• Life is a game. You're always going to be the person who's cheated, at least in you're point of view. I've been cheated. Many times. And I don't fight back. I tell myself it was the last time, when I know it will happen a million more times. There are several people who can understand me, but they could never relate to me. My friends, my family, they're there for me, but I don't dare tell them my deepest secrets. Every night I wish for all the things that I'll never have. When I try to fight back, I'm praised, but I always lose the game. Even when I think I've won, it's only the end of one round. But, even in this treacherous game, life is still good. The game is only one part of life. The bad part. But life and death are equal. They are both a paradise. In life, there will be love and adventure and the thrill of having to achieve your dreams before you die. Death is a reward for a life well spent or a relief of the game or looking back at all you've ever loved. In both there is love. Because a world is a prison without it. You must love your family and you must love your friends, but they could never fill the place of the one person everyone wishes they had. A true love. Some deny the yearning and some find (or say they have) their one and only loved one, but I would never deny my want for one. I'm living my life for all the listed reasons, but I wouldn't live if I thought I would never find a love. Some people say I'm getting older but I'm acting younger all the time; but I'm only growing desperate to hide my growing depression. This is not only a diary, but a story of the things that I can't stand, as well as the people. It's a story of the people I love, and the ones that will never love me back. It's of my dreams, both the ones I believe in and the ones I only wish I could only hope could come true. And now we begin...
    November of 1996; age zero:
    This was the year that, in the long run, saved my dad's life. It was the day I was born. For my mom, it was just the day she could get out what was making her look so fat, but it was also a day where she got a chance to restart her life. She'd ruined her chance to be a perfect wife, but now she had the chance to be a perfect mother. She didn't take it. My dad always loved my mom, but he needed something more to love with all his heart than a non-trustworthy wife. A child was the perfect solution. Sure, several times he was completely high when he was taking care of me, but at least he wasn't committing a robbery or whatever my mom felt like doing that day. He always tells me that if his life was empty, which it would have been if he hadn't had kids, he wouldn't think twice before killing himself. I think it's supposed to flatter me but it just depresses me more. He undoubtedly predicted the mom I have to day: a loving, drug addict jailbird, so he made sure he had something to hug and tell him they loved him. Even if I'm in constant danger of him losing his meds and going insane on my brother and I, I'd never want to be anywhere else. Even though I know he doesn't care, I feel a need to be perfect for him. I make myself get great grades and, believe it or not, I get filled with rage when he says my C grades are perfectly fine. He's the only person I have to impress and it kills me to see him take it so lightly. Nobody else listens to complete descriptions of the entire book I just finished reading, it'd probably be four hundred pages and I'd probably finish it in three days to impress him. But he continues to scream at me in pure rage for everything I do wrong and I continue to be anything but perfect. My retarded dog will probably always remain the only animal, or being at all, that hears my deepest secrets.
    Around 1998; Age 1 and a few months:
    This is the year that saved my life. It was the year my brother was born. I can't imagine life without him. Pressed against the stove, fighting for my life, alone. Enduring abuse by my evil grandparents, alone. I couldn't be sitting here, writing this meaningless story if my brother had never been born. When my mom and dad are in another deathly fight and I'm frozen in fear, tears streaming down my cheeks, it's my brother's screams that tear my parents apart. He does what he has to if it protects out family... and me. Even if it means hurting someone. And he's had to go to those extremes. Nothing compares to the feeling when he hugs me and tells me it's over, that he took care of it. He picks me up off the floor when their battles throw me into a sobbing, hyperventilating mass of tears. He opens the closet when I cry about the monster, then proves it's only my dad. Sure, I've bled because of him. He's made me puke (several times in a row from hyperventilation), cry, scream, wind up in a small pool of blood (this most of all), and he's laughed at my face of pure terror and desperation. He's locked me out and in every place imaginable and he's robbed me of several possibilities in life. But he's there for me. I will never know anyone as caring as my brother. Who was it that went to desperate measures when I ran away? Him. Who understands my boundaries more than anyone else? Him. He is my brother, and my shoulder will always be open for him to cry on.
    Around 2000; Age 4:
    It's the year she began to fade. I don't blame my mom for leaving, she could never have been a perfect mother, despite her efforts. She never really left, but she'll never come back. I was only four when I shielded my brother from my mom and dad's bloody battles. No child should never see the loving hatred I did. So many times we took sides, my brother and I, and so many times we were a side. I love my parents so much, but they have no idea what I've been through. They've fought, cheated, done drugs and alcohol, but they love me. My dad is wonderful. He's far from perfect, but he's tamed himself for my brother and I. My mom tries so hard to be perfect around us, and she is, but what she does when she's not around us still reaches my family. My brother was always the one that loved her most and is her favorite. I'm so glad she has him, but I could never forgive her. Her scarred face shows me just how much she cares about us. I wasn't there when she got even one of them, and there has to be about seven deep ones. She needs, and has always needed, help. When I was four, I was as mature as an eight year old. I did what I could to not laugh when people told me their parents had a ten minute argument. My parents have been in an argument for eight years and nobody is there to listen to my problems. Every since I could walk and talk, people told me their problems. I was used as a secret keeper. It wasn't fair, but I was needed. I always need to be perfect, because if I outshine everyone than I'm in control an I can try to uphold a balance in my family. It was always me and my brother, one of my true friends, who were trying to smooth over the cracks in our world. I'm a seminar student and I'm always trying to be beautiful and brave. My friends think it's natural but I had seen so much blood that I've been forced into bravery. I used to hold my mom and tell her problems were just part of life and that she had to be brave. I'm always going to do that for her, I'm always going to break up her fights, but I'm never going to forgive her.
    Around 2004; Age 8:
    This is the year I decided that I hated my grandparents. It was Summer and we were on a traditional camping trip. While my grandpa favored my brother and my grandma shut out the world, I put all my loneliness into a switchblade and a piece of wood. I loved carving because of the danger of slicing any part of my body in one unguarded second. My grandma called for me and I began to get up with the knife way too close to my leg. In the next second, it was deep inside it. All I remember is all there faces. My brother's, so caring, as he always was for me. My grandpa, struggling to keep calm, but there was an edge of true calmness as he stared at my red leg. Last, my grandma. She didn't care. She didn't care AT ALL. I'd estimate three seconds was the amount of time she looked at the knife three inches deep in my leg and then let me inside and went back to cooking. My grandpa ripped the knife out and put a band aid on it. From then on, I could only notice their flaws. The only emotion I felt for them was hatred. At the age of eight, I realized how naive I had been. My childish mind had made itself think all grandparents were like mine. But that was the year I grew up and realized the world wasn't a happy place. I still have the scar, of course. It's my favorite and I have many of them. Most are way deeper, but it's my first and the one that reminds me of the day I shut out my fantasy world and became a member of the cruel, unloving one I've befriended.