I was born on December 2, 1990. It was in the middle of the night, at 2:53 a.m. That night it was 12 degrees Fahrenheit, and it was snowing, very lightly though. I was born in Chicago, Illinois. I don't remember anything, not even the way my mom looked. My mom ended up dying when she was giving birth to me.
They rushed me into an incubator, since I was three weeks premature. I ended up being fine, but my mom was barely hanging on. They brought me to her, but she had been in a coma. They didn't want to disturb her or my father, so they took me back to a special room. When my mom had woken up a little, out of her coma, she had been demanding to see her daughter. The nurse came to get me, and brought me to my mom. She held me in her arms, and cradled me. She rocked me back and fourth, until I fell asleep. There were some nurses that said she had a beautiful voice, while she sang to me. But her singing made her worse. She could hardly breathe as it was, but when she started to sing, she stopped breathing. A nurse grabbed me, and ran me back to the infantry room. The other nurse in the room called for the doctor and more nurses to come. They rushed her to the emergency room, but they weren't fast enough. She died soon after she got into the E.R. My dad was a total wreck when he found out that my mom was dead. He couldnt sleep for the next couple of nights.
The day after my mom died, a certain question arose: Does my dad still want to keep me, even though my mother was dead? My dad didn't want a thing to do with me, but he decided to take me home with him anyway. When I arrived home, he just left me in my crib all the time. He didn't come in and talk to me, carry me, look after me, or anything. Luckily, one of my neighbors was nice enough to come over and take care of me every day. They just figured that the reason why he didn't take care of me was because he was depressed about my mom, but I found out the real reason once I was a little older.
When I was about three or four months old, my neighbor stopped coming over as much, and I was left with my dad. He still didn't take care of me too well, and as you can guess, I started getting real sick, with no food to eat, except for when my neighbor came over every couple of days. I also got rashes from not being able to get up on my own, and all of those things. Luckily, my dad finally started to take care of me for about a year, and then he left me alone again, and he never took care of me again. He obviously didn't want a child, but was 'blessed' with one anyways. He practically hated me. That's the only way I can think of to explain how he thought of me; he hated me, and I knew that very well. If he did want me along, then he would have taken care of me better. But he didn't, and I became weak and very sick.
The next time my neighbor came over, she rushed me to the hospital. I was very pale, especially for my tanned skin. They found I was just sick with some little bug, so I was returned to my dad. He still didn't take care of me after that, but he did pay a little more attention; he would look in my room every now and then, but that was it.
I learned how to take care of myself when I was about two and a half years old. I was going over to my neighbor's house for peanut butter, jelly, some fruit, and any other food that I needed. My dad would leave the house at around 6:00 in the morning, and he wouldn't come back home until around 12:00 at night. I was alone at my house, by myself all the time he was gone. I had no one to talk to, and I wished that I did, instead of stuffed animals that couldn't talk back. I was a loner my whole life. I only talked to stuffed animals or my neighbors who might come by while I was there. I longed to go to a daycare, where there were other kids there, like my neighbor's kids did. But my dad didn't want to 'waste' his money on taking me to daycare. He thought I was taking good care of myself, being home alone.
When I was a few years older, I found out that the reason why my dad was gone so long wasn't because he was at work. It was because he was going out and partying or going out to a bar, where he got so drunk that I never wanted to be in the same room as him because his breath stunk like alcohol. He never brushed his teeth, so it just got worse every time he went out. He did go to work every now and then, just because he needed the money to buy more beer. He didn't care about me at all. Actually, I found out that he hated me because my mother was dead. He blamed me for it, and actually I don't really blame him. I was the reason why my mother died. I knew that then, and I won't ever forget it. She would still be alive if it weren't for me.
