I hit the world November 28, 1976, just as the year bled out—born into a fractured six, more splinters than glue. Three sisters circled me, but Mom was the spine—solo, no backup. Dad? Locked in a psych ward or loose on the streets ‘til I was five. When we met, his stare was empty—I was no son, just a ghost. Shame clung like damp rot. Friends flaunted wealth—‘rich’ or ‘super rich’—while I drowned in chaos I couldn’t name. Home was a grind—cash evaporated, my tantrums roared. Not spoiled, just wordless hurt. Mom bore it all—four kids, then five with Dad’s last, a quiet warrior in a brutal storm. She stood; I raged.

  

Puppy love flickered—girls in class stirred something tender I couldn’t grasp. Raised with sisters, I owned their games—boys’ ‘one-leg’ was fine, but I ruled hopscotch. Softened me. Bullies saw it—‘sissy,’ ‘ah-gua’ cut deep. Rejection trailed me. Home became my turf—I bossed my sisters; one bolted later, calling me a scared cat out there, a tiger in here. Still, I was alone. Pain stacked up. One day, nineteenth floor, I stared down—Mom’s kitchen yell yanked me back. School was a battlefield; home, a cage. A teacher sobbed, fumbling my name—‘Keng Hiang, I can’t fix you.’ Awkward smile, trapped—English and feelings, both foreign.  

 

One night, I broke. ‘God, if you’re real, end this—shame, bullying, the shove-away.’ No father’s love, Mom stretched thin, sisters adrift—I was Mom’s favorite, but love felt faint. That cry shifted me—new school, buried the ‘sissy,’ found Jesus. Faith blazed. Chapel piano, stage songs, church camps—I burned bright. Nightmares clawed in—demon laughs, hands pulling, a chest-crushing weight. Prayer crushed them; faith hardened. Miracles piled up. A bike smashed my knee pre-Christmas show—pain gnawed, I limped on. Preacher prayed, I muttered mine—nothing. Then fire flared—‘God will heal!’ Friends eased me down stadium steps; first one, knee snapped whole. Jellyfish seared me once—clinics shut, slumped at school, I rasped, ‘God, heal me.’ Tingles raced, spine jolted—pain vanished. Faith wasn’t theory; it lived.

  

Old church dodged miracles—too tame. But the Spirit roared anyway. Boys’ Brigade, pounding keys, strange words spilled—tongues, fire baptism. Thought I’d lost it; it was God. Bus rides home from Katong Presbyterian, I’d chat Him up in my head—He’d answer, crisp, real. Later, I’d find those whispers in scripture—mind blown from child to adulthood. Then, fourteen, post-fellowship, olive-green Puma bag on my lap. Empty bus seat—until he sat. Normal, pleasant guy, dozing, fingers grazed my hip. Fear spiked, then something else. His hand tugged my zipper flap—no touch, just pulls. Weird. Fast—before it hits me, shame and a rush slammed me—I spilled. Bolted at the next stop, torn by guilt and a spark I couldn’t name. That night split me clean. God’s boy, boys’ boy—oil and water don’t mix.

 

New church, years wrestling—prayer, fasting, exorcising the ‘gay demon.’ Felt cured. A voice hit: ‘Son, time to marry.’ No wife came. Decade later, August 2013 to February 2014, truth—seals—torched me—a “burning bush”, witnesses gaping, leaders too. Seven Seals cracked—religion’s lies, traps, and tests. This book’s that ride—from a bus-seat cry to a chain-snapping triumphant shout. For anyone whose faith buckled under squirming dogma, this is yours. Truth doesn’t bind—it frees.

  

These words don’t crawl for proof—they testify. Voices jolted me—sharp, no tape. Visions broke me—vivid, no lens. My evidence? A soul rewired from that nineteenth-floor edge to a fire I couldn’t duck, a church gone mute when truth landed, scripture roaring back—Isaiah, Psalms, Revelation. No suit peddling theories here. Just a man shouting what slammed me awake. Test it if you’ve got the spine—truth doesn’t grovel, just needs your ears.”