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I came here to write, and with every intention of being brutally honest. I hate myself, but what's new, right, you've all read that already. I hate my life. I hate what I've done to myself and hate what I've allowed people to do to me. I think I like being depressed, and that's scary. I think it's because it's all I've ever known. Want some background into that? Too bad if you don't, stop reading now.

My parents argued all the time, who's don't, right? Well I can remember waking up one night hearing my dad shouting at my mom, something along the lines of she'd changed the channel he had it on, but he hadn't been in the room watching it anymore, anyway, he threatened that if she didn't give the remote back to him he would shove it down her throat (I know, how can he shove it down her throat if she doesn't give it to him?) That's just one instance I can remember.

I was always bad at math in elementary school and that frustrated my dad, and my mom told me he pinned me up against the wall by my throat, but I don't remember that and it's probably cause I blocked the memory.

The very last arguement I remember them having was the argument when they decided to get a divorce. I heard it all, I was only like 10 or 11 (I guess that's not too young). Anyway, I don't remember the fine details of the arguement, only my dad asking my mom if she wanted to get a divorce...I never heard her answer, I only remember laying in my bed, crying, begging her to say no, but not loud enough for either of them to hear. Then my dad called my Papa (my mom's dad) and told him, "your daughter wants to divorce me." My mom came upstairs and into my room a few minutes later, she didn't know I'd heard cause I pretended I was asleep, she was getting a night shirt from one of my drawers, she was going to sleep in the spare room. I sat up, she told me it was okay. No, it wasn't fucking okay. I think I blamed her, for years, though I knew/know it wasn't her fault. In fact, my dad is such an awesome person now, though I have his temper.

When I was in the sixth grade I can remember waking up one morning knowing something was wrong, but couldn't place it. I may or may not have heard my mom leave the house, this part of my memory is skewed somewhat. I walked out to the living room where my younger brother was watching TV and my 1st step-dad was just sitting at the dining room table. I made the 'slit my throat' sign to my brother, who had no clue what was going on either. I ran through all the possibilities...first thought was Nana had died (my grandma)...but no, Mom would have woken me up for that (I have no idea why I thought she would have)...Papa, Papa must have died...and that's where I left it, I didn't believe in that thought, I just waited. Eventually my mom came home and confirmed my thought. Papa had died, I had never in my life experienced such a loss. This was 13 days after my 12th birthday. I was devastated, and even recalling it now, I'm getting teary-eyed. I grew up knowing this man. I was the eldest of 5 grandchildren, I was one of his buddies as we all were, but I felt more special and for no real reason. My cousins, brother, and I used to spend most of our time on our grandparents farm, we used to help him feed the animals everyday. This man was probably my hero when I was a kid, and to find out he'd died...I couldn't bare it. I bottled it inside.

My Nana's sister and her husband came up for my Papa's memorial service and to be with Nana. She never made it to the memorial. I later found out that the morning of the service she had been eating breakfast at a restaurant in town and collapsed. Something about her heart. She needed open heart surgery, but it didn't work. While she was in the hospital she told a nurse she'd seen my Papa, in white robes. My poor grandmother had just lost her husband and now her sister.

Only about a month later my uncle killed himself. No relation to my Papa, other than ex-son-in-law. I was too young to be told how or why. He was a police officer. They buried him with Papa, and as my dad put it, so they could talk to each other (they were both big talkers).

Anyway, to make a really long story...well, not much shorter, I bottled all of this up. I never really had any friends to talk to and there was no talking to adults at that time. So there it all stayed, bottled up inside of me until one year from the day my Papa died. And it all came gushing and the one friend I had at the time must have been so overloaded from me being depressed cause she got sick of it, sick of me...there is so much more to say but I feel it should wait...maybe there really isn't that much more to say, I can't think straight right now...so I'll just post.

Don't pity me though, I'm not asking for pity. I'm getting me out there, I'm trying to explain why I feel the way I do, whether I should or not. This is me. "I'm broken when I'm open."