From an early age, I knew running was the one thing I could focus on. The one thing I could use to get away from troubles at home. The only action I could take where my family wouldn’t join in and in the action, I could take the time to quiet my buzzing mind. I suffered every time I ran, but this was the only time I loved to suffer.
It was the only time I could be myself and the only time no one was talking to me. The only time I could plan my future without any outside input. I worked hard enough in hopes I could get a scholarship to college to get out of town. Out of town and on my own. If I stayed home, my family would do their best to indoctrinate me with their conservative values and narrow minds.
The more I ran, the more my family questioned my motives. The more they questioned my motives, the more I suffered both mentally and physically. My splits had never been as spectacular, but my mental health was at its lowest. On the day I was supposed to sign my life and future to NC State, my mother purposely broke my leg. Effectively eliminating my future. She claimed it was an accident, but her smirk did not. She had idea the lengths I could go for revenge.
Standing Room Only 