Born Into a Storm

I was born on November 28, 1976—just before the year closed—into a family of six that felt more fractured than whole. Three older sisters surrounded me, but Mom was the anchor, holding everything together. She raised us alone, carrying five mouths—including Dad.

 

He was gone until I was five, either locked in a psych ward or roaming the streets. When we finally met, his eyes were vacant. I wasn’t his son—just a shadow in his periphery. That absence left a wound. Friends flaunted wealth—some “rich,” others “super rich”—while I grew up in a mess I couldn’t put words to. Home was survival mode—money slipping through our fingers, my tantrums filling the air. I wasn’t spoiled; I just didn’t know how to name the ache. Mom bore it all. She was steady. I was the storm.

 

As a kid, I felt puppy love—girls in class stirred something soft in me. Growing up with sisters, I loved their games. Boys’ one-leg chase was fine, but I ruled the girls’ play. I grew gentle. Too gentle. People noticed. Bullies did too. “Sissy,” ah-gua—slurs that cut deep. Rejection followed me like a shadow. I fought back the only way I knew—at home. If I couldn’t win outside, I’d rule there. I bossed my sisters. One ran off years later, saying I was a scared cat at school, a tiger at home. Even in my own house, I felt alone. The pain built.

 

One day, I stood at our nineteenth-floor window, staring down, ready to jump—until Mom’s voice snapped me out of it. School was war; home was a cage. A teacher once cried out, “Keng Hiang, Keng Hiang, I don’t know how to help you.” I just smiled, stuck between a language I barely understood and emotions I couldn’t name.

 

One night, I broke. If there’s a God, I cried, fix this. End the shame. Stop the bullies. Take away this feeling of being unwanted. Desperate for love, I had no father to give it, a mother stretched too thin, and sisters lost in their own struggles. I was Mom’s favorite, but love still felt far. That desperate prayer might have changed everything.

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Faith Caught Fire

A new school. A new start. I buried the “sissy” and found Jesus. Faith caught fire. School pulsed with it—I played piano for chapel, sang loud, acted on stage, helped run church camps. But the battles didn’t stop. Nightmares haunted me—demonic laughter, invisible hands, a crushing weight. I fought them off with prayer. Faith only grew stronger.

 

Miracles flooded in. Once, a motorcycle smashed my knee before a Christmas show—pain tore through me during the entire performance. A preacher prayed; I whispered my own. Nothing. Then a fire sparked inside—God will heal me! I claimed in silence. Friends helped me down the stadium stairs; on the first step, my knee fixed itself. Another time, a jellyfish stung me bad. Clinics were shut, so my teacher dragged me back to school. Slumped by the principal’s bench, I slurred, God, heal me. A tingling sensation ran across my wounds. The pain vanished. I sat straight up. Moments like these made faith real.

 

But my old church shied away from miracles. The Spirit didn’t care. At a Boys’ Brigade event, playing piano, strange words spilled out of my mouth—tongues, a baptism of fire. I thought I was losing it, but it was God. On the bus home from Katong Presbyterian, I spoke to Him in my head. He answered—clear, alive. Later, I found those words in the Bible. It shaped me from a young boy into adulthood.

 

The Bus Ride That Split Me in Two

Then, one night, the bus ride that changed everything. Fourteen years old, fresh from fellowship, my olive-green Puma bag on my lap. An empty seat—until he sat there. Seemed normal at first, until his fingers brushed my hip. A slight pull at my zipper flap—no touch, just tugs. Strange and awkward, it happened so fast. Before I realized what was happening—fear, shame, and something else. A rush I didn’t understand—I wet my pants.

 

I ran off at the next stop, heart pounding, guilt and confusion crashing over me. That moment split me in two. The boy who loved God. The boy drawn to boys. Two parts that couldn’t exist together. I switched churches. Prayed. Fasted. Cast out the “gay demon” over and over.

 

One day, I thought I’d won. I felt free. Fixed. Then, a voice thundered, Son, it’s time to get married. But no marriage came. A decade passed before the truth broke through.

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The Burning Bush That Shattered Everything

It started in August 2013 and ended in February 2014. A “burning bush” moment—right in the midst of witnesses. Church leaders saw it as it happened. Seven revelations—Seven Seals—ripped open, exposing religion for what it was. Not salvation. Not truth. A lie. A trap. A test.

 

This book is that journey. From a quiet cry on a bus to a roar that shattered every chain. This story isn’t just mine—it’s for anyone whose faith cracked under the weight of deception. Truth doesn’t bind—it sets you free.

 

These words don’t beg for approval. They testify. Voices hammered into me—awakened, undeniable. Visions wrecked me—vivid, unfiltered. My proof? A life rewired. A soul pulled from the edge of a nineteenth-floor window to a fire I couldn’t resist. A church silenced when truth arrived. Scripture roared back—Isaiah, Psalms, Revelation.

 

I’m not here to sell theories. Just to shout what shook me awake. Test it if you dare. Truth doesn’t crawl; it stands. And it’s there for the taking.