If walls could talk, boy, if walls could talk. If walls could talk I would ask the walls of my father's bedroom what they saw, how it all played out, and what he did and said before he did it. What's it? It is suicide. Yeah you heard me right, my Dad committed suicide, to put it in simpler terms, he killed himself. That's right, my dad put himself to death so to speak. Shot himself right in the head, and died for good.

I know what you're thinking, you're thinking “Oh god, another sob suicide story. What a bore.” Because I agree, listening to someone else go on and on about their problems is pretty boring most times. But I'm not here to go on about my problems, I'm here to tell MY story.

But I digress, every time I think of it, blood on the green carpet I knew for about what, three years? I didn't want to see his body before they burned it, I didn't want to remember him that way. The image in my head was enough to get me by on horrors for a long time. His ashes sit in my living room in a gold bag behind my grandma. I know, sad, isn't?

The time I drove past our old house about a year and half after her died, it was almost tragic. I was there for a school project, going to the peace pole in the museum garden nearby, and seeing someone else's car in the driveway, without a flowers we had planted together, was enough to almost make me cry.

Just to clear things up, my parents got a divorce when I was three, and my mom married my step-dad about a year or so before my dad died. I lost almost everything from his house, when the friends and family came to clear it out, he had already packed stuff up and shipped it out by then. I can't imagine him doing something like that, but he did. See, my dad was in a car crash a few months before his death, and to get to the point, he broke his hip and a couple ribs. He was at home in a hospital bed in our living room, with my grandma staying in his room to help out while he healed. But that's not why my dad died, he died because he had a horrible depression that he denied having. It wasn't his fault, he was sick, and I would sooner die than blame him.

I'm not sadly lamenting, I'm not asking for pity, I hate pity, I'm just here to tell my story. So here we are, my Dad's been dead for about two years and a little over month. The reunion was hard, especially since I'm too lazy to spread the ashes. Laziness is what scares me, like how I think all the time, if I hadn't been lazy, if I had just called...but I won't put that here. Like I said, I don't want pity.

I live near a river, and several times I've seen a blue heron standing on the cement blocks on the dam. Maybe I'm just a crazy sentimental, but after reading the book Blue Heron by Avi, they have definitely become my favorite bird. Here I go with animals, don't get me started or you will seriously regret it. I could watch a blue heron all day, I could watch a tiger all year, and you don't want to hear me go on and on about it, trust me.

So why am I writing this? To be truthful, I don't really know. I was at Borders today, looking around for the book my mom bought me for finishing my summer reading and book reports, and it hit me: I had to write this. I couldn't let it sit around any longer. So after choosing a book called Buddha in Your Backpack, and heading home with my mom, I sat down and began to write. And that's all, just looking for a book can cause me to have some crazy task for myself. I'm like that, I go through fazes, obsessions, a new “dream” college every couple of months. I get it from my mom who goes on a new game kick every year, first Yahtzee, then Uno, then Poker, and who knows what will come next?

I love my school, it's perfect in every way, but I won't go on about that, I really don't want to bore you. Junior High school is a trip in a lot of ways, and it will never be easy. Especially when you've seen what I've seen. Especially when you come home at eight PM, chatting contentedly with your step-dad about your TV show that was about to come on, and you see your dead cat lying in the road in front of your house. It's even worse when nearly a year later you realize that it wasn't some stranger that ran over her, it was you yourself and your step-dad that backed out over her on your way to get some falafel at the Pita Pit. And you grab your other cat who is thank god still alive and race up to your room to collapse on your bed in a sobbing heap.

I won't describe what I saw, because it was horrifying beyond belief, but I couldn't help but think that my life had suddenly become the world's worst horror movie. I was eleven, how does an eleven year old deal with this? I just wanted to die, I couldn't get the image out of my mind, it left me a wreck. They day after her death my mom took me to see Mama Mia, and I left the movie halfway through to go to the bathroom and silently cried my eyes out. To this day I can neither eat at the Pita Pit, nor can I even think of the movie Mama Mia without nearly breaking down to cry again.

So yeah, my life sounds like crap right about now. It's not that bad, well, except for my mom, who seems to be convinced that because she has series issues, I do too. Like it isn't bad enough that she forces me to go to therapy and DBT group, she also makes me take horrible medicine for a condition I don't have, and another medication to get rid of the side effects from the first meds. But unfortunately, until I'm seventeen, I have to do what she says. But as soon as I graduate high school, I'm off to college and those vile little pills get flushed down the toilet.

Life isn't fair, like a girl plays a horrible trick on me, including calling me gay and making me cry in front of a bunch of other girls, and not only does she get detention, I do too! The thought just burns me up inside. I hate being mad, it makes me tired, but what else am I supposed to do? Be friends with the crazies? I hate fighting with my mom, but I can't just let her treat me like crap. Even my mom will never have that right. No one will control me. I'm like White Fang, I can't stand being laughed at.

So I'm not perfect, and I won't pretend that. But I know I have a good heart, and shouldn't that be enough? This is the story of me, like it says in White Fang, we are all clay to be molded, and the lives we lead play a good deal in what our form turns out to be. I was molded by my horrors, my losses, my joys and my sadnesses, and that turned me to what I am today. I don't have a perfect life, and truthfully I don't want one. Complicated is better than perfect. Perfect is boring, and no way I am a boring person.

So you can't tell me off without getting it thrown right back at you. This is my story, and this is me. And I would NEVER change that.