Once there was a girl;

This girl had a Dad who didn’t have much money. But he tried and he tried. He worked cutting grass and painting for people. He’d had a stroke a few years back, no one would let him work.

She had a Mom that was never there- there, but a zombie. Passed out on the couch, cigarette in her drooping hand, mouth slack from the drugs while the little girl’s Dad did his best to keep them all happy. Cleaning and cooking, even though he was horrible at both. He worked on a huge play set, giving us his best.

“What’s wrong with Momma? Why does she sleep so much?” Because she’s tired. She’s so tired. But she’s always tired. We’re use to it.

The girl had two sisters, too. They were younger. From the start, she had a lot of responsibility. She liked playing Mom. Since Mom couldn’t even do it.

The girl had a Grandma, a Nana, Papa, Grandpa, close cousins, mean cousins, two aunts. Two uncles and some dogs and cats.

Peanut. Yes, that was one dog’s name. Until the neighbors shot it. It was as old as the little girl. When it was missing, her Dad rode his old, beat up Toyota truck down roads calling for her until the tanks were low and he couldn’t go any more.

And after Peanut, the girl’s Mom left. There was a fight that morning. The girl left for school. When she came back, her Momma wasn’t there.

“What happened?” Momma passed away today. She’s in Heaven now. She’s okay and you will be too.

But the girl wasn’t. She had episodes. Panic attacks, anxiety. OCD, minor depression and anger problems. She bottled it all up. Then took it out on walls and people, using her fists to stop hurt.

Her Dad died a year later. Another stroke. The problems got worse. The girl scratched holes into her skin unconsciously. She slit her wrists. She wanted it all to go away. She laid awake, crying silently and smiling in the morning for her sisters. She heard voices in her head. She was never good enough.

Then the abuse got worse. Her Mom couldn’t hit her anymore, so her Mom’s parents took that place. They filled the girl’s head up. They hit and hurt her. The voices in her head got louder. Demons clawed at her insides. More problems piled on what was already visible. She was prescribed medicine. But she wouldn’t take it. She didn’t want to be like her Mom.

She got into fights. School became a blood bath with her there. She fought people bigger than her. Even boys who dared cross her. She stood up when she was put down. And she finished the problem.

There was no one she could talk to. Counselors, therapists, family- nothing helped her. The threat of drugs hung over her head. She fell into gangs. Skipping class, jumping fences, spray painting. Selling stuff that shouldn’t be sold. She was with the baddest boys in town, her fights got more violent. Her “family” closed in with drugs.

So she started hiding in hoodies. She covered up scars and she let her hair down to hide the claw marks. She read more. She got into writing. She fought less. Until a line was crossed, and she broke. She wasn’t happy. She was barely breathing. But she was there.

The drugs got worse.

She was a shell. She didn’t talk much. Her eyes were glazed over. She sat without talking. She sat still for hours and did nothing. She didn’t draw, write, read or paint. She failed tests. Holes in her skin got deeper. When she got quiet, the voices got louder. They roared past, laughing. The drugs put her on pause.

Until the day she ran out. The doses stopped coming. She went back to school- they sensed the difference. She got into a fight the same day. The boy punched her in the face and busted her lip. She put him down and sat on his waist and beat him across the face. When she was pulled off, she spit her blood at his face and made her way to the principal’s office.

They threw her from the school. Violence wasn’t tolerated there. It’s what they said. She started getting homeschooled. Shut off from everyone in the countryside.

She snuck out to see the stars and talk to her Dad. She told him she was sorry. One night, she cried and told him how mad she was at him. He shouldn’t have left her, and he did.

She went back to bed. The next morning, she got up. Put on her black hoodie and tights. She slipped in her black boots and pulled her hair up. She sat to work on a book. She worked on it without eating until sunset.

Her family didn’t approve. Writing? She’d never get anywhere. But still she kept going. She tried harder with each passing day. She got lost in her stories. She read books- watched videos secretly, to learn how to write better. She went to the library and sat for hours, cramming literature, composition, writing, grammar and the publishing books in her head.

From this came the first lesson of many lessons: you don’t need support. You don’t need someone to tell you how good you are. You don’t need approval. You fight for it if you want it. You fight like hell to get there. If you want it- take that shot.

And when you get put down?

You stand the fuck up.

And you fight.

How do I know?

Because that little girl-

That little girl was me.