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When I was ten, my parents broke up and when I asked them why, they told me that I wouldn’t understand.

They were right.

That night, I cried until my eyes were too tired to produce tears and when I finally closed them, I fell asleep in a matter of seconds.

My dad wasn't there to wake me up.

My mother had to raise me on her own. Sometimes, it was painful to watch her as she - desperately - tried to heal my injuries. The fresh wounds - the cuts, the bruises - that the other kids inflected me because I never learned to stand for myself. But I don’t blame her. My parents came from different families and therefore, they consequently learned different values.

In highschool, it was even worse.

The worst aspect of being a teenager is that everyone underestimates your capabilities of understanding the principles of life.

But I did understand.

So when my mother asked for help and that the principal told her that he couldn't do anything for me, instead of arguing and bursting into tears, like my mother did, I simply nodded.

Because that's just how life works.

My skinny frame made me an obvious target. I was beaten on a daily basis and called a "faggot" more than I can count. But I didn't mind.

I felt nothing.