My Life Story: I Don’t Know How I’m Still Alive

Sometimes I genuinely wonder how I’m still here.
My father was killed in 2012 when I was only 9 years old. That day changed everything. Instead of having a normal childhood, I was sent to a madrasa and later a hostel. What should have been a place to learn became a place of fear. I was beaten by teachers so often that I felt more like a prisoner than a child.
Home never felt like home either.
I’m the youngest of my brothers, and they’re all married. I don’t have a sister. There was no one to ask if I had eaten, if I was okay, or if I needed anything. I was mostly given orders—“do this,” “do that.” If something went wrong, I was blamed. We struggled financially, and I grew up believing my feelings didn’t matter.
The strange part is that I never wanted anything bad. I never got into drugs, crime, or toxic habits. I just wanted a peaceful life.
At 22, I decided to stop waiting for someone to save me. I left home and kept moving—Peshawar, Karachi, Islamabad, and now Lahore—searching for opportunities. I built an online business from nothing and earned more money than I ever imagined. I even shared a large part of what I earned with my family, hoping things would finally change.
They didn’t.
Money couldn’t buy love. It couldn’t buy respect. It couldn’t make anyone ask, “How are you?”
This Eid ul Adha, I spent the day completely alone in Lahore. A few days ago, I went back home hoping maybe things would be different. Instead, I walked into more arguments, negativity, and family drama. After I left, I heard people were speaking badly about me to relatives.
Now I sit alone most nights, overthinking everything—my father’s death, my childhood, the loneliness, and the question I’ve never been able to answer:
Why was love so difficult for me to find?
Some days I feel like I was born in the wrong family. I don’t want anyone’s money. I don’t want anyone’s property. I just want what most people take for granted—a family that cares, someone to call once in a while, someone to ask if I’m okay.
I’m still trying to build a better life. I still choose to work honestly. I still try to stay positive.
But sometimes… surviving is exhausting.
If you’ve read this far, thank you.
Have you ever felt completely alone, even while your family was still alive? How did you heal from it?