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I kept thinking about how to start, and what was important enough to start with and I really believe that the most fucked up things are always the ones that are most important. And luckily the first thing I can remember is actually pretty fucked up so here we go: I was not in grade school yet. And I remember watching my mother cry in the kitchen of the apartment. I can’t remember which apartment because at that time in our lives there were many of them. Because people get tired of people who yell and break things and get drunk and fight. But anyways I’m pretty sure we were upstairs. And I remember her sitting on the floor with her back against the fridge, crying. And that’ it. A teacher of mine once told me that the most traumatic things that happen to a person always happen during their childhood. At the time I stared at her a wide eyed senior in high school because my life was the one I’d been lucky enough to live and even though it wasn’t easy I had always kinda figured that it would only get harder because you know being a kid is supposed to be the easy part. And I didn’t know that for me it wasn’t as easy as it was for most children. I’d just like to say that remembering what I have been through is what makes me most proud of where I am at this point in my life because it really seems like the odds were stacked up against me. At this point I feel like my childhood was a bit tougher than most people and I kind of hope I’m not wrong, but you can be the judge of that if you’d like to. But anyways now back to the story. The next parts are assumptions about what led up to the moment of my mom crying on the floor. Or maybe they aren’t assumptions maybe they’re real i’m not too sure: They had been fighting. My mom and her boyfriend. Like they usually were. And he was either drunk or about to be which was also a usual thing. And they were yelling. I don’t remember if there was hitting this time but maybe there was. Then he left. To go get drunk or high or both whatever he did. And he left us there. He left me there. Watching my mom cry. At this point I was too young to know yet that this would be their thing. Their sick routine. But anyway that’ it. That’ all of it. The first memory I have. Of my entire life. As I got a little older and learned to speak I guess you could say I got a little more involved in the fighting whether it was me pleading for them to stop at the top of my lungs or my mom handing me the phone after she dialed 911 telling him “look what you’ve done.” Let’ just say I was more in the middle of it. But things settled down a little later, or at least we did. As far as moving I mean, we ended up in a house in the L.A. area. The city of San Fernando to be exact. But the fighting didn’t stop for a while since we ended up renting out the whole house. We had more space and no longer had to share living spaces with housemates that could complain or kick us out, so the drinking and drugging and fighting didn’t stop for a while. Not for a few more years. It stopped eleven years and two kids later to be exact. So after he left the sun shined through the clouds right? And the birds came out and started to fucking sing? No. That’ not what happened. The story doesn’t end there, it wasn’t that easy. You see at the time of his departure I thought he was the only source of our problems. Because that was the reality that my mother painted for me. If only he got a job, if only he stopped drinking. When he left I realized that he was not the only problem. My mother, the one that played the poor abused victim the whole time was part of the problem. And things weren’t as simple as she tried to make them seem because after all it takes two right? Well she’ extremely controlling to say the least. And after he left she began to focus all of her unhealthy attention on me. Her oldest child. And I get that this might be a little difficult to understand because everyone criticizes their parents right? But remember that I said I used to think I was just like other kids, and it took me a long time to realize that my experience was different, but I realized it, so bear with me on this one. Everything had to be exactly the way she wanted. At the exact time. And if it wasn’t, she’d raise hell. Like grades for example. She’d raise hell for one B. And she wasn’t always like that. It all started after he left. When she no longer had someone to yell at. I quickly learned that if I didn’t bring home a perfect report card I could be sure a fight was waiting for me at home. That’ why after a few arguments that ended in tears or a good ol’ dragging me by the hair, I just decided that I was done trying to get things signed. Which was something few teachers could understand. So sometimes I’d get in trouble, or deducted some points at school when I’d get an 89% on a test and just refused to get it signed as proof that my parents saw it. Well I only had one parent at home. And I didn’t want her to see it. I knew it wouldn’t end well. And for the record it’s not like I needed it like some kids did, maybe they could actually benefit from parental support, well that wasn’t exactly what I was getting. And it’ not like I was slacking. I knew better. I was trying my best. But sometimes, my best wasn’t good enough for my mother. Like that one time she “just had a feeling I was hiding something,” and decided that the best way to find out what it was would be by hitting me until I told her. I couldn’t even think of anything recent but believe me I tried my best to tell her everything I could remember or think of that happened EVER just to try and get her to stop. I love my mother. And even though I am able to see now that sometimes her actions were uncalled for I understand that at the time she didn’t know any better. And it’s not like there was any other adults around to help her out or tell her to calm down. She was the only one. Supporting three teenage girls. And i see that She did her best. And even though she stressed me out and caused some anxiety by pointing out every single flaw she made me stronger. Now that doesn’t mean i’d take it any longer when i had the chance to let go I was gone. So yeah sometimes college is lonely since I have no friends or family in Northern California. And yes socializing is rough since my mother didn’t let me go out with friends much and it sort of caused me to develop social anxiety. But I am way happier with where I am now than with where I was a year ago. I feel fucking liberated. I remember crying in the classroom of a different teacher one morning of my Junior year in high school. Sobbing uncontrollably because I just couldn’t get myself together since my mom ruined my day. Again. Just by something she said. And all my teacher could tell me was “Baby you’re not married to her, in two years you will move out and everything will be okay. Hang in there.” Two years later I can say she was right and although freedom is lonely it’ better than abuse. I am so proud to be where I am now and thankful to the staff at my high school who helped me get here. And even though it’ not easy I refuse to give up and go home. The education I am receiving now and the freedom that comes along with it is everything I’ve wanted since I became a freshman in high school and learned that it was possible. This is not a sob story. It is a story of success and celebration. Because i went through it, but now i am here. And the fact that i even made it here is proof that i am strong.