How do you even begin to write the story of your life? Better yet, how can I write it when I don't know what is yet to come and what still lies ahead? What makes my story worth more than others? I can't answer any of those questions yet, but I know what's happened so far, and I know how much it took to get me here. I know I need to write this past down in order to forgive, forget, and carry on. Maybe that all sounds terribly cliche to you and maybe it doesn't. But this is what I know.

Some people say it's best to start at the beginning, but I can't pinpoint the beginning for me at this moment for some reason so I'm going to just start where I can and slowly you'll understand everything. What's a better start than highschool? It's the best of times and the worst of times to borrow a phrase from our dear friend Charlie Dickens, and my days in highschool were no different. I was a pretty typical highschool female: confused but determined, low self-esteem but looking to better myself, interested in chemistry as much as I was the cute guy who sat behind me, etc, etc. Pretty normal right? On the surface, I'm sure it appeared that way. I was quiet and shy, but outgoing with my small and tight-knit group of friends. I was, and never have been, a sad or depressed person: I do love to laugh and have fun, even if there have been some depressing moments along the way. I wasn't popular but I don't think I was walked all over by the school's elite either. 5'5, brown hair, brown eyes, slender, round nose, pale skin, and a crooked set of bottom teeth. I wasn't beautiful but not terribly bad looking either. I also had a steady boyfriend for two years but we'll get into that later on; The important point for now is what happened when I went home. At school, I admit I was a nerd and paid attention in class, did my work, worried about college, studied for the SAT's, and hada high average. I loved going to school for the sake of learning and seeing my friends...and getting away from home. It was the moment when the bell rang at 2:10 and I knew I would have to walk out and have my Mom pick me up that I dreaded. I hated when that bell rang, signaling the moment when I would have to return to the place that I lovingly called (or maybe not so lovingly) "dysfunction junction". Emotions ran high in that house, and I use the term house, not home.

I can't blame the emotions and the turmoil on one single person or event, the truth is everyone contributed to those rotten years. My Mom, my sister, my stepfather, my stepbrothers, and I all made our own little contributions to the hell that was that that small and cramped house. It was no lovely place physically: falling apart, old, what was really a two bedroom house housing six people, a dog, and two cats. I just realized that I'm making this sound extremely horrible, I don't want to ever make it seem as though I'm asking for a pity party. I'm not. I realize that there are a lot of people in this country that have it a lot worse than I ever did. Anyway, the house was also often dirty with two young boys, a messy man, a disorganized woman, and a messy young girl in the home. I'm a neat freak and I suspect slightly OCD, so I was always disgusted by the state of the house. I've often been accused, or was a lot during that time, of believing myself to be better than the rest of my family. I never thought that, but even at that age I was a little disgusted at the state of our home and how no pride was taken in it. My room was, literally, a lop-sided room on the second floor, above my mother and stepfathers, with a ceiling that was around five feet high. I made it work, and loved that room because it was the first time in years I didn't have to share a room with my younger sister Samantha. Heat was usually a problem in the winter-time, and I can remember on more than one occasion coming home to my room and changing into two or three shirts, a sweatshirt, and two pairs of socks. Unfortunetly, the reverse was true for summertime: as the heat was unbearable and I would have murdered for an air conditioner. (just kidding). I know what some of you are thinking: how can this even exist in America? This kind of poverty? And she's white? (Hey, it's what you were thinking). To give you a little background, I'm from upstate New York, which is nortorious for it's poverty, lack of jobs, low standard of living, and low-income housing. Yes America, this poverty does exist. Wake up. The American Dream? Call my a cynic or call me biased, but it doesn't exist...and there's a reason why they call it a dream.

Noisy was a term that would fit my crooked house with a crooked family living inside of it. Whether it was my stepbrothers arguing with each other, my stepbrothers arguing with my sister, with me, my mom arguing with my sister, with me, my stepfather arguing with my mother, my sister, his sons, me, there was a constant stream of noise that circled around that house. I can't even begin to describe how much anger could be felt as soon as you walked through the door into our indoor porch, or mudroom as my mother called it. (aka a storage room for various housewares and cardboard boxes with leftover decorations from Christmas). Now that I think about it, I really do feel some pain for my sister Samantha, three years younger than I, who had a room in-between the dining room and the hallways that led upstairs. Privacy? Not for her. My stepbrothers lived in opposite tiny rooms, no larger than 5x5 across from each other upstairs, while I lived down the hall from them. I've often thought it must have been fate that my room was above my mother and stepfather's, hearing every argument or "discussion" as my mom liked to call of it theirs through the vent in my room was no picnic. It's embarrassing now, but there were many days where I would be doing my AP U.S. History homework, hear them yelling, and walk over to this little brown vent on my floor, open it up, crouch down with my ear against the vent, and listen to their fights. I don't know what I thought that would accomplish, and I'm not even sure why I was curious. I can say I was, and always have been, fiercely protective and always felt a surge of this madness whenever I heard my stepfather yelling at my mother. I know, I know. Plenty of people in relationships argue and fight and disagree. But when you're 15 and listening to your verbally abusive stepfather degrade and debase your mama bear, you want to sock him in the face. In all seriousness, I considered murder. I considered, time and time again, walking down the hall, down the stairs, and punching him. Hitting him. Beating him to a bloody pulp. I enviosioned me somehow getting a weapon, usually a gun, and shooting him after I had gotten done screaming at him and yelling at him for all the years of treating my mother horribly and for all of the unhappiness this marriage had caused. You'd think that I would have considered running away, but my thoughts were always focused on college and somehow that would be my savior. If only I could get to college...it would all be better. In the meantime, I satisfied a tiny piece of my anger with thoughts that one day, I would hurt this man.