I was up in the attic today, going through boxes of stuff looking for something to spark that old feeling of whatever it was I had going for me. I came across these old pictures of my family before we moved to this house, and could barely even remember the times they were taken.

There was one of me and my mom in the kitchen, smiling, cooking together.

Another of me and my brother in his new car, smiling.

One of my mom, dad, and brother smiling in front of our new house…

The pictures made me realize that everything seemed better before we moved here…everything seemed like it could fall into place easily and there was no banging around at one or two in the morning of my father coming in drunk, there was no screams from my mother at six in the morning, there was no chorus of ongoing painful thoughts in my mind…there was no frowning in my family.

My brother tells me that before we moved here, because it was when I was six and I can't remember that far back, that our family was always happy, and there was rarely ever any yelling… Really the only positive thing that has happened since I moved into this house is that me and my brother have grown closer…through the death of my uncle and my and my dad's surgeries…

I really wish I could go back to those times, sit down at the dinner table when we still use to all eat in the same room, and feel the love. The few times I have felt loved was when I was with my whole family, with my aunts and uncles, but then…I just didn't fit in.

I keep so many secrets from my family, not my immediate family, and…it hurts. I can tell they can see me lying, can see me trying to come up with something we were doing when really we were doing something else…I know that they just want to tell me to tell them the truth…but how? How can I tell them the truth when what I tell them is what I really want? In my stories we all love each other and there is no glass on the floor in the morning when I get ready for school from my mother throwing it at my father…

In my stories that I tell my grandparents there is no cussing, or lying, or hate…just love, and peace, and happiness….

In the stories I tell my uncles all there is, is smiles, or positive things, or laughs…but really there's only screams, and crying, and…

The other night I was in my room doing my math homework when I heard a crash. Usually I don't react to that, I'm pretty use to it, but yelling followed and I started thinking 'what if tonight is the night one of them breaks and I only have one parent?' I got up from my chair and went to the door. I tried to listen, but I had to open my door… Three hours I listened to them yelling at each other…three hours.

Three hours I sat at my door, ear pressed against the tiny opening there, and prayed that I wouldn't have to go downstairs to intervene…prayed that my brother would come home and make them stop, prayed that the neighbors would come over and ask what was happening, prayed that the knives weren't downstairs and that I had cleared my room of the pills….

I'm trying…and so far I'm hanging in…but…still have questions that I want answered, such as, why? Why me? Why MY family? What did I do to make this happen? What did my parents do to bring this to us? Is it my fault? Am I bad person? Should I just run away and wish them luck?

But I'm tied to this place until I turn eighteen…tied to a place that I have to call home that feels more like Hell…tied to a place where I have to stay in my bed for minutes in the morning praying to someone who won't listen…who won't help…who may not even care about me…

Everything will get better, though, right?

Everyone will be nicer, and happier, and friendlier when my parents leave, and I don't have to worry about what's going to happen to my mom, or my dad while I'm gone, right?

–Losing Faith