, though, because I know that raising fourteen children is a heavy load. I have seen their efforts to provide us with what we needed, except for adequate attention and affection. I did not demand that from them; I tried to look for it from other people. And I failed.

Rejection. I loathe that word. I spent most of the past 22 years alone. I tried to understand the world on my own, answered my own questions, fought my own battles, rejoiced in my own victories, and comforted myself in times of sorrow.

Some people came to pick me up. Some people made me happy for a while and then left. Some others just came to inflict more pain.

I thought that because I encourage other people, I have enough courage within me. I thought that because I help them make decisions, I have a clear mind. I thought that because I make people happy, I am happy myself.

I thought I am strong. I thought I’m invincible. But, look, why am I dying?