Alright, so as soon as I was born, my dad started to drink heavily. Like, more than before. Maybe even before my birth, but whatever. I had/have this birth defect, where my legs, were just like, /\ this, instead of \/, hard to explain, and I had to raise my legs and separate them like in a cradle thing. So we moved to the United States shortly after I turned 2. My dad was already in the states, working and getting money to pay for us and all. We lived in Florida for a short time. We had a house and a pool and all. We lived with my uncle. It was all happy happy.

This is my life story. Be warned.

CAUTION. If you guys know me, in real life, I might mention school in this, and some other stuff. So don’t be all freaking out if I mention you.

Skip to about the time I was 5.

When I think I was 5 years old, we moved to Massachusetts, where I currently live. My dad and his brother/my uncle moved here with us too. My uncle bought a house and my dad rented an apartment for us. So life was easy. Good. I was a chubby child, with chubby cheeks and fat legs. Kind cute.

Skip to the time where I can go to school.

My dad stopped smoking, for now anyways. He’s on and off with that addiction.

So, kindergarten. Do you guys remember that time with the hand paints and the story time and everything?

I don’t.

Everything here to 2nd grade.

Blank.

2nd grade, all I remember is having a crush on this one kid, named Sam S., and I was like, stalker creepy. Ugh. He was kinda cute though. Blue eyes, blonde hair. We were good friends. I also had this amazing friend, Kiarah B. We used to be so close, and she was so nice. Now she’s a bitch that does remember me but doesn’t talk to me because I’m not popular and skinny.

3rd grade, I had to switch schools. From Barry to Selser.

God that was hard. I left so many friends and amazing teachers. I didn’t cry though. I had to leave because I learned English and I was somewhat smarter than most of the other people in my class/school. No one cried for me when I left though. But everyone cried when one person left for a day.

Didn’t I feel loved.

First day of 3rd grade, I was so nervous. I remember stepping onto an unfamiliar bus and just sitting down in an empty seat with my lunch box in hand and looking out the window watching the trees pass by. I was so lonely. And shy. I wasn’t the person I was back then though.

I stepped outside to find other kids that didn’t know what to do either. We ended up lining up outside by grade and going into the gym to find out which teacher we had. My heart beating a thousand times a minute, my feet being only able to shuffle, and the 150 or so kids in the one unorganized line with me stood there, waiting for our names to be called.

I can’t remember the names of the other teachers, but the name of my 3rd grade teacher was Mrs. Remilard. She looked like she was from Venezuela, with her long dark brown/black hair and green eyes. She was so pretty. I heard the principal hesitate and I got ready to stand up. She didn’t call my name, though. The next person she called was me, and she said my name, in a flawless way, a non questionable tone, like she knew me prior. I stood up, and walked with a small tremble. That’s all I remember of that day.

It went by fast, my first year. I remember having a crush and getting out of class so the faculty could test my English, which by now was perfect. I had no trouble reading or pronouncing anything.

4th grade.

Nothing other than we had a sub most of the year because my teacher broke her leg.

5th grade.

I had this amazing teacher, Mr. Dominick. He let us sit on desks. We made a chess club. We got to eat lunch together. He gave hugs. Those awkward side hugs, but still that’s pretty amazing for a teacher. I had an okay class. I met my best friend this year, Shannon McCarthy. She transferred from a private school because it unfortunately went bankrupt or something like that. She was a shy girl and so I decided to come up to her and help her around. We instantly became best friends. And we still are. It turns out she lives right on my street. I swear my life became so much better that day. Now she’s becoming a bitch, but whatever. Things/people change I guess.

6th grade.

Normal, little year. I don’t remember much though.
Because this year my mom went to the mental hospital. I remember her hiding her meds under her tongue, not hugging me or saying I love you, not looking me in the eye. I went to school while my brother went around with my mom and translated, and my dad went around with him, because he was the only levelheaded one around the house. I was just in shock. I just locked myself into a room and avoided her as much as possible if someone was already watching her. If it was my turn to watch her, I tried as hard as possible not to break down. I remember just hugging my mom the day she left FINALLY to get to the hospital to get better, and I had told her I loved her. And she said it back. That’s when I knew that a part of her was still alive, but being protected by all these depressed emotions. I spent the next three months fake smiling and acting as my mother, cleaning and partially cooking dinner. I only visited her once, and that was when that was the last time we’d see her in that, place, because her rehab was over. No words can express the joy I felt that day. I just missed my mother beyond words. The rest of the year is just, blank.

7th Grade

It was hell, end of discussion.

8th Grade

It was, a shock to me considering that my parents were now starting to get serious about buying a house. During 8th grade, my father was off and on unemployment, because his company is now starting to outsource, and get cheaper labor. 8th grade, the school I went to was hell, literally. The teachers I met had helped me and shaped me though. My social studies teacher, Ms. Garlett, had even offered to put my name in for the college she went to. Anyways, it was just bad. The school was just chaotic, teachers didn’t approve of teachers, students hated teachers, principals harassed teachers and students; it was just bad. My parents had finally found a house at the end of the summer.

And so begins,

9th Grade/Freshman Year.