This is my story, i guess

Well, I guess my story starts from the day that I was born. My mother, so I’ve been told, started drinking around the age of twelve. She was from an extremely abusive household and I figure she needed something to get her mind off of it. I don’t hold it against her. Anyway, she had about seven kids with a different man every time all over the United States and dropped us with the fathers. She committed suicide when I was about ten, not that it mattered. I never met the women and I don’t really care to.
My father also had a very, very, VERY abusive past (him always being a victim.) I love him very much, and I know that somewhere in the world he is alive and well, hopefully with a beautiful family that makes him glad that suicide didn’t work.
When I was three years old, I left the foster center. I was adopted and right form the get-go], I was not pleased. I hated the family that adopted me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was going to live with the man who had abused my father. Irony, huh? Just how many lives is this fucker going to ruin? Anyway, I kicked, screamed, clawed, bit, everything to stay at that house in Florida but to no avail. I was shipped off to California.
As a child, I often cried. I was a very lonely, skinny, silent kid. I don’t recall having a single friend until I reached the age of fourteen. Others used to push me down and call me ‘bambi’ and laugh when I refused to push them back. I’ve never really been an aggressive type of person, no matter my gene pool. I recall Jackson (about 70) constantly screaming at my newest ‘mother’. She was very timid when it came to protecting herself, but when it came to me, she would have thrown herself in front of a bullet. I remember sitting on her bed in the morning, waiting for her to get ready for work, and seeing bruises. As I child, I had decided that it was my fault. I had simply been hugging her too hard. My innocent mind couldn’t comprehend what was happening, and because of that, Jackson was bale to beat her for years without detection. If only I had said something… If I only I weren’t so fucking stupid.
Now, Trisha wasn’t very maternal but damn she tried. She was about 70 at the time and had never been able to have children. She had battled four types of cancer, lost her breasts, and was extremely ashamed. She never met anyone’s eyes or started conversations; she was a good, shy person who was dealt a bad hand in life, just not a mother.
When I was twelve, she passed away from cancer. I was with her, holding her hand the whole time. I whispered to her sweet memories; of the times when she and i played together, my first day of school, how much I loved her, and that if it hurt too much, she could let go. None of us would ever forget her; she would live within our hearts.
The very week after her death, Jackson applied for about thirty dating websites and went back to the very, very heavy drinking that he had always done. Apparently, I was the only who felt like grieving even though she and i weren’t close. Almost immediately, the depression that had been haunting me since childhood caught up and became far more severe. Jackson began to do small things like shoving me, or bending my finger all the way back when I reached for the radio dial. The physical things didn’t bother me much since all I had to do was wait for the sting to stop and it was all over. It was the emotional abuse that sliced me in half.
I dreaded getting in the car with him. It meant being near him in a confined space where he was free to yell and scream all he pleased without interference. He would tell me ‘You’re father hates you. You’re worthless. You’re father is worthless. You can’t do anything. You’re ugly. You are getting fat. You will always be a stupid little girl. Just fucking grow up! Stop being so quiet. It’s disgusting. Your friend doesn’t really like you, you know. She could do sooo much better than you. She probably just felt bad for you. You’re dragging her down. Your depression is annoying for me to deal with. Stop getting sick. Your pills are too expensive to pay for. You should just go kill yourself so you won’t be getting in your friends ways anymore.’ When he found out that I cut and I cut pretty deep he said, ‘che. Stupid *****’ and that’s it. Those were all word-for-word quotes.
It wasn’t long before I realized that I no longer wanted to be alive. In conditions like that, who would? Tomorrow, by order of the court, I will be sent to a residential treatment center. Not because of my depression, but because it’s the only legal way they can get me away from Jackson. They have come to my and said that they made a mistake placing me in his care to rectify the situation. What they don’t realize though is that a heart is like paper, once it’s crumpled, beat up, and stepped on, it can never go back to the way it was.