When I was 6, my dad cheated on my mom.

I will never forget my sister’s arms covering mine like a seatbelt as we watched Mom chase Dad out of the house. I didn’t understand what was going on back then and was way too young to grasp the concept of cheating. It just seemed like Mom and Dad had a fight about something.

Inevitably, that led to a divide in the family, and we pretty much lived without my dad for a few years.

There’s No Place Like Home

Dad came home when I was about 10 to 12. Although, his presence was always fleeting. I’d see him around at home on some days and then for long periods after, he would go missing again.

It didn’t feel right, but nobody said anything. Nothing about the affair (which I came to understand much later on), nothing about this unusual arrangement, or what was happening between Mom and Dad. There was no “our Dad is an idiot” uttered among my siblings, no “your Mom and Dad are separating” from the elders, nothing.

As much as I thought things were odd, I learnt not to question anything and to just accept the way things were. Over time, what is supposedly a broken family developed into a norm for me.

However, I also believe that a bad husband doesn’t necessarily make for a bad father.

Every Parent Loves Their Kid

In fact, he played a crucial role in my childhood and through all the times I’ve spent with him, he had ingrained in me many inherent attributes, albeit a mixture of good and bad ones.

Ever since I could walk, my dad was training me to kick a ball, and kick a ball I sure did. Like his father, he was a semi-pro footballer in the past, and I am very grateful that he had put me into an academy school for football at a very young age, for football has become a huge part of my life, even after 20 years on.

On the days where nobody was sporting enough to bring me out, Dad would whisk me off for some entertainment, taking me out for meals and spoiling me at arcades.

On other days, however, he would bring me out bar-hopping. Not the hipster bars that our millennial friends would chill and have deep conversations at either, but the shady ones with the flirty bargirls, heavy cigarette smoke, and sometimes god-awful karaoke.

Looking back, these bars were extremely inappropriate places for a father to bring his twelve-year-old son. But this was (in his own words) his way of ‘opening my eyes’ and ‘broadening my horizons’.

“If I can’t teach you good, I can at least teach you the bad.”

I was just twelve when I saw the world of bar girls taking orders from men who would eye them up. And when my dad flirting with different women became normalised behaviour, masked under the guise of ’friendly conversations’. Conversations that my dad would say, “talking cock” and “all in good fun.”

As a quiet kid by nature, I mostly observed those chummy interactions and minded my own business.

My dad introduced me to pool, and I’d always look forward to being back at the pool table—that became part of the only reason why I looked forward to going out with him later on.

Over time, I started to notice that there was this one lady who would approach my father on many days. As a kid, I didn’t really think too much into what that meant, except that she was my father’s companion for the night.

Then one day, my father asked me to call this lady Mom.

I cannot even begin to explain the mix of confusion and perturbation that put me in.

I know my mom, and she’s the woman who has been taking care of me since young, and whom loves me with all that she has. This lady, on the other hand, was someone who gets chummy with Dad on certain nights at the bar. How am I to call her Mom?

At the same time, I had no idea what it meant for my dad to do that.

It messed my mind up about what love is, how relationships work and what is morally right. It messed me up knowing that I had been practically watching my dad spending time with his mistress(es) thinking that it was no big deal. And to realise this whole other world that my dad had been living while my mom was back at home, slogging to look after her three children by herself. Are relationships like that? I didn’t remember it being like that in shows or anywhere else.

Looking back, I definitely I would have stood up to him if only I knew.

If only I knew.

You Can’t Choose Your Family

Since young, the phrase “no matter what, he is still your father” has been reiterated to me by my aunts, my uncles, and even my mom. And for the entirety of my childhood, I truly believed that my father was my father no matter what.

Despite all the shady activities and mistresses, I still saw him as a father. I appreciated having him around and genuinely believe that in his mind, this (bringing me into his world of bars and girls) was his way of getting closer to me.

The fact that we share quite a few similarities and him having imparted various skills that turned into personal passions of mine helped maintain that somewhat positive image I had of him.

As the only person that he let in on a side of him that no one else knew, I also saw myself as the potential bridge to making my family whole again (once again, because family should stay together right?).

I had even rationalised that perhaps, all the time he had spent with me was a cry for help. As the only family member who was close to him, I felt like I was able to break him out of his unhealthy habits at some point.

Unfortunately, it was all wishful thinking because what was a father-son relationship to me was to my dad, something that he could exploit. At least, that was what it seems when I picked up a call in late 2016.

Children Are A Poor Man’s Riches

“Where the f**k is your father?! Owe money don’t need to pay ah? If don’t pay back by 5pm, I’ll burn your house down!”

After the initial state of confusion, it hit me that my dad had given his son’s (my) personal details to a loan shark.

The most wrong I’ve done to him was probably stealing from his piggy bank (maybe it’s karma), but there I was as the guarantor for him to loan sharks. It was one of the worst feelings in the world, and I felt absolutely betrayed.

Soon enough, my family learnt that Dad had owed 21 loan sharks a total sum of $35,000.

Besides the loan sharks, he had also sold my insurance for money, and used my name for a telco plan, which racked up a debt of $900. When my family confronted him about it, his response was, “let them sue, they wouldn’t dare.”

With the help of my relatives, my family eventually paid off all the debts in hopes of closing this chapter, as my dad promised to do. And for a moment, I really thought that that was it for drama.

Then, just last month, I received a series of messages looking for my father. Again. From loan sharks.

It was barely three years ago that we paid off all his debts, but my father had let us relive all of those feelings of confusion, fear, worry, and heartbreak all over again. All for money which we have no idea what he needed for.

“Blood Is Thicker Than Water”

I used to love my father for the moments that he had brought to my life. For the times that he taught me football (even though the methods aren’t the best), how he introduced me to playing pool, which I’m good at now, and for just being around in his own, unorthodox way.

These skills and moments, however, do not even come close to justifying what he has done to my mom, my family, and me.

Not only has he broken our heart so many times, he had, through exposing me to the world of bargirls and flirting in my formative years, given me a warped belief system. I’ve had to relearn what it is like to love and to learn how to differentiate the ‘rights’ and ‘wrongs’ in relationships—not just romantic ones. I've hurt many people because of that and I beat myself over it.

For a long time, I struggled with coming to terms with having him as my father, and I cannot deny the many times I blamed him and wondered what I did to deserve a father like him.

I believe there are many things that contributed to how he turned out. Maybe it was his upbringing, or something that messed him up when he was young, but something should have contributed to him being this way. But for the most part, this man did not treat me like his son and I cannot possibly blindly accept that blood is thicker than water like I have been brought up to believe.

Learning to accept that has given me peace that I did not have for a long time. Lacking a ‘proper’ fatherly figure definitely affected my life but I’m thankful to have moved on mentally.

The whole concept of a traditionally-complete family is lost to me, but I’m happy to say that my family is as complete as it needs to be now. I have my mom and my siblings who love every bit of me, and whom I love as dearly. That is all I need from a family.

Also read: We Live Under One Roof, But We Don’t Feel Like Family At All.

(Header Image Credit: Ian Tormo on Unsplash)

Warning: This article contains content that some may find triggering. Most people go by the pronouns ‘he’ or ‘she’ but for me, it’s neither. Instead, like many non-binary individuals, I identify with ‘they’ and ‘them’. Growing up, there were always signs that I wasn’t quite attuned to the nature of a girl. I hated skirts, hated walking along the girls’ aisle, and contrarily, liked dressing up in my dad’s clothes. My aunt told me about how she once heard me screaming my head off from another room when my mum was forcing me to put on a dress — it was that bad. When I was a primary school kid, I stumbled upon photos of this female bodybuilder. She had feminine appearances (long hair) but such a masculine body: she had a male chest and no breast tissues at all. Even at such a young age, I was amazed at how a biological female can have such a masculine body, and I remember wanting to have a body like hers. In secondary school, I realised just how different I was compared to the other girls. I was nothing like the stereotypical female. I had morbid thoughts of self-harm because of how deeply unhappy I was with the way I appeared.

However, I did not understand any part of those feelings back then. Because in the world I grew up in, we lived by the principles of the Bible.

How Can I Be Trans And Christian?

I was born into a devout Christian family. The kind where you will see shelves full of Christian paraphernalia the moment you step into our home. My dad is a pastor, and my four brothers and I pretty much grew up in the church. We saw the world through the lens of Christianity, and only through that — where ‘sex before marriage’ and seeking ‘permission’ from the church elders before dating are very normal. In my religion, there is only male and female, and this gender distinction is stated many times in the Bible. As Christian, the message that it is only right for one to be the gender that one is born as is clear as day. So all through my teenage years, I struggled with my gender identity, because even though I am born a female, I didn’t feel like it at all. I hated the way I looked and I hated the way I sounded. The picture I had of myself in my mind differed so much from how I looked like in reality that I dissociated a lot. The way I felt about my body and identity made me very ashamed of myself. I felt inferior all the time and because I lacked self-confidence, I found it really hard to even interact with people. I also doubted myself a lot. I thought that this was just a phase that everyone will go through. That maybe, I was just super anxious about myself and envisioning delusions to escape. The mix of unhealthy and conflicting feelings manifested itself in the way I socialised - I couldn’t.  I did not know how to, and did not have a lot of close friends. I also hate bothering people with my problems. All through my teenage years up until I was 23 last year, I kept to myself and internalised all of my negativity.

I spiralled into depression. I got into many relationships, even abusive ones, just to fill the void. I sought to self-harm, slashing myself to cope with the intense feelings of sadness and frustration. Back then, those were the only ways I knew how to deal with my emotions. Everytime I thought I had made progress in accepting myself as transgender, I would spiral again. There were many times I contemplated suicide. At one point, I lived everyday thinking that I would just die suddenly, like how a car will come out of nowhere and just hit me and kill me. I felt like there was no meaning to anything. Every day, I was just surviving for tomorrow. Then, in June 2018, I spiralled again and hit rock bottom. At that point, I had been working at a restaurant in a bid to earn some income while figuring out what to do with my life. With guidance from my head chef, I manage to grow in character and confidence, and had risen through the ranks.

I had started to see some sort of purpose in life and I knew that there were only two options for me: Either take the necessary steps to change my life for good, or continue spiralling like what I have been doing for the past 23 years. There were so many times I had wanted to take my own life and I knew that if I continued the way I was, I would go crazy trying to ‘fit in’, and I probably would not survive much longer. However, the steps to changing my life include confronting one of the only two biggest fears I had in my life: coming out to my parents. Coming out to my parents meant going against everything they stood for, and in our church, they believe that queer people are “scum of the earth”.  I took a month to look inwards. To confront all the unpleasant feelings I had buried deep within me. All the painful experiences I have had growing up, the cold exchanges I have had with my parents. All the times where I was struggling inside but they just weren’t there for me. Where I felt so alone. All the emotions that I pushed aside, because it was just so much easier to avoid thinking or feeling. Dealing with all those feelings of sadness, frustration, anger, fear, and isolation that had been bottled up for so many years was very overwhelming. But I knew I had to deal with them to be clear of who I am exactly and who I want to be moving forward. Beyond that, coming to terms with my own gender identity meant that I had to question every single thing that I ever believed in. Having grown up with strong values of Christianity ingrained in me, and then having to go against these values in acceptance of myself, is like being thrown into the wild with no bearings of where I am. I had to relearn about the goings-on of the world and how to survive in this whole new landscape that I never saw and was never taught about growing up.

Then, I Came Out To My Parents

My mum was the first to find out. She got very emotional and over our first dinner together after she found out, she kept saying things like “the Bible is my standard, is it yours?” And, “I have a conscience, I hope you do too.” She made it clear that I am someone with no morals if I choose to be this way. That really broke my heart, because I was trying to be truthful and honest with them. I was really hoping to communicate with them, instead of us shutting each other out. When I told her about how I felt, about how I never had feelings for guys, and about all the painful struggles I had internally growing up, all she said was, “are you being honest right now? Why are you lying?”

She also once said to me, “people like you never [use to] exist,” and, “people like you put us through so much pain and shame.”

My dad told me that he was not going to judge me but God will, and reiterated that he will never ever change his mind on marriage being only between a male and female. I used to be suicidal. Coming out was my way of preserving my life and to respect the life that my parents have given me. Yet, my parents can only see this as my greed — that I am being selfish and trying to hurt them by being transgender. It really breaks my heart to be rejected by the people who brought me up, and whom I still love dearly. It is the very reason why I feared coming out to them in the first place. It is also disappointing that none of my brothers (except for one) ever acknowledged me for who I am either, or to be there for me.

Relearning How To Live Life

I am still trying to come to terms that my family will never accept me for who I am. The rejection still hurts, but I remind myself that it is equally hard for them to process the shock because of the many emotions involved. And I try not to let their rejection get to me. I understand that if i didn’t change my way of thinking, I would have felt the way that they are feeling now — it took me a long time to understand that they are not out to be negative towards me, it is just what they were taught to do. However, I live with guilt every single day knowing that my parents still love me. I see it through their littlest actions: when they ask me if I have eaten yet or when I will be reaching home. This guilt has often made me feel that I am not deserving of all the efforts they have put into raising me. But I know that I want to live true to how I feel. With that conviction, I also know that I have to overlook my parents’ expectations and the expectations that I put on myself. When I made the decision to be openly transgender, my whole belief system was turned upside down. But being forced out of what I am familiar with helped me get out of the pit that I had put myself into all those years. I don’t know if I can ever truly be the person I want to be — someone who is kind, and all the positives — but I think my suffering has really opened my eyes. The rate of suicide among transgender individuals is very high. Being able to confront my denial and feelings has helped to phase out the many suicidal thoughts I use to have, because I now know who I want to be and how I want to live. Because of what I went through, I am able to persevere. However, there are many, many people who do not have the resources or support they need, and it is very hard for them to break out. Being able to look inward and confront myself has changed my life, and it is the one thing I hope for those who are going through similar situations: Look within yourself, and learn to be vulnerable. This story is written by Millennials of Singapore, as told to us by the featured individual. - Editor's note: This is a personal story and not a generalisation of the community. We have included specific mentions of a religion in this article solely for context purposes, the Millennials of Singapore team does not condone religious discrimination and persecution. Also read: My Sexuality, My Right: “A Stranger Wanted Me To Apologise For My ‘Lesbian Appearance'".

I’m a lot closer to my friends than my family. There’s so much more that my friends see and know about me. It isn’t because I grew up being looked after by my grandparents, relatives, or helper. I was never sent to child care centres either. My parents brought my brother and me up all by themselves. It wasn’t that I grew up in a broken family either. My parents were always loving to each other and to us. Our middle-income family lifestyle also meant a high regard for simplicity, humility, and maintaining family ties. We appreciate what we have and we appreciate each other, yet I feel a disconnect with the very people I’m supposed to be closest to – and it’s not because we don’t spend time together. Occasionally, my father will drive us across the causeway for cheap eats, shopping, or a massage. My mother’s regular home cooking is also a reason for us to huddle together for dinner every day after work. We spend a lot of time together but there’s hardly any conversation aside from my mum’s gripe about the market prices of meat and vegetables. I don't share about my day and I don't ask them about theirs. It just feels weird, unnatural. When I see social media posts of my friends enjoying movie nights, ice skating, or trips to USS together with their family, I wished my family was like that too. It isn’t where they went that I am envious of, it is the laughter and light banter in the background. It is the quality time together that I long for. Was there something we could have done in the past that would have made us closer now? Why don’t we do fun family activities together? Is it because all of us grew up too quickly? I know, it’s already a privilege to have a family. An unexciting family of four, stable and boring, but safe. Some people don’t even have anyone to call ‘family’. I appreciate what I have but if only I could draw close to my supposed nearest and dearest without feeling so awkward.

My parents’ love for my sibling and I is undeniable, but so is the ever-growing gap between us.

When I had trouble catching up on my studies, I hid it from my parents. When it came to matters of the heart and having my heart broken by the guys I dated, I turned to friends instead. When I was lost and confused about life after graduation, I turned to Google for advice. My parents didn’t deserve to be disappointed, and I never felt comfortable to share. Call it pride, call it fear but it was never a natural way of my life to talk about my feelings and emotions with my parents so openly. And now that I’m a working adult with my own social circles and partner, there are more distractions and lesser reasons for me to talk with my parents. Perhaps we were just that stereotypical Asian family who avoided complicated topics and shunned from anything related to sex. When I asked why I was growing hair at my nether regions, my mother would tell me that it is because I didn’t wash my vagina clean enough. When I had my first period and asked why we (girls) had periods, my dad said it’s just something that makes you an ‘official woman’. They never elaborated more than that and I never probed. Sometimes I wonder if this is why I’m so gullible today. However, the ‘Asian culture’ was stronger during my parents’ days and yet they still remain close to their siblings. Even though we all live separate lives, every family gathering filled our home with warmth and energy, there was always laughter and chatter. Perhaps this is the legendary kampong spirit that everyone talks about. What happened with my generation then? Perhaps it’s because life was much simpler then. In place of movies or video games, entertainment was playing marbles or fives stones with siblings or the neighbours’ kids. Social gatherings meant you had to interact with people instead of being on your phone.

As much as it feels distant, the thought of losing my parents still scares me. Besides the pain of never seeing them again, I worry that losing them would also mean losing the only thing that holds my brother and I together. We were raised by the same parents and only two years apart, but we couldn’t be more different. We have led two very separate lives and we barely look alike – we were never close, not when we were young and not now. I knew a girl in my secondary school who had a brother I wished I had. He was a senior in our school and he’d always walk her home. Even when my friend stayed back for CCAs or simply to hang out with her friends, her brother would wait in school until she was done. I wanted that protective and cool brother who would not only be my guardian angel if someone shoots rubber bands at me but would also teach me how to fire these rubber bands back with twice the power. Instead, most of the interactions I had with my brother involved us fighting between ourselves. Now that we’re older, my brother makes an effort to communicate and connect with me despite working and living in another country most of the year, but it never feels right. We speak in different languages and our conversations lack depth but I still hope that eventually my brother and I will find a connection we never had. I just hope my brother believes it, too. After all, blood is always thicker than water. Also read, 12 S’poreans Reveal The Most Endearingly Embarrassing Habits Of Their Mums.