I was born in late summer to my 19-year-old parents and my the hometown that I still and have always come back to. I was the first-born on both sides of my family and the only girl as well. Everyone had always said that I was a beautiful baby when I had been born, a tiny thing with bright blue eyes and a full head of blonde hair. Maybe, though, they'd only been excited, for I was the first of many children.

I was named after my great-grandmother (Nona), who'd been the only relative of mine that had the same color as I. Being of Italian paternal descent, everyone in my family had been very dark with her as the only known exception. Even my maternal side, a family from Scotland and Ukrania, all had dark hair and eyes.

My little brother was born only a year-and-a-half following, in the same room with a near identical heartbeat as I. He also had a full head of hair, but he had dark hair and eyes and was larger than I was. He was expected to be another girl, and after much argumentation between my parents of what to call this child, he was named after our father days later.

The three of us lived in a three-bedroom, one bathroom house in what was primarily a senior neighbourhood. I have heard many stories of how life for us had been then and there, all different but both didn't seem well. I have somewhat managed to put some pieces together, but I know that because of my parents' inability to admit their mistakes, that I will never really know the full truth. I can only write about what I know.

My father had begun business owning a gym around the time I was born to support us all, but a few years later he was caught and arrested for substance abuse and dealing, therefore having to sell it. My paternal grandmother, who seems to try to never lose faith in her son (though it's clearly traumatizing for her), had always paid his bail to life the burden on him, my brother and I, and our mother. She still does so to this day, when he has been weaving in-and-out of prison for at least the sixteen years that I have been alive. Maybe even more so that I am not aware of, and he is now forty-years-old.

At this time, my mother was inevitably using as well, even before her children were born. I don't know the intensity of her addiction, though she did manage to withdraw herself when the custody battle over my brother and I took place. It was a year ago that I was told of this while I'd still believed my mother would never touch a drug, not even a cigarette. My father, in a fight between him and I, told me many stories of her neglection towards my brother and I (through his eyes, exaggerated, though it is true). My baby brother would often be left in his crib untouched while my father would work at his gym, and I, not fed all day.

I believe this is true, for until then I could not wrap my head around as to why my grandmother would call social services on my mother for, in her words, was "no reason". Nor could I understand, though I was a small child to begin with, why I had only been 17 pounds at nearly two-years-old with hair that fell out and never grew. Again, my mother pushed it aside, telling me that this was because "my eyes were bad", therefore having "no appetite because food didn't look appetizing". Of course, I, being oblivious as always, believed. When confronted about it, however, she admitted to it all. I don't have any memories of it.

While my brother was still only a baby, my parents split up. After living in my maternal grandparents' basement for some time, my mother found a new partner and we moved into his house shortly following. I was five-years-old at the time, my brother three-years-old.

We did not see our father much over the duration of the seven years my mother and her then-fiancee were together. We had a wonderful childhood there, a big house, big family (he had two kids, a girl and a boy, both older than my brother and I) and anything we could ever want. My father came around once every two years if we were to be lucky, doling out toys and games, and keeping us for one night at his mother's house. He was not allowed to be unsupervised with us, nor bringing us out of the house unsupervised; and he was not allowed leaving town with us under any circumstances.

The most vivid memories of him as a child are of him and my mother's then-fiancee fighting and swearing at the door, the same night he'd taken us, and his much younger girlfriend stabbed him in the arm while he was driving. The incident had been in the paper, and a child I was friendly with at school clipped it and brought it to me. I was in second grade.

From then on I had not seen him for years, yet my mother's then-fiancee loved to talk to his children (in front of my brother and I) of my father's latest arrests, one of which was smuggling drugs across the border, and saying that they "should be lucky that they don't have a father like that". I must've been used to his behaviour, for as a child I was never bothered by it in the slightest. A part of me had always been offended the moment I would hear, "Hey, guys, guess what their dad did..." in a light tone, but I never showed it for the sole reason that I never felt like he was my father. Like I said, I was not bothered by it at all.

When I was twelve-years-old, my mother and her then-fiancee split up. My mother, brother and I moved into an apartment of which she often had her new boyfriend over at. It has been said to me that she began the relationship before her last one was over, but that's besides the point. She married him five years into the relationship, six months prior to when I'd written this. It was five years of name-calling and physical fights between him and I that I believe haven't affected me much, but I don't know if that is accurate or not.

In December, two months ago, I was arrested by two officers under the Mental Health Act. I had suffered my worst mental breakdown (I suffered one when I was ten-years-old, had an overdose when I was thirteen-years-old, and another when I was fifteen-years-old) when my mother's husband used a baseball bat on my back; shortly after I held a knife to my throat. I don't remember the exact details of the night while my breakdown was still in place, for I couldn't process a thought. I remember crouching behind the television and screaming, even after my mother's husband stopped. Just screaming and screaming, possibly for hours, until the police arrested me and took me to the hospital. That was the night I was placed in a foster home by an officer.

I waited at the hospital with the male officer from 7:00pm until 1:00am for an after-hour worker to arrive, though she was to be there at 10:00pm. We took the time telling stories to each other, and he asked me what my father did. Though I merely said "I don't know",  the first thing that had popped into my head was my father standing over my bed while I'd been sleeping (I lived with him at his mother's house while he was on parole for armed robbery, from Febuary 2010 - August 2010), splashing water on my face and praying out loud for my redemption. My mother had told me he suffered from drug-induced schizophrenia, and from his obsession with believing that I was possessed with demons (and that the government had placed a computer chip inside of me when I had been born), I believe it.

When I had lived with my father, it was traumatizing to know that my maturity level is now far surpassing his. From what I had observed of him, he is like a distressed child, throwing temper tantrums, hurting people and breaking things in the process. He popped pills and got drunk on the nights that he ran out, being an over-drunk or over-high, and a nightmare when he was sober.

At a point we had moved back into the house where I had lived with him when I was young, him, my step-mother and I, but shortly after they drove four hours away. They left for months, and I was alone in the house with no electricity, food, or water. The only time my father ever came back to the house was to stash his drugs, also eating the food that I had bought with the money my mother had given me (which was never much- $20 - $40 at a time, but I would be overwhelmed with guilt if I asked her for more) before leaving.

After and partly during living with my father, I had picked up the habit of self-induced vomiting. I often heard that I was very much like him, yet I have never been so disgusted by anyone's eating habits such as his in my entire life. This triggered my all-time low weight, reached by fasting an vomiting, of 93 lbs. Though I have managed to gain weight, I still struggle with breaking it, on an average of vomiting four or five times per week; others once or twice per day.

The night I had been arrested, I was put into an emergency foster for one week before moving to the placement I am currently in. I am getting A's in school and I am allowed to leave the house, of that I was not allowed socializing or having friends before (Febuary 2010 - August 2010). I have seen my mother once, and which my social worker is now expecting us to visit once a week, and I have not spoken to my father. I don't ever plan to. I don't know if I should say that I am doing better or worse than I was, but perhaps it's now too early to tell.