This is a record of an interview with Guo Shunjie, who sought deliverance at the Hsiang Kuang Buddhist Centre in Australia. He now resides in the Western Land of Ultimate Bliss. This account reflects upon his life and his transition from a state of confusion to liberation. Recorded by the chief writer, Shi Fajing, on February 5, 2022.
Guo Shunjie speaks:
". I am Guo Shunjie, and I am one of the sixty jailers who have now found refuge. It is precisely because I was someone so deeply lost in the digital world that I was chosen to share my story today. We are all now in the Western Land of Ultimate Bliss, and it is truly magnificent—a beauty beyond anything I could have ever imagined while I was alive in the world. I sincerely hope that everyone can have the chance to come here, for only in this place can one find true, lasting happiness.
After my cousins left that day, I continued playing the games they had introduced to me. Being quite clever, I spent a few days exploring and eventually discovered even more engaging games than the ones they had been playing. I became completely and utterly obsessed with them.
The Digital Escape
I felt that ever since I acquired that computer, my life—which had previously been so grey, lonely, and dreadfully boring—suddenly burst into a spectrum of vibrant, seven-coloured light. I would sit at my computer desk every single day, playing incessantly. I played from dawn until dusk, and even when the early hours of the morning arrived, I would still be there, glued to the screen.
Let me start by telling you about my life story, beginning with my parents. Both my father and mother were highly educated intellectuals. When they first started dating, many people praised them as a perfect match—a talented man and a beautiful woman. Whenever people saw them walking down the street holding hands, they could not help but steal a glance, their eyes filled with envy.
A Childhood of High Expectations
They dated for over a decade before finally marrying. Because they worked at different companies and were both incredibly busy, they only managed to see each other on the occasional holiday, and they rarely even had time to speak on the phone. This long, thin thread of a relationship stretched on for ten years, and it was only after my mother unexpectedly became pregnant that they decided to enter into marriage.
My aunt once told me that when my mother was carrying me, her entire temperament changed. She became very contemplative and developed a deep curiosity about everything. When these changes appeared, everyone began to speculate, 'The child in her womb must be very intelligent.' I do not know why, but everyone had this intuitive feeling, and my mother felt the same way.
Everyone wants to have a brilliant child, so when people learned that my mother was carrying a clever baby, they envied my parents even more—they were good-looking and were about to have a gifted son. On the day I was born, my father took time out of his incredibly busy schedule to accompany my mother to the hospital. I arrived safely into this world, and thus began my life journey.
The Nanny as a Mother Figure
The addition of a child to the household was a massive burden for my busy parents. Even before I was born, they had already found a nanny, planning to hand me over to her care as soon as my mother finished her confinement period. This way, my parents would not have to be by my side every moment and could continue focusing on their careers.
The nanny became like a second mother to me. In fact, the bond I shared with her was even deeper than the one I had with my biological mother, because she had been the one to care for me since the very day I was born, staying by my side every single day. I regarded her as the most important person in my life; we were inseparable, and our relationship was incredibly close.
By the time I was nearly four, I began to clearly distinguish between my nanny and my mother. I understood that my mother was the one who gave birth to me, while the nanny was someone my mother had hired to look after me. At that point, I started to feel a sense of resentment. I resented my mother for being so busy—so busy that she had no time to care for me herself and had to send me away to a nanny.
The Pain of Returning Home
Having these did not mean I disliked my nanny; rather, it was because no matter how close we were, she was still just a nanny, and my mother was still my mother. The nature of our relationships was fundamentally different. My mother did not understand the turmoil in my heart. Whenever my parents picked me up for the holidays, I would see my mother constantly on the phone, either discussing work or chatting with friends. When she finally finished her calls and had a moment of leisure, I would hope she might spend time with me, but instead, she would pull out her computer to work. Only when her eyes grew tired and she took a brief rest would she walk over to see what I was doing.
I was not only clever; I was also an incredibly sensitive child. Faced with my mother's cold indifference, my mind naturally began to spiral into dark thoughts. I convinced myself that my mother did not love me, and sometimes I even thought that my birth was a mistake—that I was nothing more than a burden to her.
My thoughts became increasingly extreme and pessimistic, yet no one around me noticed—not even the nanny who cared for me, because I never showed this side of myself in front of her. When I was with her, I felt like a different person, a child who could still hold onto some innocence. But the moment I returned home for the holidays, I instantly transformed into a 'little adult,' forced to do everything for myself and play by myself.
A Fragile World
In those moments, influenced by my environment, those strange and negative thoughts would resurface. I never dared to tell my parents about them, fearing their reactions would only make me feel worse. I imagined them saying things like, 'That's right! You were born just to cause trouble!' or 'If only you didn't exist...' I conjured up so many negative responses that I was certain my mother would give. I was terrified of hearing her say such things to my face, fearing that if I truly heard her speak those words, I would be so heartbroken that I would not be able to go on living.
Therefore, I did not dare to express my true feelings to my mother. I preferred to keep a deliberate distance, watching her from afar, rather than risk her despising my very existence.
When I was five, my mother brought me home from the nanny's house. I asked her in confusion, 'Why are we coming home all of a sudden?' She replied, 'The nanny has been diagnosed with breast cancer; she can no longer take care of you.' When I heard that, I was devastated. I cried and threw a tantrum in the car, nearly turning the whole vehicle upside down.
My parents did not understand that the nanny was my emotional and spiritual anchor. The love I could not get from them, I could only find in her. Now that she could no longer be by my side, I naturally reacted with such intense, frantic desperation. I was panicked and terrified, having no idea how I would manage the rest of my life.
A Brief Glimpse of
Back at home, despite it being my own house, I could not sleep. I was not used to it, and my mind was still lingering on the scent of the bedsheets at the nanny's house and the faint, comforting fragrance that always clung to her.
Every night, the nanny would hold me, tell me stories, and stay with me until I fell asleep. But at home, it was not like that at all. I was left alone in a massive bed. My parents would only stand at the distant doorway and say, 'Xiao Jie, it's getting late, go to sleep! Goodnight!' Then, they would turn off the light and return to their room.
The contrast between the two worlds made me miss my nanny even more. I desperately wanted to return to her warm home; I did not want to stay in this cold, unfeeling house for even a second.
A few days after returning home, I took the initiative to tell my mother I wanted to buy toys. My mother was always able to fully satisfy my material desires, so when I asked for toys, she bought a huge amount for me. In particular, I mentioned that I wanted a large teddy bear—a very big one—and she bought me five or six of them at once, which I arranged all over my bed.
I slept holding those teddy bears every night. Whenever I felt lonely, I would hug them and talk to them, asking them many questions. But unlike my nanny, they could not answer me; they remained silent, listening quietly to everything I had to say.
During those first few days back home, my mother had to leave work early to accompany me. For those few short days, I felt a tiny glimmer of maternal love because she would pick me up from school. When we got home, she would sometimes cook for me, or if she was too tired, she would take me to pick out a dinner I liked, and we would eat together.
For those few days, I had a little more time to interact with this mother who felt both close and like a stranger. I was actually quite happy, even secretly hoping: 'If only Mother could be like this every day!'
The very next day after I had that thought, my mother told me, 'Mother has found another nanny for you. Are you happy?' My face instantly fell, and my heart plummeted to the depths of despair. A flood of negative thoughts rushed back: 'So Mother really doesn't want me,' 'Maybe she just found spending time with me too tiring,' 'I really am just an extra burden in this house.'
I accepted her arrangement. Perhaps by going to a new nanny's house and keeping my distance from my mother, I would stop letting my mind run wild. I used every method to convince myself not to think too much, but my mind naturally kept racing, never stopping for a moment.
The new nanny had children of her own—two sons who were older than me. When I was five, they were seven and ten years old. Those two brothers were very kind. They often played with me and even let me sleep in the same bed as them. We instantly felt like three brothers, going everywhere together every day and having a bit of fun in bed before falling asleep at night.
Those two brothers brought me the joy of childhood, for the games they played were ones I had never experienced before. They would take me to the creek to catch fish, bring me to the fields to play in the dirt and catch insects, or take me to the vegetable garden to plant and harvest greens. Sometimes, they would take the money the nanny gave them and bring me to buy sweets and biscuits. There were so many things—they led me through so many happy experiences. I felt that being with those two brothers was far happier than being at home, and I did not want to go back at all.
However, as their schoolwork became more demanding, they had less time to spend with me. I also started primary school, and like them, I had homework to do every day. Our once vibrant life slowly transformed into us sitting together at our desks, writing our assignments. By the time I reached middle school, my mother stopped hiring a nanny, and I had to live at home, taking the school bus back and forth every day. Without the company of the brothers and the nanny, I returned to a life of loneliness."
