Eighteen years and two days ago, in a land far, far away (Guatemala), in a city, on a sunny day (I assume), I was born. Eighteen years and two days later, I'm sitting at my kitchen table reflecting on my short life. I find it amazing that somehow I've managed to make it this far, because when I was born, I didn't even have a real family, or a place to call home. For eight months I was floating around with some families, until my real one came along and adopted me. As a young kid, I was pretty horrible. I screamed, I slammed doors, I kicked walls, I punched and hit and scratched, I cried. I broke my glasses on multiple occasions out of anger. I was filled with anger and sadness. I couldn't put my feelings into words, and if I could, I would never say them out loud. When I wasn't angry, I was silent. There were times when I was fine to be around, but honestly, I don't remember too many of those times. For the majority of my life I was just confused and depres...