I grew up in an odd way. My dad was an alcoholic and drug addict. My mom was as well, but not nearly as bad as my dad. Whenever my dad smoked marijuana, life was great. However, he never just smoked marijuana…he got drunk most nights and he was a very violent drunk. When he mixed his alcohol with pills, he was dangerous. When I was little, my stomach hurt me all the time because it was always in knots from stress.

My dad was a good man…he was just messed up. He played guitar, sang, painted, wrote poetry and so forth. He lived a rock star life in a small town. When I was 11, my mom divorced my dad and ran off with a man worse than my dad (my dad had been in jail countless times, but they were all misdemeanors…this man had been in jail for shit like rape). I stayed with my mom for a while, but when her boyfriend hit me I left. I lived with my dad in a 1 room trailer that had no water, electricity, heat or anything. We had 1 piece of furniture…a love seat in which most nights my dad was passed out on, so I slept on the floor. We had a kerosine heater that cooked our food and kept us warm. We had cement blocks stacked up out back that we could do our “business” on. Despite everything that was bad, I was happy. Sure, my dad put me through hell…but, he was my dad and I loved him.

When I was 13 my dad left me. I moved in with my mamaw. My dad had moved about an hour and a half away…we know because the hospital in his new town had to call us several times because he was a regular patient (he got the crap beat out of him a lot apparently..but he didn’t feel or remember anything because he would be drunk). That’s all I’m going to say about that time in his life, because I can’t stand to think about it.

When I was 14, my dad died of a drug overdose. My heart became broken beyond repair it seems. For a year after he died, I didn’t leave my room except to go to school…and I’m not exaggerating. I didn’t leave the house for anything…well, around Christmas time I did go to the store to buy my grandparents presents. But that was it.

I wanted to die. I contemplated suicide every day…I even had a suicide not. However, I never acted…I was too afraid of what would happen afterward. I was like that for 3 years. In the past year, I’ve improved some. I’m still not happy, but I don’t hide in my room anymore. Sure, every other day I want to tell the world to f*ck off and go listen to Pink Floyd…but I don’t. Will I get better? Or am I forever screwed up?

I can’t afford to see a psychiatrist so I’m hoping some of you can give me some kind words. Thanks!
Sorry, I meant to tell you my age. I’m 18.