One thing I've noticed is that when you look at a person for the first time, talk to them and find a little about them, the first impression really doesn't give a whole lot of information. I've always been taught that the first impression tells you everything of what a person is about... but that's not true. After all, if you were to meet me on the street one day, I would come off as a perfectly normal happy teenage girl, who is a strong Christian and never has had anything really bad happen. Yet, that's the farthest from the truth.. When it comes to my past that is.

Whether or not my testimony will help anyone on here, I don't know. But I am posting it anyways, because it is my biography and testimony in one. So here is the story of my life, with every point that has ever played a role in helping me become who I am today.

As a young toddler, I had a great life. My parents adored me, I was probably slightly spoiled, and I was always happy and talkative. By the age of two I was speaking fluently and easily, and my mouth never shut, earning myself the nick-name Chatterbox from a family friend. Shortly after I turned three, my baby sister was born. I still remember the night she and my mother came home from the hospital. I was sitting upstairs in the living rom, looking down at her, and asking my dad if I could give her a name. I wanted to name her Karly, because at the time it was my favourite name. But they had already named her. As the year went on, I noticed my mom suddenly wasn't able to do the things she used to. But, I was still so excited over having a baby sister, I didn't realize how bad things were getting with my mom.

I don't remember when it was exactly, that my mom got so sick that she had to stay in bed and even possibly go to the hospital, but I do know it was sometime in either January or February of 1990. My dad wanted her to spend every last moment of her life with us, so we hired a VON nurse and had a hospital bed placed in our basement where my mom stayed. My mom had been diagnosed with cancer, and at this time, chemotherapy still wasn't a big thing to do, and it was to expensive. I still remember one day I was sitting on her bed and as she took a drink of her milk, the glass filled with blood. Of course, being only 3 years old, I still didn't understand. I also remember watching from the window one night as the ambulance rushed her away.

About a month later, on March 27, 1990, my mother died. I didn't understand it completely, and my sister, being only 10 months old, obviously knew nothing about it. I remember being at the funeral, looking down at my mother, my Aunt standing next to me. I looked up at my aunt with my big blue eyes, confusion still plastered across my face.

"Is mommy sleeping?" I had asked.

My Aunt nodded. "Yes, mommy is sleeping."

"Can I kiss her goodbye?"

With tears in her eyes, my aunt nodded. I leaned over and kissed my mother, and I remember the cold feeling of her skin, and feeling confused as to why she was so cold. When the funeral procession reached the graveyard, and they were about to lower my mother's casket into the grave, I ran forward and placed a rose on the casket.

That all occurred one month before my fourth birthday. In mid-may, we celebrated my 4th birthday and my sister's 1st birthday, since it fell between both of ours. The VON nurse who had taken care of my mother brought her son, and I remember he was all upset because he had to give me the rest of his gummy bears as a birthday present. Her son was a year and a half older than me, and she and my dad seemed to spend a lot of time together. By December I think it was, they were seeing each other, and Rajanne (which is the VON's name) moved in to our house with her son.

I remember approaching her shyly one day and asking, "Can I call you mommy?" I was really hoping that I would be getting a mom again soon, and I desperately wanted it to be her.

On January 26, 1991, Rajanne and my dad got married. Afterwards my dad adopted Rajanne's son, Nathaniel. It finally felt like a family again. By this point in my life, even though I was only five, I had begun to understand and grasp the aspect of death, and fear much more than normal kids my age. Maybe it was because by the age of five, I had read so much, that I was already starting on Junior novels, and was beginning to learn of the different things which occur throughout the world. Whatever the reason for this in depth knowledge I was gaining, I did know one thing for sure. I never wanted to see a loved one die again. Although at the age of three I hadn't been able to comprehend death, the few memories I had of my mother were mostly the ones from when she was dying, and that was enough to make me understand. But life seemed to get better, and in November of 1992, our parents took us on a trip to Walt Disney World. It was amazing, and we were so excited and happy, even when we got home.

And that's when it happened. Not even two weeks after we had returned, there was a really bad snowstorm. My mom (well step-mom, but I call her mom) insisted on going to work, and wouldn't listen no matter how much my dad begged her to stay. She didn't want her patient to lose out on getting help just because of some fear of a snowstorm. And so she left, my dad worried, but trying to keep a calm face for us. About an hour after she left, the phone rang. My dad answered it, and his facial expression were mixed with fear, anger, and hurt. Somehow, without him saying anything to us, I knew what had happened. Mom had gotten in a car accident. Dad called our Aunt Sherry and had her come to the house to watch us while he went to the hospital. Aunt Sherry explained what had happened and I lost it. I broke down crying and just wouldn't stop. Nathaniel didn't get upset, since he didn't seem to quite understand how serious of an accident it had been. Then again, he didn't have the fear of losing a second mother like I did.

My mom didn't die, but suffered severe brain damage. I was so worried and scared of being hurt again that I withdrew myself from everyone, living only in a world of books and schoolwork. The only friends I had left were the ones that lived on my street. Without knowing what I was doing, I began to slip into a world of depression. I found satisfaction and happiness only through books and food. I was overweight, and teased constantly, never able to make any new friends. By the end of grade 4, I had started to reach my limit. I snapped on everyone for everything, and I hated my family and brother and sister. I felt I was just a burden to the family, and that they truly didn't love me. And things just kept getting worse. My favourite grandparents, the ones I talked to about everything, and felt were the only ones who cared about me, had both become extremely ill, and most likely weren't going to make it.

In September of 1996, which was the beginning of Grade 5, my Mamere (grandmother) died. I couldn't stand it, I was completely upset by it, and my depression only got worse. At the beginning of Christmas holidays, we went up to Petawawa, which was where my Grandparents lived, to spend Christmas with Papere since we knew he most likely would not make it through another year. Christmas was pretty exciting too, but every time I saw Papere, I would get knots in my stomach for I knew he might not even last to the New Year. He made it through Christmas Day, and even through boxing day. In fact, he made it through the rest of the week, and it almost seemed as if he was getting better. Boy was I wrong. On January 2, 1997, only three months after Mamere had died, I opened my eyes and saw my Aunt Jennifer crying. Confused I sat up and looked over at my mom who was sitting in the chair by my head.

"Mom... what happened?" I asked, not sure if I wanted to hear the answer.

"Papere died 10 minutes ago...." she said quietly.

I just sat there, numb and in shock, unable to respond. It wasn't until almost right before we returned home that I actually realized what had happened. And this time I completely lost it. I fought with my brother and sister constantly, and even threatened to kill them a few times. I became very hard to get along with and began to see death as the only way out.

One night when my parents were still at work, I started telling my brother I was going to kill myself. At first he didn't believe me, but when I kept repeating it, and finally said, "I'm killing myself now," he thought it might be a good idea to check it out. He got upstairs and into the kitchen just as I reached for the knife. My plan had been to stab myself to death. Nathaniel grabbed hold of me and wrestled me into the living room. He managed to pin me down while I was kicking and screaming, and held me there for about an hour until mom got home. It was after this fiasco that my parents decided it was time for me to see a psychiatrist.





A/N: This is just the first part, so please be patient as I will get more up soon. But this is mostly the stuff that started the chain reaction of events which led me to where I am today, so I couldn't leave this stuff out. ^_^