All I did was run. I run away from my problems, I talk, and I get in and out of trouble daily. The fight or flight response is the only thing that kept me alive. So far, that's the case. Am I dead? Well, the last memory I have is hearing the sound of my body hitting the cold pavement and the heat of my own blood seeping through my shirt. Now all I see is a translucent light brighter than moonlight and all I hear are my own thoughts screaming at each other hoping to find a place in my busy mind. I certainly hope I'm dead, because I spent my time in hell. I stand up and see my pale, lifeless corpse still on the ground beneath me. I hear sirens approaching quickly around the corner, so I turn to do what I've always done: run. Except I can't. I can't leave myself like this. I can't run away. I stand helpless as I watch them pick up my stiff body from the ground and watch my needles fall to the floor. This is the life I left behind for the world to see. That's it, I ran away from home for the first time when I was 9 years old. My father was addicted to blowjobs since I could remember, and my mother got drunk every day to ignore him. We lived in a small apartment in the back streets of Seattle. It was small enough that I could hear my mother's screams and take that as a sign that I should sneak out the bathroom window before Dad came to get me. As I grew up, I realized more and more that life is a game and I happened to end up with a bad deck of cards. I tried heroin for the first time when I was 15. I lived with my boyfriend at the time, a 26-year-old thug who told me to call him dad. I didn't start using regularly until I was 16, when I left home for good. Since then, I've been couch surfing- mo...... middle of paper ......effort to limit the pain but it doesn't do anything. When I open my eyes, things are different. I look at my body for a baby, not me. I look around and see the faces of the doctors and nurses. I look up and see a woman with sunken eyes and injection marks running down her skinny arms. Everything starts to escape me when I listen to the doctor's conversation and I hear: “I'm sorry ma'am, our fears have come true. Your daughter was born paralyzed from the waist down. My first thought was “oh, this poor girl will never be able to run”. Then it hits me. My heart beats a little faster as everything aligns in my mind. I try to wiggle my toes and nothing happens. I can't breathe now as I try to move my legs again and again and nothing happens. I close my eyes and squeeze them tightly to stop the tears from escaping, like my mother taught me. Then everything becomes dark again.