Disclaimer: In Real Life is a platform for everyday people to share their experiences and voices. All articles are personal stories and do not necessarily echo In Real Life’s sentiments.
This is the story of Hilmi, a former university student in Kuala Lumpur who once lived in his car while studying and juggling 2 part-time jobs to make ends meet.
10 years ago, I was a 22-year-old university student when my mother lost her battle with cancer.
The last thing I said to her was that I’d gotten the scholarship for my degree studies and that I loved her. She smiled, told me she was proud of me, and then went to sleep.
She passed away peacefully with my father, two brothers, and me by her bedside in our bungalow house in Kota Kemuning.
Three months after the funeral, life was returning to normal, but within the family, relations were still strained.
I’ve never gotten along well with my father, and it was common for him to call me “the family failure.” He called me this because he had two other sons, my elder brothers, who had already achieved – in his mind – everything worthy of achieving in life.
I thought that financially things were alright. My older brothers were married, working, and contributing, and I know my father was working as well.
But he’d been even more high-strung since my mother’s funeral. Almost anything could start a rant or get him to start shouting.
My father gave me an ultimatum.
He said I needed to start paying RM500 a month in rent, or I would have to move out.
I was a degree student on scholarship, and my university was in Petaling Jaya. Even in 2012, my petrol to and from Kota Kemuning to attend classes was a hundred a week.
How did my father expect me to make that work?! How did he expect me to be able to pay for petrol, pay for food, and survive?
I went to my brothers and begged them for help or a place to stay. They sat there, awkwardly sipping the coffees I’d paid for, and refused to help me, saying, “Dad’s your problem now. Deal with it.”
I didn’t know it then, but he had made similar demands for money from them when my mother was still alive. My mother had genuinely loved my father and shielded us kids from all this when she was alive.
Now, everything has become my problem because I was the youngest and only child living in the house.
Getting yelled at by my father became the start and end of my day-to-day existence.
You name it, and he said it to my face: “Useless. Disgrace. Stupid. Worthless.”
Toxic. Manipulative. Gaslighter. Those three words described my father, who demanded to be waited on hand and foot. I had to do anything he wanted, from buying him cigarettes, cleaning, and chauffeuring him to and from work.
On top of that, I still had to attend classes, complete my assignments, and work two part-time jobs to earn my “rent.” Luckily, I’d gotten a part-time job on campus in the marketing department, and I’ve been pretty persuasive, so I also worked as a promoter selling electronics.
His demands for money increased, from five hundred to five-fifty, then six, and it kept slowly creeping up. He finally stopped when it reached eight hundred a month.
I don’t know why he wanted money so badly. He was a senior manager in a large company with six or seven people reporting to him. If he was in debt, he didn’t mention any of it to me.
It was some twisted way of trying to control me. I think it would have worked had he not gone a step too far.
One day, my father struck me and drew blood.
I was late in picking my father up from his office because of a consultation with a lecturer. I had called to tell him I would be late.
He was furious. My “tardiness” had caused him to “lose face” with his colleagues because he had to wait an extra 20 minutes. He yelled at me for the entire 30-minute drive home.
I hadn’t even opened the front door before pain blossomed in my face and cheek. My father crossed the line from verbal to physical abuse.
My mouth was wet, I realised dazedly, as blood flowed from a split lip. I could smell its metallic, coppery tang.
My father glared at me in silence.
Three stitches and some antibiotics later, I was sitting in my car taking stock of my situation. I was all alone. My brothers had refused to help me, and my father would probably be the death of me.
I sat there and made a promise to myself that would have life-altering consequences: I was not going to bow to my father. I was going to live free, and if necessary, die free as well.
I said goodbye to my family home and became homeless.
At 2 a.m. on a Tuesday night, I packed my belongings into my car and grabbed all the necessary documents and paperwork from my father’s study.
Walking down the driveway, the enormity of what I was about to do hit me like a sledgehammer to the gut. My legs trembled, but I held firm and shut the gate behind me.
I drove back to my university campus, where I quickly found a parking place. Sitting behind the steering wheel of my Myvi, I put the driver’s seat down, held the teddy bear from my mother, and cried.
I spent that first week between classes making massive changes to every aspect of my life. I immediately drew out all my meagre savings of about RM5,000, changed my bank, and set up a new phone number.
I kept my old phone number to stay in touch with my blood family – just in case. I sent one message, telling my father I had moved out because I wouldn’t be paying him “rent.”
I knew that my car was the only roof over my head. But I was living on my terms, free from verbal abuse and financial blackmail – even if I was eating, sleeping, and studying out of a second-hand Myvi.
I was living in my car for 3 months.
I could have turned to my course mates, but how could they have helped? Let a guy sleep over at their house for the next year? Better not to involve others.
There was no family I dared to trust. I was worried my father would find out where I lived or the police would show up and drag me back to hell.
So I went on YouTube and found out more about scrimping, saving, and becoming an urban survivalist.
I spent a lot that first week on the survival essentials of sleeping comforts and food. I also picked up a selection of Meals Ready-to-Eat (MRE). My backpack evolved into an all-in-one grooming kit, toiletries, and gym bag.
The interior of my Myvi quickly became a hybrid of closet and bedroom: I bought a sleeping bag, inflatable pillows, and a lantern convertible torch in a camping supply store.
All that set me back almost RM600 and I quickly realised that my savings would not get me very far. Thank goodness for the hot and cold water dispensers on campus so at least the luxury of free coffee was still there.
I became a part-time promoter selling gym memberships, which gave me access to a gym in Ara Damansara so that I had a place to shower and wash my hair. I used a coin-operated laundry near campus to wash my clothes so I was still presentable for work and classes.
Some days, when it got too hot at night in the car, I’d drag my sleeping bag and bunk down in an empty cubicle. Air-con is a luxury I have not taken for granted since.
Looking back, I do wonder how security never caught me during these few months. I think it’s because I parked in an out-of-sight corner, and was always nice to them, so they turned a blind eye to my presence.
This was my life for about three months, cautious and overly paranoid about my father coming after me. But I couldn’t keep it up forever.
I moved into an apartment.
I found a room to rent for RM550, fully furnished including utilities and gated parking. It was small and cosy, not too far from campus, and I loved it.
That first week of “civilised living” was heavenly. You have no idea what a luxury a 10-minute hot shower, clean bedsheets, washing machine, and a properly cooked meal at home are until you’ve had to go without for even a few months.
Moving out was one thing, but starting over and keeping it together was much harder. I had to count every dollar and cent.
I didn’t participate in clubs or societies on campus, and I was never free to hang out with friends because I was working two part-time jobs. I never joined them at the cybercafe, went to the movies or did “fun stuff” on weekends.
It was a long year and a lonely time in my life. I was jealous of my friends because they had everything I had lost when my mother died: Family, love, relationships, and all the support that comes with it.
When I made that decision to move out, I didn’t see that it would cost me the very freedom I sought. My prison was no longer the Kota Kemuning house, but self-imposed financial ones instead.
I attended my convocation without my family.
Image: University convocation.
Despite being a fugitive, I had WhatsApp’ed my brothers and father just to stay in touch. I created a chat group that I hopefully named “Family Chat” and posted my semesterly grades and short updates on my situation.
I tried inviting my father to my convocation, hoping that he’d crack, say something nice, and somehow…we could have repaired the relationship where I was the son he was proud of, and he was the father I loved.
But I never got any answers or replies, even though I was begging by the end. If I was bitter before, I don’t know how to describe what I felt when convocation rolled around, and I walked across the stage.
It was the saddest moment of my life. It was too painful to see all those happy families, and I left immediately afterwards.
It’s been almost a decade since my convocation, and I’ve had no contact from any of my family.
Since graduation, I completed my internship and worked my way up the ranks, climbing the corporate ladder. It’s ironic that I make more money than my father ever did.
The knee-jerk promise I made that fateful night made me stronger and a survivor. By the time I graduated, I had built a reputation of never giving up, a solid work ethic and a no-holds-barred attitude of fighting for what I wanted out of life.
As for how much I saved in those 3 months where I was desperately searching for an apartment? I was able to make my RM5,000 last for 3 months, plus have RM1650 for the move-in deposit. At my lowest, I had less than RM200 left in my account.
If you’ve read my story, know that there is hope: You can fight, and you can win your freedom, and live free on your own terms. The strength comes from within, and you do possess it. You can do it.
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For more stories like this, read: How I Overcame Domestic Violence to Become a Commercial Model
How I Overcame Domestic Violence To Become A Commercial Model
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