Growing up in my family, I’ve always thought that a strike of a hand, meant that the person loved you. That it was a show of compassion. That you were doing something to bring forth their attention to you. As I grew up, I did not really understand that it really was wrong. My dad was one to strike, my mom did the same, and as we grew older, my brother picked up on their bad traits as well. If it wasn’t physical abuse it was verbal abuse. As a young child, you learned how to hide bruises in with the linen and lace. I learned quick to hide the truth, cause I was always afraid of what was going to happen in the end. What Mom would say if she really did find out what really was said at school that day. It took a great fight with my family to get me to come to my senses. I ran away from the hurt, the pain. To a place where I did not know. I had a job, and a car, so I had um… ways to pay for things, but when it came to my family, I cut ties to it. A few months past, then things with my room mate became heated. A fight grew beyond words, and words went from just that, they went from word to fists. I ended up at the ER with a criss-crossed scratch on my cornia. Now I’m homeless with no place to go. On top of everything. I got a call from my boss. I got terminated from my job. They qualified me unfit to work there anymore. So my week can go from worse to worse.