1. How It Began

It wasn’t a secret that my aunt hated me. Actually, I’m sure that after the countless number of nights she spent screaming at me, I’m sure everyone in our county knew. However, it also wasn’t a secret that I was an absolutely horrible child. It began the middle of fourth grade, right after Dad died.

I mean, I don’t know if you’ve ever had only one parent, but I can safely say that my mom wouldn’t have made a good poster person for single parenting. Though on the outside we made it look like life was fine, we secretly had our struggles. Mine solely consisted of my schooling. Because of my father’s flexible schedule, he would sit with me to work on my homework. It was a sight to see within my small class of nine and ten-year-olds when I walked into school that day without my homework.

My equally as shocked teacher had to witness the way I withdrew from my peers. She began asking my questions. Was I okay? Was I on vacation the two weeks I was gone from school? That woman (I think her name was Mrs. Pomellini or something) cared a lot. But at that point, I didn't care at all. 

Then, it was almost like a switch went off. One day barely two weeks later, I came into school with a smile on my face and my homework done. I showed no signs of the traumatic event that had changed the course of my life. But still, countless times I was openly mocked by my classmates and questioned. Why didn’t I have a proper lunch? Why was I wearing the same ugly black t-shirt for the third time that week? Was I okay? 

The truth was simple: I packed my lunch from whatever I could scavenge. I wore my ugly t-shirt because my mom wasn’t home long enough to both pay the bills and buy me clothes. I wasn't okay because my dad had died and I felt dead inside.

However, I never said any of that.  I lied and laughed it all off and said I was fine.

I wasn't fine.