Luhan's POV:

Just like any other little kid, I wanted my daddy to pick me up and joyfully throw me up in the air; catching me again with his strong arms. I wanted to sometimes sit on his lap and have him tenderly my hair and kiss me on my forehead. If we were out for a walk I wanted him to hold my hand and show me the beauty of nature all around us. He was my daddy and I wanted to captivate him. I wanted to be his little prince.

In life, we don’t always get what we want, do we? When we went out for walks and I took my daddy’s hand, he would let go of it and tell me to walk on my own. When I sat on his lap he would pinch me in an attempt to be playful and express his love, but it was too hard and it hurt me. He didn’t pick me up and throw me joyfully in the air; most of the time, I felt like I was in his way. You see, as much as my dad had loved me, he had no idea how to express his love. He was a tall, proud man and had an authoritative voice; my friends were scared of him. So was I.

Somehow, even in the midst of all of this, my dad and I grew further and further apart. When I tried to find his affirmation and love, he would be awkward and distant and I started to think that he didn’t like me very much. Maybe it was because I was the reason for my mothers death?. He seemed to love my stepbrothers much more. Yet I still tried to catch his attention and became a bit of a noble; always longing for him to notice me.

As the years went by, it gradually sunk into my heart that my dad didn’t like me as much as I wanted him to. Eventually, I stopped looking for his approval; each rejection a stab in my chest. I believed that he loved me, but it felt as though he didn’t like me and I didn’t like him either, I decided, and at times even begged my stepmother to leave him.

By the time I was a late-teen I was over it. He didn’t matter anymore; there were lots of boys who liked me and they seemed to be totally captivated by me. One after the other, they each told me that they loved me; that I was the most beautiful boy and that they just wanted to be with me. I was entranced. Nothing could beat this feeling of being loved and adored and whichever way I could get it was worth exploring; I found my worth in it.

Before long I started making reckless choices. The only thing that seemed to make sense was to have as much fun as possible at whatever cost. It became my philosophy in life; no other rules applied. I hadn’t left school yet when I first started using drugs. It occurred to me that it was probably not the right thing to do, but I couldn’t think of a good enough reason not to try it. Not even when my brother died did it stop me. It was my life and I was determined to live it as I pleased. Yet the guilt ate away at me. By the end of my last year of school I had an anxiety attack that had me convinced that I was busy dying. My stepmom rushed me to the doctor whose diagnosis, which I only discovered a few years later, was depression. He managed to calm my nerves and gave me a series of anti-depressants and sleeping tablets. In actual fact, at the time I didn’t know what the pills were for but it greatly appealed to me to consume 16 pills a day – it somehow seemed glamorous to me. I ate more pills than food that summer. I looked fabulous.