I haven’t saved much for retirement, largely because I never expected to reach this stage of life. It’s not something I ever imagined. Sitting here now, staring at words on a screen, this isn’t the life I once pictured for myself. At times, I feel like a stranger living inside someone else’s body. Everything feels unreal, as though I might wake from this dream at any moment.

What I do have is worth far more to me than a generous retirement fund, or spending my remaining years sipping piña coladas in dark sunglasses while watching the ocean and the parade of life pass by. Instead, I write. Full-time. And I know, with quiet certainty, that I will continue to do so for as long as I can breathe.

I love this life. And I love my wife — who has stood beside me through years that were anything but easy.

This is the beginning of the story of how I arrived here. Or, as some would say, why this was always my destiny. It’s also why I hold the beliefs I do.

We are, whether we like it or not, shaped by our parents.

In my early high-school years, my grades and social skills lagged behind those of my peers. The school psychologist believed the solution was simple: hold me back a year so my intellectual development could “catch up.” My mother — herself a psychologist — strongly disagreed. While I suspect her motivations were not entirely pure, she rarely acted without conviction.

During the summer break, she put me in the car and we drove for hours to a small city. The journey was silent, as most of our journeys were. I watched the landscape blur past the window and tried to capture it in words. As we reached the city limits, the unfamiliarity pressed in. It felt like another world.

We took a lift to the third floor. A woman with thin glasses, blonde hair, and overly bright lipstick greeted us with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The smell alone announced that this was a medical office. I sensed immediately that my mother had been here before.

When the neurologist appeared, his smile confirmed it.

He shook my hand — firm, practiced — and led us inside. My mother settled into a chair while my head was shaved, razor-clean. Electrodes were attached. Wires snaked toward softly beeping machines. I lay staring at a screen as images flashed before me.

Then the lights went out.

I focused on the images. Occasionally my fingers twitched, reacting to unfamiliar visuals. Some were ordinary. Others were not. Bare-breasted images of young women appeared — women who seemed far too young. One image mirrored the receptionist outside. Only on the screen, she was naked.

I didn’t imagine it.

When the lights returned, the neurologist entered, adjusting his belt, tucking in his shirt. Lipstick stains marked his neck and cheek — the exact shade my mother wore. She reclined in her chair, legs crossed, wearing the smirk I knew too well.

He delivered his verdict without pause.

I would be sent to a special-needs school. I would not be allowed to participate in sports requiring motor skills. The list went on. Inside, I screamed. But I’m good at athletics. My questions dissolved before they reached my mouth.

He shook my hand and left.

I never saw him again.

The silence that followed was heavy. My mother gathered her things without a word. I knew better than to ask questions. As I stood, the cold of the examination table still clung to my skin. Outside the window, the world looked impossibly alive — a cruel contrast to what had just been decided for me.

I understood then that this wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning of a fight for a life that had been carelessly — brutally — assigned.

This story is exhausting me. It’s draining the energy I began with. But it needs to be told.

Please join me for the next instalment, where I’ll share what happened next.