ᴰᵉᶜᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵒᶠ ²⁰⁰⁹...
I was born in the dead of winter—ironic, considering I'm almost always cold, even during the humid heat of a Minnesota summer. I don't remember much about coming into the world, and it's not like my parents ever bothered to tell me stories about it. They were always too busy chasing their next high, lost in a haze of weed smoke and crack.
You know those stories your parents tell you whenever you complain about how hard life is? Well, I'm that story. No, I didn't grow up in a war zone or anything, but I did grow up on the streets with parents who were constantly chasing a fix. Sounds fun, right?
I entered this world as a fresh-faced baby girl—new target practice for a hellhole that couldn't wait to break me. As a kid, I just assumed my life was a standard issue. I mean, doesn't everyone grow up on the streets, watching random women hook up with their dad in the shelter?
I remember this one time my dad was living with an older lady who constantly reeked of tobacco. My siblings on my dad's side were staying there too. I had no idea who she was, but man, she gave off total creep vibes. I was maybe four years old, and she offered me a vape. A vape? To a four-year-old? That's a whole new level of wild.
If you hadn't picked up on it already, my parents weren't exclusive. Heck, most of the time they weren't even together. Guess that makes me a bastard? They always tried their best to act like they were in love, but looking back, it was a toxic mess—they looked like they wanted to tear each other apart one second and jump each other's bones the next.
Whenever I was stuck with only one parent, it usually meant the other was locked up—busted for dealing, stealing, or some kind of fight. My dad used to take me to the parking lot outside the jail, point up at the barred windows, and say, "Wave to Mommy!" So I did. I never understood why either of them would vanish for months at a time, but how do you explain the inside of a cell to a little kid?
There were times I lived at my grandma's house—my mom's mother. She had adopted my older brother and sister, my mom's other two kids. Her house was tiny and cluttered, practically bordering on a hoarder's space. She used to let me drink liquid coffee creamer straight from the bottle, which, to four-year-old me, was absolute heaven.
I don't remember having real friends back then—just my siblings and my grandma's cats. For the most part, I kept myself company. I'd draw, watch TV, and wander around outside because there wasn't much else to do. I didn't go to school, mostly because my parents couldn't afford it. Or rather, alcohol took priority over their kid's education.
I remember my best friend was an old tree just outside my grandma's fence. I used to draw a face on him with chalk and tell him everything. Then one day, someone came along and painted a huge orange X across his trunk—the death sentence. He was getting chopped down. I stood there sobbing and hugging the bark, which was totally pathetic. Imagine your only friend in the world being a tree.
