You can't choose your parents, but you can decide your own life. I gave this sentence to myself, as well as to those who watched " Our Blues Time ", and their hearts were hit hard by the mother and son of Dong Xi. I have always believed that speaking out about my true experiences can bring strength to those who are struggling; today, I use my life story to show the bloodstained scars I grew up with. I hope you know that you are not alone; I am fine now, and you will be fine too. When I was a kid, I had two big buckets of pencils, printed with princesses or small flowers, so beautiful that I couldn't bear to sharpen them. There are also many sticker collection books, which are full of all kinds of laser, suede, and cute cartoon stickers. Every time I get beaten up, my collection grows.
My father went bankrupt when I was four. Our Photo Restoration Service whole family hid debts in a leaky tin house. My newborn sister cried all night because the family didn't even have money for milk powder. My father used to be a factory owner, and the delivery target was a Japanese trading company. He used to be high-spirited in international business. The former big boss has become a wanted criminal under the Bills Law. He resented the person who caused him to bounce the ticket, resented the fate of making people; in order to make a living, he could only sell breakfast under the iron roof. I get up at 3 am to grind soy milk to make noodles, and I don’t make enough money. At noon, I have to sell bubble tea and pot-fired pasta. The accumulated resentment will explode when you are not careful, and it will explode on the eldest daughter who is young, ignorant and stubborn - me. How did my father beat me? Orange thick Sugyo, hangers, belts, thick sticks I found somewhere.
Oh, and slaps. The way to play out of control is to beat to the death, until you see your own skin, and there are thick bloodstains staggered, and after a while, it will turn blue and black. For about a week, sitting in a chair would sting to the point of taking a breath. The family is too poor, and I always look eagerly at the cute stationery in the hands of my relatives. When I was six or seven years old, I stole an eraser from my cousin and was discovered by my father. He was furious and could not accept that there were thieves in the house, so he folded my hands and feet back, took me to a relative's house and threw it on the floor, opened the door, and beat me with a belt to show everyone. I asked my father a few years ago, do you remember you beat me like this? He said he didn't remember. Do not remember, or do not want to remember? Then I really felt that it didn't matter anymore.