To reveal our scars.

Hey, readers.

I come to you today bearing a post containing subjects that can bring about painful memories. So, if you don't want to continue reading, then I understand. But for those who wish to listen to my pain, then please; continue reading.


Today, I spent the day at home. I had no extra classes today, and my friends are taking a short break from their trials.

So, about 2-3PM today, my mom called me up. Asking me how my day is, and how was my exams so far.

I told her about my recent loss of my former best friend, and she consoled me with wise words, just like she usually does.

Feeling sorry for me, she invited me to follow her and break fast at an Orphanage near town. I instantly rejected.

She wasn't surprised, neither was I.

But I bet you are.

It's an honorable thing to do, have dinner with kids who've never experienced what it's like to have a family.

But I rejected, because I'm still trying to overcome my problems. I felt selfish.

Some of my close friends know, that when I was merely a baby, my mother and father left me under the care of my grandparents for two years. My grandparents and aunties struggled through their life, but they still made room for me.

My mother returned two years later, she separated with my father. And eventhough she returned to bear the responsibilities of a mother, it took a while for my family to accept her back.

I lived my life as an affluent child, I believed the made-up story that my father died in a car crash. That was what I told my friends, because that was what I believed.

During break fast earlier, I simply stared at the small banquet laid before me, sipping warm tea, freshly poured from it's metallic pot.

I felt disappointed in myself, for not following my mother to the Orphanage. When I was the only one who could relate to those orphans the most. There was so much food left over, and out there somewhere children are not even being fed at all.

Just a few days ago, I learned that my father's real name is Ali. When for 17 years of my life, I've lived with the name; Mohd Johan Arieff bin Abdullah. Who is Abdullah?

And what hurts the most, is that my step-father returned from Europe, without informing my family. And he spoke to my mother about a divorce. Saying how they both had found who they really wanted to be with the most.

I was crushed. My Aunt dug this information from my mother, and it hurt that I had to find it out from my aunt.

Before my step-father left for Europe, he promised me that he would adopt me, and the name Abdullah would be replaced with his Muslim name. He wanted to show me what a father was like. And I believed it.

Where has those promises gone?

I'm not miserable, because I have loving friends, and my family cares for me.

The only father figure I've ever truly experienced is from my grandfather.

But even so, my family is struggling with financial issues.

So I turn to my friends.

I've lost two of my best friends in less than two years. Two individuals whom I've trusted with the power to be able to hurt me. And I trusted them never to use that power. But they did.

. . .

Enough of that, I needed to gush this out. I apologize if you expected a more exciting, or humorous post.

I'm sorry.