A true fight

Lonely

I want to go home, but there is no home.

I want to be loved, but there is no love.

I want to belong, but no one wants me.

I want to be needed, but people tell me I am unfit.

I want to stay out of sight, far away in a hole.

I felt terrible, and since there was nothing to distract me, I just wanted to end it all.

At the moment of my birth, a cruel twist of fate left me gasping for breath, deprived of vital oxygen. This tragic beginning marked me with lifelong challenges: incessant tremors that shook his body, debilitating vertigo that spun my world, and a myriad of other afflictions that branded me a "reject," a label I would endure painfully over the years.

The tragedy deepened; as I took my first breaths, my mother lost hers, slipping away in the throes of childbirth. Heartbroken and shattered by the news of my birth, my father, who never wanted a child, overwhelmed by despair and grief, chose to end his own life, convinced that I was not worth living for. With no one left to care for him, I was sent to live with foster parents who were emotionally distant and indifferent, leaving me to navigate my early life in isolation.

As I entered kindergarten and later progressed to junior school, I found myself yearning deeply for connection and acceptance from my peers. The reality of my disabilities often left me feeling isolated and on the sidelines of social interactions. Sports, which seemed to bring so many kids together, felt like an impossible dream for me; I watched from the sidelines as others played, unsure of how to join in.

Academically, I was met with further challenges, especially when it came to writing. My handwriting was so difficult to decipher that even I struggled to make sense of it at times. This created a barrier between me and my teachers, who became increasingly frustrated, and my classmates, who often failed to understand my attempts to communicate.

In my quest for knowledge and a sense of belonging, I turned to the library, where I found solace among the endless rows of books. I spent hours engrossed in stories and facts, exploring worlds far removed from my own. This escape offered me enrichment, feeding my intellect and imagination, but it also deepened my sense of alienation.

In a society that already marginalized me due to my disabilities, I faced the additional pressure of the Mage government, which held a strong disdain for educated peasants. My thirst for learning, rather than elevating myself, became a source of conflict—highlighting the chasm between my aspirations and the harsh realities of this world. This duality made my journey for acceptance even more complicated and painful as I navigated the challenges of identity, disability, and societal expectations.

On the day I turned 13, he expected nothing extraordinary to happen. As I trudged through the cold, crisp air toward the mandatory winter sports training, a familiar sense of dread settled over me. This was the time of year when I would typically face the inevitable: deselection from the team, as I had in the past. Out of nowhere, a loud, resonant voice broke through his thoughts, declaring, "I love you." It wasn't just the words; it was the warmth, peace, joy, and power that accompanied the voice. It echoed in my mind, and suddenly, I felt himself falling onto the snowy pavement, overwhelmed by the experience.

In a daze, I asked, "Who are you?"

To my astonishment, the voice replied that it was God. This divine entity expressed a deep desire for a relationship with me, a longing that seemed to transcend the boundaries of my understanding. Caught off guard, I hesitated. I considered myself a non-religious person, someone who had never given faith much thought. However, the voice persisted, assuring me of its love and offering a bounty of blessings and fulfillment for everything I had ever desired. Encouraged, I found himself engaging in a conversation with God, who then urged him to read a specific passage: Deuteronomy 14, verses 22-26.