During my elementary days, my dad and my grandma would beat me up a lot for the littlest thing and they would call it discipline. Which I'd understand if they beat all 6 of us as frequent and as hard as they would with me. But they didn't. They would hit them with a stick or with a hanger etc but after that they were free to go. I wasn't so lucky. They would send me to an empty dark room and would lock me there for a long time. You can't imagine how scared and how hurt I was sitting at the corner crying because the beating still stings and the isolation made me feel weak and alone. It happened too often that during the last few years of being "disciplined" that way, taking my own life crossed my mind. Sitting at the corner, cutting my wrist with a broken shaving razor crying, hoping I'd die as soon as it bleeds. The scars from those days remains with me till now and still actively thinking about ending my life and I guess this is how I would be for the rest of my life.
