My dad died when I was nine. He left me unprepared to deal with the world.

My mom checked out when he died. She started drinking heavily and left me for days at a time for her boyfriends and later, her girlfriends.

At sixteen my mom faced neglect charges because she told the judge that if he sent me home, I'd be on a park bench that night.

We lived in a house with a propane furnace. She would let it run out in the middle of a Michigan winter, pick a fight with me and go to her boyfriend's house, leaving me at home to freeze.

When she needed a break, she would go to my Grandma's house for a couple of days and leave me without food to teach me a lesson.

I was 6 foot tall and 270 pounds at 16. She refused to let me get girl clothes because she said I was too big for them. Her wife would take men's tank tops and cut them up, put elastic in them for a bra stating I was too big for a regular bra.

My mom started beating me when I was thirteen. When i started working out at 15 to get in shape for throwing shot put, I started fighting back. She attacked me one day and I shoved her off me, she fell through the screen door -- hitting her head and ended up unconcious. She quit hitting me after that.

Isolation. I had very few friends that really knew me. I was okay with that because they were the only ones who really knew me. I am still friends with them 30 years later.

Protection. I was able to get people to leave me alone by making them believe I was crazy and would hurt them.

Control. The only thing I could control was whether I lived or died. And how much I bled.

Attention. When I cut, my mom babied me ad felt guilty that I was in that much pain.

Transferrence of pain. The pain from the razor blade was almost orgasmic. For just a little bit, I felt good.

Confusion. I didn't understand what I did to make my mom not love me.

Guilt. I thought I was a bad person. That she was punishing me for something I did.

Anger. As I got older she told me that my dad didn't allow us to bond. At this point, he'd been gone for 12 years. She made the choice not to fix it. She was the adult.

Guilt. Everyone acts like I'm the problem. I'm the only one with issues and I have to fix them because they're justified in how they treat me.

Anger. I have to walk on eggshells to please everyone else. They can say whatever they want, but I'm the one in the wrong because of how I react.

Peace. The thought of being dead brings a feeling of peace. I won't have to deal with the feelings of abandonment, feeling worthless, or being trapped in my own head.