The plane tore through clouds as Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” pulsed in my headphones. Toronto wasn’t just a new school—it was witness protection for my soul. It was my chance for a rebirth, my chance to discover, my chance to live the life I want. At school, teachers said “Interesting perspective! Thank you for your effort!” when I butchered English. For the first time, no one yelled “蠢女!” (stupid girl).
Yet freedom had fangs:
- I hid in bathroom stalls during lunch time
- Hallway bullies mocked my outfits
- Relatives’ house reeked of awkwardness
Then came Lois—a Cantonese-speaking lifeline. Through her, I found my pack: Kyle the kindest soul, Brendon the quirky jokers, Cathy the fashionista. We traded snacks at lunch, our laughter a temporary vaccine against loneliness.
Three months flashed by, and my mother went back to Hong Kong. I’d never felt lonelier: living under the roof of my aunt’s, living English, and struggling to fit in. Though I never thought the 11 year-old me made a wrong decision by leaving Hong Kong behind.
As time passed, nights bled into 1 AM panic attacks. I’d log onto MSN, typing confessions to my friends’ box:
“i want to die”
“might go cut myself now”
“who would care anyway!”
Depression and sickness creeped right in on me. One Tuesday, I chugged down a bottle of cherry cough syrup in school. Kyle shook me: “Why are you doing this?! STOP!” It wasn’t suicide—it was a love letter to the world: “SEE ME. PROVE I EXIST.”
This was Freedom! And the price?
Hollow-eyed nights.
Cough syrup vision.
MSN graveyards of pleas.
Worth every tear.
Because when you’ve breathed smog your whole life,
even polluted air tastes clean.
When you’ve been a puppet,
cut strings leave you bleeding—
but oh, the falling feels like flying.
