Or maybe being born was my original sin.
Because she gave birth to me, Mom's back was ruined. When it flared up, the pain made her lose control of her bladder and bowels. She'd be paralyzed in bed for days.
Treating her illness drained every penny we had. It still didn't fix the root problem.
To take care of her, Dad quit his decent job and started hauling cement at a construction site near the hospital.
For as long as I could remember, I'd known the taste of poverty.
The food at home was so scarce I was severely malnourished—skinny and stunted, living like a little rat.
Everything I wore was hand-me-downs from relatives.
Oversized clothes. Shoes that didn't fit. And an inferiority complex branded into my bones. That was my childhood.
In middle school, my body started developing.
The first time I got my period, I went to Mom, heart pounding, to ask for money for pads.
She was groaning in pain in bed, but she still insisted on giving me the money set aside for her medicine.
Drenched in sweat, gasping, she said, "Even if it kills me, I won't let my child suffer."
I cried from guilt, covered the bloodstain on my pants, and ran back to school.
From twelve until now, during my period I used tissues stuffed with scraps of cloth.
Every month, for those few days, I endured the sticky wetness of blood soaking through my pants. Endured my deskmate covering their nose and looking at me with disgust. Endured the boys' mocking laughter.
In high school, the school stopped providing meals.
The food money my family gave me wasn't even enough for bread.
But I never asked them for more. Not once.
Because I knew every dollar I spent was carried in on Dad's back, hauling cement. Saved by Mom, scraping it from between her teeth.
I already owed too much. I wasn't qualified to talk about dignity.
I survived by picking up plastic bottles on the sports field. By eating leftovers other students abandoned in the cafeteria.
In winter, to save twenty cents on hot water, I drank straight from the tap.
Day after day, I pushed through. And finally, I made it to the eve of the college entrance exam.
My practice scores—over seven hundred—were enough to get me into a top medical school on a full scholarship.
By then, I could finally make Dad straighten the back that steel and concrete had bent. Finally take Mom to a real hospital.
And I could finally repay that debt—the one that had crushed me for eighteen years.