You know how you hear those stories about once abused kids growing up and
overcoming the difficult lie they have been dealt? They become majorly
successful— like FBI agents or lawyers or something cool and never have any
Well, this isn’t one of those stories. In fact, those stories are just that,
stories. They are things that I read about in the many books I bury myself in
when I’m alone. I used to know how my life was going to be, how I was going to
live out my lifeless days: unloved and fearful. Hopeless to the possibility that
life, my life, could be anything better than what it is now.
I knew that I would either give up, or give in, either one would eventually
be the end of me; I didn’t think that was so bad. I would no longer be
constantly reminded that I was sh*t, and would be sh*t, no matter how hard I
tried to make it different. I thought it was all easier just to slip away.
But that was before, before Deklan.
lame) in the hot Florida sun and loves reading of any kind (except instruction
manuals and cereal boxes). She has always written stories and made her family
listen to them since she was young, although this is her first book she has ever
published. She is a mom of an up-and-coming Jerry Seinfeld (in girl form) and
also enjoys being right and knowing everything, although she is hardly ever
right and really doesn’t know anything and is obsessed with inventing miniature
zoo animals you can carry around in your pocket (although not really).