All of my good memories of my hometown exclude people. When I think of my school, I think of the neem tree with white flowers, the spread of the krishnachura that painted half the schoolyard red from time to time.

I remember the wintry mornings when I walked to school alone, a few minutes of calm before the madness of classes and gossip ensued. If I must recall something good about my home, it was the time when we left home for the holidays.

School for me was bitter. Kids can be cruel. You are fortunate if you have reason to disagree. I was incessantly bullied for being one of the bigger girls. The words I heard were subtle, but impossible to forget.

Our teachers taught us that we were competitors first, friends second. We learned to tear each other apart with smiles on our faces. Our mothers supplied us with the unkind words to say.

I did not realise the concepts of authentically building friends or clapping for a co-worker. Each time someone did well, I would be reminded of how I could not achieve what they did. We were fed hatred and prejudice with each meal we were given.

Our homes were scarcely any better than school. They were worse most times, made of fear and restrictions. To this day, I feel suffocated when I go home. The biggest reason is that the moment I set foot in my hometown, I have to wear clothes that don't even look like my clothes. I was denied the opportunity to experiment with fashion growing up. The reasons I was given were religion and modesty.

My younger brother was allowed to go anywhere without telling anyone. On the contrary, I was never allowed to go out alone except for school or coaching classes. The reason being the classic "What will people say?"

These people were aunties, relatives we rarely met, and our parents' colleagues. Looking back, it is comical how our interests were disregarded for their sake. This lack of support still makes no sense to me. Home should have been a safe place as a child. But it was where my privacy was neglected the most.

It has been some time since I moved out of this home. Now that I can look past the pain, I understand some things better. This makes me even more relieved that I got out of that toxic environment. In the present day, the saving grace of my hometown for me is my cat.

The idea of home is often glorified, especially by the people who have good memories to think of. But it's not sweet or nostalgic for everyone. It is quite the opposite.

We frequently hear "There's no place like home" being tossed around. True, no place resembles home. For some, their memories of home causes more nightmares than homesickness.

Shimin reads everything she can find, talks to cats, and writes a lot of letters. Send her a book at shim.mush@gmail.com