It's Never Too Late

By Ryan Gomez

It’s Never Too Late

One Man’s Journey Of Self-Discovery

We are each born into mortality with an utter dependence on our parents, or others, for our security, nourishment, and direction.  For some, these basic needs can prove illusive, giving way to abuse, abandonment, and a lack of the necessities of life: food, shelter, clothing, and love.  This book is one man's story of self-improvement, as a result of overcoming insurmountable odds and tremendous hardships.  Through his eyes see the world from the perspective of a child, relinquished to a boarding school and left to fend for himself.  Anxiety, depression, and a sense of helplessness ensnare him, edging the troubled young man ever closer to suicide.  Reaching adulthood, his life as a ‘nobody’ appears to be inescapable, forcing him into one sad failure after another...until he discovers his self-worth.

Captured in the pages of this unique book Ryan Gomez bares his soul, and shares his quiet moments of desperation and his triumphant realization that life has not passed him by.  Through a strategic course of self-improvement he grasps his innate abilities and rises from despair and poverty to unimagined success.

Follow his journey and learn his secrets in this two-part odyssey.  Part one retells his heartrending story and part two brings to light his struggle to overcome and embrace a new future.  Learn to manage your own life, utilizing contemplation, determination, and commitment.  Self-development is a must on the road to success...focus your energies now to open doors of opportunity, and begin by reading this life-changing book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryan Gomez
• Release date: Jul 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994354211

Book preview

PART ONE

Chapter 1

The Beginning

It all began in Gadag, India... I was born into an Anglo-Indian family of humble circumstances in Gadag, a small village in Southwest, India. Gadag is one of the towns where the British established a railway system and junction. This led to the integration of Indian and European societies during the British Raj, and the offspring from these unions were Anglo-Indians.

We were brought up in the English way of life: we spoke English and learned the local languages while growing up. When the British ruled, all the top railway positions were given to Anglo-Indians. They established railway colonies for the Anglo-Indians where Anglo-Indian communities started to grow. The colonies were huge quarters, featuring parks and other entertainment activities for families.

I was not privileged to grow up in a railway colony. I faintly remember my younger years. I was probably about five years of age, when my grandfather, who was a driver on the railways, would carry me in his arms and show me the steam engines. They are my fond memories that linger even to this today.

My father was sent to a boarding school in his later years, because the English-medium, education system catered to Anglo-Indians. Since my dad studied in a boarding school, he wanted me to grow up and get the same education. My father was a very strict and disciplined person, with a very strong personality. My mother would never dare object to my father, on any occasion, because of his strict nature.

Chapter 2

Going Away

I was six when I was packed off to boarding school, which was miles away by train from where we lived. The journey took several days. I was too young and innocent to understand why I was being sent away from my parents. I remember being told I would only be at the boarding school for a day before my parents would come and get me, which then turned into days, and then months. You see...that was the trick.

I remember looking out the window, waiting for my dad and mum to come pick me up. I would do this every day, for long hours, while other kids gave up, and just went about their business. I lived in the hope that one day my parents would return. After a whole year of school, we were allowed a three-week visit with our family for the Christmas holidays. I always longed for those days, as I only had the luxury of seeing my parents once a year. I cherished every minute, every hour, and every day that I was home, until I had to leave and go back to school for another year.

From the time I was six, I was a very insecure child, everyday growing up was an absolute challenge. I had to make some tough decisions, without my parents’ input, and if I made the wrong decision I paid for it severely. I never knew what the future would hold for me, as every day was a struggle. I loved being with my family for three weeks, rather than back at boarding school, where the boundaries were very strict, almost like an army regiment.

When I was at school, there were times I would sit and look from my dormitory window at kids playing in the park with their parents. I would wish I had a dad to play with, throw me a ball, or just talk to me, man-to-man. I hoped for a mum who would hold me, guide me and be there for me, all the time, but that was not my fate. Instead, I was faced with strict school discipline from a very early age, and vicious bullying from the older kids, which took its toll on me.

Where do I start with the discipline? It was daunting, which even now brings back memories that have scarred me for life.

Some of you may find it hard to believe and difficult to comprehend, but just remember, I am only touching the surface of what we, as children, had to endure. There were days I was dragged out of class, tied to a tree and beaten for 15 minutes with a stick or whip. Often times, I would pass out, suffering the lashing for something I had not done. The slightest mistake would trigger this sort of discipline for us. We were living in fear...every single day. We would be told to kneel in 40-degree heat, on concrete slabs, for long periods of time, until our knees were burnt. This was absolute torture. We were scared to tell our parents about the treatment, knowing we would pay a high, agonizing price if the caretakers ever found out. A lot of what you might see in a film, about such conditions, are true and this is what we, as small children, were going through.

There were times, if we said anything out of the way the ‘Brothers’ and caretakers would beat us with a stick until we bled. I know it sounds impossible and is hard to digest, but this is what we went through at this British boarding school. Everything was kept in-house – nothing could get out.

We were cared for by a head priest and the brothers, who were studying to become priests, and then there were also caretakers.

During the day we had school. Day Scholars would come to the school, which was near the boarding facility, and instruct us. After they had finished with us for the day, we would head back to our boarding house. If we dared whisper a word about the bullying and torture we were experiencing, we were brutally punished. That’s why nothing was said, and everyone went about their businesses in silence.

After school, we would head back to the boarding house, where we would play a few games, before returning to the study hall in the evening. At night we would have dinner and then go to bed. This was our daily routine. The boarding school housed children from grade 1 right up to grade 12. The older boys used to bully the younger ones, getting away with murder, at times. They were never corrected by the brothers and caretakers for all the misery we were put through. For many of the kids, including me, we knew nothing but fear. The thought of making a mistake was so overpowering that we would not even try – we simply allowed time to just pass us by.

Later on, when I was in year 9 and 10, there were days that the ‘nig-nagging’ sort of kids would turn on you, and make your life miserable. However, I would always keep quiet and allow it to happen, knowing if I stood up to them and complained, it would be the end of me, once class was over.

Chapter 3

The Torture

One particular day, I was walking by the playground and saw three bullies beating up one of my friends. I did not hesitate and went to his rescue, teaching the bullies a lesson they did not soon forget. The strength, from bottled up years of frustration and anger, exploded out of me, as I delivered my own brand of justice.

Sadly, the irony of this story still sends a shiver up my spine. It didn’t take long for word to reach the teachers, who in turn passed it on to the principal. I dreaded returning to the boarding house, anticipating they had heard of the fight. I prayed the last class would never end, hoping it would go on forever. Just the thought of going back to the boarding house made me feel sick, but what option did I really have? So, after school, trembling, shaking and frightened, I strolled back to the boarding house.

There, waiting for me at the door, was one of the Brothers. I knew at that moment all hell was about to break loose. I melted and started to tear up, knowing what was coming. I was taken outside, tied to a tree, and beaten for 15 minutes. Two different caretakers punished me for what I had done to those bullies. Moreover, the very prestigious Day Scholars considered us to be scum. After the beating, they left me tied to the tree, suffering in pain. It is a vivid memory that haunts me, even now.

Approximately an hour later, they untied me and I was forced to sleep outside for the night. I had no strength, but plenty of scars, which prevented me from attending school for the next couple of days. They starved me for the day, giving me only water to drink.

At the time I was in grade 10, and I remember thinking – Why is this happening to me? The year before, an 11th grade student had taken his life and I tried to put his actions into perspective.

A major turning point for me came six months later, when one of my friends took his life. We were close – he slept in the bed next to mine. This was a friend who had endured more painful abuse than myself, and he could no longer take it. The evening of his death, we had talked, and dreamed of leaving the boarding school in a few years. We imagined great success and thought of achieving big things in life. For my friend, it was hard to stay motivated, which is quite understandable considering that young children were having to make some very difficult decisions, without any viable support.

After talking, we went to bed and I woke up around 4:00 a.m. to go to the toilet – I saw blood dripping from his bed. I yelled out. Later I learned he had taken his life. I was not sure what to think or do. I totally zoned out, and being unable to sleep, I dropped into a depression. His parents were notified, but everything was covered up. No one on the outside knew what had truly taken place, but those of us on the inside understood the misery he had experienced. I could not blame him for what happened, but it was tragic for us all.

Thoughts of escape occupied my mind, as rage and anger consumed me. Getting away was not easy, and those who