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When I was seven or eight years old (I cannot recall the exact time), I suffered from warts. One time at breakfast, my mother put the tincture to treat my warts in my cocoa and told me they would go away if I drank the mixture.

It tasted dreadfully, but after adding spoonfuls of sugar, I gulped the concoction down trustfully.

The last thing that I remember from this morning is the comic book I always read before we drove off to school.

I woke up in hospital, tubes in mouth and nose. My stomach was being pumped out. I stayed in hospital for a week or so.

After that incident, my mother was put on trial and revoked guardianship. She has been suffering from depression since before I was born and she wanted to commit what is known as extended suicide.

Only when she saw me sprawled on the floor, she had a moment of clarity and called an ambulance.

It took me years to realize what really happened, as no one in my family talked about this event. I thought of it as an accident. There were some newspaper articles (that were kept away from me) and in school I even got bullied about my mother being a child murderer. I called them liars.

I don't tell this story often, but most of the time I get asked if I felt or still feel vengeful against mother. My mother couldn't forgive herself and she still suffers even if I keep telling her that I have never even once hated her for what she did. Her act was one of despair and caused by a mental illness. And this illness is the real killer with a gruesome body count.

peace