I decided I'm moving back to New York. I hate it here. I hate everything about my life. I need a brand new start and I'm scared, but I know that if I stay I really would do it and I'm not sure if I want too. My family looks at me as if I'm crazy. They don't understand. They never do. They expect me to be happy even after everything that has happened to me. They never even apologized, or simply acknowledged what they did to me. They don't care and I knew that. It's just it hurts knowing my parents never really loved me. It hurts knowing I truly am alone. They call me sick, but did they ever wonder why? Why I'm so angry? Why I hate them all? I might have lost most of my memory before I turned 9, but there are some things I do remember and it haunts me every day. I wished for their deaths every day. I wished child protective services would take me every night. I knew I was different even when I was a child. I can never forgive them for what they did and let happen. People don't understand. My father has colon cancer and while everyone is feeling all sad and mellow, I'm the only one who's happy, knowing that that bastard will finally be gone. They call me heartless, but they don't understand, and they never will, because I can't tell them why. I can't tell anyone, because no one would believe me. People don't like to know about things like that. They like to pretend everything is okay and I would be wrong for starting things, or as my mother likes to say at least.