My heart stops beating. Clenched, suffocating.

"Son unos parasitos," the venomous words slither from my "father's" face.

They linger, squeezing my loveless heart.

I wake up broken, enlightened. Crying from the clearest memory I've stored from my childhood.

I think they call it repression, why I can't find much else stored in my mind. Childhood trauma,

unpredictable environment, violence, hatred now anxiety, depression, familial estrangement.

My life began because of two people.

"Don't call me mom." "Don't call me dad." ----- "I am your...uncle." "I am your aunt."

I called them by their first names, only speaking when absolutely necessary.

I wouldn't dare ask for a signature on a permission slip for a field trip. Especially if there was a fee.

I learned to forge a signature when grade checks became a requirement.

I got a job when I was in high school. "Who would hire you? Eres una inútil." --- You are useless.

Then they started asking for rent money.

Why pay to live in an apartment I avoided...with people who didn't want me.

I left. For a while living in an apartment I rented with my older sister, Cynthia.

Soon after high school, running away from home. I landed in Berlin, New Hampshire.

I had nothing. But I’d always had nothing. For the next year I worked, never able to save enough money to

buy a car or furniture. I had an air mattress, a couch someone gave me, a small glass table with two chairs,

and the refrigerator and stove the apartment came with. I had peace.

Until my siblings and their mother were on the verge of eviction. The "father" nowhere to be found. I

moved back to my hometown to help take care of their bills, unable to cover both.

I met my now husband, James, working in a KFC.

Having come from an even more severe family situation, he had no problem moving to California when we

were both 19.

Now back in my gentrified hometown, we took up two to three jobs at a time.

Retail, food service, a portrait studio, warehouse work.

James fell asleep on the bus to his second job. I sprinted to mine, having thought I had the day off. We

worked and saved and we got married.

I finally felt that I had some stability. I enrolled at Mira Costa College as an undecided major, then an arts

major, then a business administration major, and finally a mathematics and sciences major.

I love learning. I love contributing to others’ learning. I love doing things with purpose. I got straight A's

all through my associates degree. My guidance counselor recommended that I apply to the UC's.

I always believed school was for rich people, people whose parents gave them a college fund or a place to

live while they study. It still doesn't feel far from the truth.

I worked full time managing an ice cream shop and worked a few hours at the local mall. Eventually, I

swapped my position at the mall for a supplemental instruction leader position in a math course at Mira

Costa. These were probably the best times of my life.

I transferred into UCSD in 2019, having gotten into every school I’d applied to.

Soon after, I received a call about my little sister, Jazmin, who lived with her mom and the rest of our

siblings. She had experienced her first manic episode. They claimed she was drunk.

She drove into oncoming traffic. Someone was injured. We were unable to see her for weeks.

I received calls at all times of the day. A few times during my 7pm lecture.

They asked me about her childhood: can you identify any traumatic events?

Is she a heavy drinker? Is she on any medication? Does she have any allergies?

I translated the questions and asked her mother, I answered what I could.

I cried every day. During my 45 minute drive to and from school.

During my 7 minute drive to and from work.

One time, in the break room with my coworker.

My first quarter had passed me by and the second one began.

Cynthia and I met with her case worker. I remember wishing we had actual parents.

We went to the scattered courthouse. We checked the online list.

We waited. We panicked. They rescheduled. We waited again. We cried.

"She's standing on the sink. She says she's going to kill herself."

A nurse informed me. I cried. What did they want me to do?

"Is there anything we can say to her to get her down?"

"I don't know. I've never seen her like that."

I don't even know what quarter I'm on anymore by this point but I can't drop out.

My heart races, the tears start running any time I have a minute to think.

A year later, we finally reached our next bit of calm and stability. My sister is home, safe, properly

diagnosed and stable.

My brother and I are the lucky ones. We only have mild mental health issues.

We haven't faced anything like what Cynthia and Jazmin have gone through.

I don’t understand how the world works. I see danger at every turn but it never takes me. I see venomous

snakes poisoning hearts. I see selfishness, superiority complexes, destruction, danger, pain, mental illness,

cacti covered in spines.

All the things that should have killed me, the venomous snakes:

Violence, trauma, the vulnerability of being alone, depression, financial instability.

They’ve only lingered in my memories. Maybe they aren’t venomous, maybe they can be conquered?

I am dead inside, on the good days. I don’t see the anger inside of people, the unpredictability of their

actions that anxiety tells me about.

I keep working, striving, encouraging, motivating, terrified of what’s next.

I am a student still learning how to live.

I am a contradiction.

I am cursed and I am optimistic. I feel loveless and full of love.

I am dead inside and I am resilient.