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I am going to try and go in order. It's so hard to write about this stuff without getting emotional. Anyway, this is around the time we move to the state I'm currently in. My first gun experience. I was in 6th grade maybe. As I was getting off the bus in the afternoon, a "gangster" decided to jump in front of me. Out of the 60 other children that were on the bus, he decided to jump in front of me. He shot his gun and I took off. I have a best friend named Jenny and she was there also with her little sister. I ran home as fast as I could. Once I got home, I did realize that I was having my very first panic attack. My aunt lived with us (My parents, my little sister and I), so while they worked she would watch us. I got home and couldn't catch my breath. My aunt calmed me down after a while and she went to see what had happened. I thought that if she went out there, she would die. She came back but as a 9-year-old, having that happen and then thinking you were going to see someone you loved very much for the last time is a horrible thing to go through. This all happened during the time we were living in an apartment complex. My relationships with people are really bad. My aunt has been my protector all my life. But with that protection, she would always tell me to hide my feelings or just "shut up" when I had something to say. They classified it as me talking back, not me getting my opinion about things out. I was a happy child but being told to keep what you have to say on the inside of you was hard for me to learn. Like come on, I have to resort to writing about my life because I am not able to tell it. I cry a lot. Mainly when I get so upset to a point where I can't talk. I think that it's little me not having a voice. Now don't get me wrong, "talking back" to my parents is something that happens. But talking about my life is something I have an interest in, but I literally can't do; at least not to my parents, so hopefully, they can read this and see all that I have been struggling through. In the next one I am going to talk about my Blanco (yes white in Spanish, he was my puppy), and how my mother started my damaging suicidal thinking process.
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