My Beginning

I​ ​am​ ​five​ ​years​ ​old.​ ​Dad​ ​lets​ ​out​ ​a​ ​sarcastic​ ​laugh;​ ​Mom’s​ ​speech​ ​speeds​ ​up.​ ​I​ ​can​ ​feel​ ​the hatred​ ​fill​ ​the​ ​room.​ ​After​ ​Mom​ ​and​ ​Dad​ ​separate,​ ​they​ ​say​ ​“If​ ​you​ ​pair​ ​up​ ​with​ ​the​ ​wrong person,​ ​they​ ​will​ ​bring​ ​out​ ​the​ ​worst​ ​in​ ​you.”

I​ ​am​ ​eight​ ​years​ ​old.​ ​Mom​ ​pulls​ ​up​ ​to​ ​a​ ​flea​ ​market.​ ​Making​ ​our​ ​way​ ​towards​ ​the​ ​back​ ​of the​ ​building​ ​I​ ​look​ ​left​ ​and​ ​see​ ​a​ ​cage​ ​with​ ​two​ ​white​ ​poodle​ ​puppies.​ ​I​ ​give​ ​Mom​ ​a​ ​look​ ​that begs​ ​her​ ​to​ ​take​ ​them​ ​home.​ ​Defeated,​ ​she​ ​asks​ ​“how​ ​much?”​ ​We​ ​take​ ​Chispita​ ​in​ ​an​ ​open cardboard​ ​box.​ ​She​ ​has​ ​tangled​ ​curly​ ​hair​ ​and​ ​is​ ​light​ ​as​ ​a​ ​feather.

It​ ​is​ ​five​ ​months​ ​later.​ ​Chispita​ ​twists​ ​out​ ​of​ ​my​ ​hands​ ​and​ ​runs​ ​across​ ​the​ ​street.​ ​I​ ​scream her​ ​name.​ ​A​ ​red​ ​truck​ ​accelerates,​ ​killing​ ​her.​ ​My​ ​ears​ ​become​ ​numb;​ ​I​ ​can’t​ ​even​ ​hear​ ​my​ ​own cries.

It​ ​is​ ​a​ ​week​ ​before​ ​Chispita’s​ ​death.​ ​My​ ​childhood​ ​friend​ ​Lupita​ ​disappears.​ ​Playing​ ​near the​ ​river,​ ​Lupita​ ​slips​ ​and​ ​is​ ​swept​ ​by​ ​the​ ​current.​ ​Her​ ​hand​ ​reaching​ ​for​ ​help​ ​is​ ​all​ ​her​ ​family sees.​ ​Lupita’s​ ​body​ ​is​ ​found​ ​three​ ​days​ ​later.​ ​I​ ​walk​ ​into​ ​her​ ​home​ ​not​ ​knowing​ ​anything. Candles​ ​and​ ​pictures​ ​are​ ​scattered​ ​throughout​ ​the​ ​house.​ ​As​ ​I​ ​reach​ ​the​ ​main​ ​table,​ ​I​ ​see​ ​the​ ​face peering​ ​out​ ​of​ ​the​ ​frames.​ ​It​ ​is​ ​Lupita.​ ​She​ ​is​ ​gone.

I​ ​am​ ​fifteen​ ​years​ ​old.​ ​My​ ​parents​ ​are​ ​lost​ ​in​ ​thought.​ ​I​ ​am​ ​lost​ ​in​ ​fears.​ ​I​ ​don’t​ ​want​ ​them to​ ​think​ ​I​ ​don’t​ ​love​ ​them,​ ​that​ ​they’ve​ ​failed,​ ​but​ ​the​ ​pain​ ​consumes​ ​me.​ ​I​ ​feel​ ​my​ ​depression​ ​is exaggerated.​ ​It​ ​isn't​ ​worth​ ​all​ ​this​ ​trouble.​ ​My​ ​first​ ​night​ ​alone​ ​I​ ​cry​ ​myself​ ​to​ ​sleep.​ ​A​ ​girl​ ​who doesn’t​ ​stop​ ​to​ ​see​ ​my​ ​puffy​ ​red​ ​eyes,​ ​hands​ ​me​ ​breakfast.​ ​There​ ​is​ ​always​ ​a​ ​new​ ​girl​ ​at​ ​the breakfast​ ​table.​ ​At​ ​night,​ ​all​ ​the​ ​girls​ ​sit​ ​in​ ​their​ ​doorways​ ​and​ ​tell​ ​private​ ​stories.​ ​It​ ​is​ ​those nights​ ​when​ ​I​ ​learn​ ​everything​ ​they​ ​have​ ​been​ ​through.​ ​Seeing​ ​their​ ​strength​ ​makes​ ​me​ ​feel something​ ​I​ ​haven’t​ ​experienced​ ​in​ ​a​ ​long​ ​time;​ ​it​ ​gives​ ​me​ ​hope.​ ​I​ ​build​ ​close​ ​friendships​ ​in​ ​that hallway.​ ​Whenever​ ​I​ ​feel​ ​I​ ​can’t​ ​fight​ ​any​ ​longer,​ ​I​ ​think​ ​about​ ​them​ ​and​ ​their​ ​struggle.

I​ ​am​ ​fifteen;​ ​it’s​ ​three​ ​months​ ​since​ ​my​ ​hospitalization.​ ​The​ ​weekend​ ​is​ ​finally​ ​here.​ ​As​ ​I scroll​ ​down​ ​social​ ​media,​ ​a​ ​familiar​ ​face​ ​draws​ ​me​ ​to​ ​a​ ​fundraising​ ​page​ ​for​ ​a​ ​funeral​ ​of​ ​a​ ​friend. I​ ​keep​ ​reading​ ​and​ ​recognize​ ​a​ ​name:​ ​Mark.​ ​Left​ ​in​ ​disbelief​ ​I​ ​call​ ​Amy.​ ​Hearing​ ​her​ ​cry​ ​I remember​ ​crying​ ​the​ ​day​ ​I​ ​lost​ ​my​ ​best​ ​friend.​ ​Now​ ​we​ ​both​ ​cry.​ ​Mark​ ​has​ ​taken​ ​a​ ​permanent solution​ ​to​ ​a​ ​temporary​ ​problem.

A​ ​year​ ​later​ ​I​ ​visit​ ​his​ ​grave.​ ​He​ ​wants​ ​me​ ​to​ ​let​ ​go​ ​of​ ​the​ ​pain;​ ​in​ ​his​ ​memory​ ​I​ ​do.​ ​Life will​ ​always​ ​throw​ ​obstacles​ ​your​ ​way,​ ​Mark​ ​tells​ ​me,​ ​and​ ​that​ ​is​ ​just​ ​part​ ​of​ ​life.​ ​But​ ​the​ ​most important​ ​part​ ​of​ ​that​ ​obstacle​ ​is​ ​what​ ​you​ ​learn​ ​from​ ​it.

I​ ​am​ ​sixteen​ ​years​ ​old;​ ​it​ ​is​ ​a​ ​month​ ​since​ ​Mark’s​ ​death.​ ​Seeing​ ​me​ ​go​ ​down​ ​a​ ​dark​ ​hole again,​ ​my​ ​family​ ​surprises​ ​me​ ​with​ ​a​ ​small​ ​Westie.​ ​He​ ​is​ ​wrapped​ ​in​ ​a​ ​camouflage​ ​blanket;​ ​his fur​ ​is​ ​black​ ​with​ ​light​ ​brown​ ​highlights.

I​ ​am​ ​seventeen;​ ​I’m​ ​in​ ​my​ ​room​ ​doing​ ​my​ ​homework​ ​in​ ​bed.​ ​Max​ ​joins​ ​me​ ​looking​ ​for​ ​a comfortable​ ​place​ ​and​ ​chooses​ ​my​ ​textbook.​ ​I​ ​give​ ​him​ ​a​ ​smirk​ ​and​ ​put​ ​my​ ​hand​ ​on​ ​his​ ​fur. Feeling​ ​his​ ​heartbeat​ ​sends​ ​me​ ​into​ ​a​ ​trance.​ ​I​ ​have​ ​overcome​ ​so​ ​much.​ ​Of​ ​course,​ ​I’m​ ​afraid​ ​of my​ ​next​ ​obstacle,​ ​but​ ​there​ ​will​ ​always​ ​be​ ​hope​ ​in​ ​my​ ​heart.​ ​As​ ​I​ ​move​ ​my​ ​hand​ ​to​ ​his​ ​face,​ ​I realize​ ​I​ ​want​ ​to​ ​share​ ​my​ ​story​ ​that​ ​people​ ​share​ ​in​ ​struggle.​ ​All​ ​that​ ​pain​ ​I​ ​have​ ​ever​ ​felt disappears​ ​when​ ​I​ ​touch​ ​Max's​ ​fur,​ ​when​ ​I​ ​see​ ​my​ ​future.