Everybody has scars; many are visible and others aren’t. You could see the happiest person in the world, but deep down inside things could be going wrong. Well you can consider me on of those “happy” people. I believe everybody has a story behind who they truly are and you really shouldn’t judge someone until you learn their story.

My worst scar is pretty much my story and it is what makes me the person I am today. I’ve been trying for years to finally get over the day back in July which made me hate my mother. It was three days before my eighth birthday. I was over at my mothers’ house waiting for the day to be over so I could go home for the week. My mother drove a White Jeep Wrangler. She invited her friend over and she brought her son, which I was always made to watch while they did adult things. My mom told all of us that she was going to go wash her car.

A few hours passed and her friend started to really worry. We first decided to try getting into the garage but she had locked the doors and unplugged the garage door and shoved screw drivers on the side, which made it impossible to open the door. Her friend then decided to call my step-father and my grandma and dad then finally the cops. While she was doing all this I had gone to my room, locked the door and started crying. I remember every sound they made, when they arrived, sirens were going off and they surrounded the entire house. Hearing them say “this way, this way” replays in my head.

When all the commotion finally started to die down there was a knock on my door and I asked “Who is it?”
the police office replied and told me his name and asked if he could come in, I climbed off my bed and opened the door, he first asked me if I was okay, the let me know my step-father was there. I asked if I could see my mother and he had said “No she’s on her way to the hospital”. After that I ran outside to my step-father hugged him and started crying again. My father finally pulled up around ten minutes later, and a police officer had came over to all the adults and pulled them to the side. I asked my father what the police officer had said to them and he would not tell me. I finally found out about a year ago, it had taken my father eight years to finally tell me what the police officer had said to him, which was; “Dusty my mother, was trying to commit suicide. They had found out she was on drugs and there was a note and I was suppose to be in the passenger seat next to her, the police officer had guaranteed that there was no way I would have survived like she had”.

It has been nine years since that all has happened my eighteenth birthday it will be ten. I still get flashbacks of that day, not as frequently but they still come and when they do it still scares and hurts me. There are days when I’m near that house, I will drive by and look at it standing there. The same neighbors next door still live there. I want to walk through that house one more time, maybe I will finally get over what had happened. Who knows? Maybe all the nightmares I get will finally start going away. Maybe I wont be so scared of police officers, or firefighters, or paramedics. Maybe one day I will not be scared of my own mother, and I will finally trust her again.