I used to think of Hell as a far-away place.

For those of you out there who still hold that belief, this piece of my life is for you.

Don't ask me why I'm doing this, I'm honestly not sure.

My therapist says writing about our traumas can help our brains cope, make things easier

to swallow.

A system he affectionately refers to as remedy writing.

My reasoning could be something as selfish as that.

Perhaps I'm also hoping that those of you who hear this will heed its warning.

Do not make the same mistakes my 10 year old self did, or maybe it's merely the adage

misery loves company.

I grew up in a middle-class suburb in Ventura County, not too far from Los Angeles.

Our house was one of many cookie cutter homes separated by white pickets or chain link fences.

My mom, a soft-spoken, dream-driven woman, worked from home as an editor for a growing magazine.

My father spent every day in Simi Valley where he worked as a cargo loader for trucks.

After days of lifting, managing the forklift and meeting every physical demand, he'd come

home sore and irritable.

I remember eagerly staring at the clock, watching it tick, revoltingly slower every time

I checked.

Then came the magical chime that sounded our freedom.

Some a break had started, and school finally released us from our desk shackles.

I think I missed that most about childhood.

The wrong, unfettered excitement I had for things.

...