Growing up I was an abused child who wanted nothing more than to break free of the horrible torture that was imposed on me every day of my childhood. My mother hated me, and she was not shy in saying so. She would belittle me as if it gave her some kind of sick pleasure in destroying my fragile, developing ego. Naturally, I would grow up to be a person who didn't have any ambition or goals for the future. This was because I focused all of my energy on the thought of getting away. I just wanted to be free, somewhere, anywhere; it didn't matter to me.
I am not sure exactly when my mother decided that she hated me, but it was definitely apparent in all of her actions. She would blame me for anything that happened in her life that prevented her from getting what she wanted. My father left us when I was only two years old. My mother always spoke ill of him and told me that I was better off not knowing who he was. For some reason I think he would have stayed if it wasn't for the responsibility of taking care of me and I think that my mother knew that as well.
My childhood years were occupied mainly by making excuses for the numerous injuries that my mother forced upon me every day because some part of me still cared about my mother, and I never wanted her to be in trouble, or maybe perhaps more logically, I was too scared.
In my teenage years, most of my time was spent in school, and after I left there I would come home to a strung out mother that would be ranting and raving about dishes that needed to be done and telling me about how I was her biggest mistake, and that I was nothing but a lazy, hopeless loser, which I knew wasn't true, but when you are a child the thoughts just run through your head over and over like a bad dream that you cannot wake up from. During that time, I had to find a way to break out. She would never let me leave the house unless it was to go to school, so I would leave at seven every morning and not return until...