A broken childhood
“Dear World, my name is Elizabeth Cooger, and I never thought it would have come down to this, but nobody ever does. At this moment in time, there is a well sharpened butcher knife resting on the thin skin of my chin, a few dozen pills of many different sizes decorating the floor around me, and a rope. I don’t intend on making any useless demands or anything like that, I just....”
There was a young girl, short and slim with relaxed hair. She was a migrant of Cincinnati. Her life was perfect. She was a successful student with excellent grades, with a family that gives her everything. I was happy with my life until that day when everything changed. We had to move back to Jamaica. Not only did I leave my whole life in Cincinnati, I came back to nothing. We had no house, no car, no money, we were poor. This was too much for me to take in, I cried every night from that day on. Never would I have thought this would happen to me. Months have passed. We moved from shelter to shelter and from road sides to dark alleys.
I was basically pushed into the state of silence; people tend not to really listen to what I have to say, or they would just discard it as if it did not matter, being the poor and homeless person I am. I am a smart person; I knew this living was affecting me emotionally. I tried to stay strong. Then my parents started to argue, it pains me to see them like this. Later they started to physically abuse me. This tore me to pieces, I was heartbroken. Cuts, bruises and scars filled my body. I knew they couldn’t handle the situation we were in, being poor. So I left. I ran away from nothing to nothing. It was better than being beaten by the only persons I had in my life to be strong. So now I had absolutely nothing, no food, no home, no family, no education to look forward to.
Simple things that didn’t really matter to me before started becoming tiny needles injecting a toxic concoction into my mind. Seeing that I...