Outside of classes, things got a little better. I still came home to the place I’ve grown to hate every day, but at least it was comfortable and safe. I’ve never been homeless, I’ve never been in the type of dire straits some of the worst off in society have been at. I like to think our experiences are relative; someone who’s used to comfort and ease doesn’t need too much nudging to snap out of any delusions they might have about taking their life for granted.

Or maybe my mother raised me better than I know; I’ve never thought I was inherently better than anyone. I remember one time in the sixth grade, this little shit was starting something with me. He went to a teacher and said that I was making fun of him, that I said I was smarter than him. I didn’t say shit to him. Hell, I was confused—I thought he and I were friends. He’s the one who first introduced me to the fact World of Warcraft existed, because he knew I was a major fan of anything Alchemy.

Really, my mother taught me well, even though I know a good chunk of my issues stem from her. I learned how to manage money from her; she had none of it when I was born and only has what she has now because she’s practically a miser when it comes to her personal luxuries. Not helping other people out, which is a whole different level of hang-up she’ll have to address sooner or later. I also learned persistence from her, both in positive and negative ways. She taught me to never give up on a dream; she also would have me sit at the foot of the sofa when I was in elementary school and swat me over the head if I cried too much instead of working on my assignments.

Part of my emotional journey I went through away from the state I grew up in was accepting those truths; when I moved back home I had a more mature relationship with both of my parents. It wasn’t just seeing them as people, but accepting that they really did try their best. And let me be clear: some children have parents that have gone too far to accept. I’m a firm believer in the notion that your family is solely composed of people you care for, and who care for you—blood be damned. You have no obligation to call someone family just because you’re related. In my case, I wasn’t ruined by my parents, just not given a great introduction to handling my own affairs. Practical knowledge, I had in spades. Emotional? I had fuck-all.

In that regard, I can already make one judgment about my 20s: It was the coming of age in soul that I never got as a child. When my aunts started dying before I even hit puberty, my mother couldn’t cope. While I was dealing with my own grief I had to handle hers, and sometimes her anger misdirected at me. I grew up so quick I didn’t have time to realize I did, so there was this disconnect between what I was capable of and what I could stomach that came to a head. At least, that’s the best theory I’ve got at the moment. I’ve got plans to go back to the therapist I went to with my father once I can afford it; or if not, someone they recommend. I’m smart enough to know that a tell-most blog series and learning how to live with the pain is not the same as being able to process my pain. Anyway, I risk getting ahead of myself. I’ve still got several years to go.