text: It was Christmas morning, 1992. A gentle snow was falling outside idyllically. Inside, my siblings and I were nearly buried in an avalanche of toys, boxes, and wrapping paper. Like every other eight year old, I hardly slept the night before. I was so excited for Santa to come. I woke up early, around 6:00 am, and commenced to rousing the rest of the family. Gift opening was stretched far past breakfast time. Dopamine filled my body like a soaked sponge as I tore through the paper. As the gift opening slowed, all of those factors caught up to the whole family. Mom got up to make a nice Christmas breakfast for everyone and I was just lost in a sea of Christmas remains. Then my dad opened his mouth and set off that life-changing chain of events. "Let's get all of this cleaned up before breakfast," he said. A totally reasonable request, looking back now. But eight year old me just flipped out. I don't recall the stream of protests exactly, but my already short-tempered father was growing more impatient with each one. I remember how it ended, though. "You are treating me like a piece of crap!" I cried. "That's because you *are* a piece of crap!" Dad yelled. My world stopped. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; My heart sank. It was hard to breathe. To dad it was just the culmination of being tired, hungry, and frustrated. He didn't mean it. To me it was confirmation. Even at eight years old I knew the feeling of being a disappointment to my parents. I was bullied at school then came home to be picked on some more. In short, young me had suspected for a while that I was a worthless waste of life. Still, hearing those words from dad, confirming my confused young anxieties, was like a punch to the gut. My mind raced, trying to think of ways to get out of this situation and undo everything that had happened in the last few minutes. I felt the pressure on my eyes as tears started forming. My best coping mechanism for bullying was to pretend that it didn't bother me. Just laugh it off; they don't matter in the long run anyway. But what the hell even *is* "the long run" when you are 8? By then most kids have spent half their lives in school. The ones getting bullied have spent half their lives living in fear. This was just my life. I couldn't laugh this off. I couldn't. I tried. My lips quivered and the tears started falling down my face. In a situation like this, it's fight or flight. *Run away!* my mind thought. And run I did. With hardly a thought I found myself in the basement of our house, hiding in a closet. I wanted to get away and go start a new life, but there were only two ways out: through the back door, into the snow wearing just my Christmas pajamas, or back through the house to get dressed for the weather and pack some necessities. I was stuck in that closet. In the dark. Out of sight, running away from my problems just like a real piece of crap. Once I ran out of tears and it was clear that no one was going to come console me, nor was my dad going to apologize and see if I was okay, I determined to just leave. *No one cares about you* I thought. Emerging from the closet and climbing the stairs, I had some doubts. Maybe the cat would miss me. Or maybe my sister would be lonely. Of course they wouldn't. I made life a living hell for everyone around me and deserved to leave and endure whatever fate lie ahead. I looked back, sniffed once more, and opened the back door. The fluffy snow stung my bare feet as it squished between my toes and consumed me up to my ankles. It was a surprising texture, though not interesting enough to overpower the pain. I nearly turned back. But something did hurt worse than being cold: facing my father and living with the fact that he hated me. I trudged on. The sun was starting to peek through the clouds, warming my body enough to stop the shivering. Eventually even my feet were warm, though my toes (and my fingers too) were bright red. I passed so many houses as I wandered aimlessly down the street. Most were decorated with their trees and lights. I could see happy families through some of the windows, enjoying their new toys and undying love for one another. Why couldn't that be me? Why did I have to be out here in the cold without warm clothes, boots, gloves, or anything? Oh yeah, it was my fault. I made dad angry. I ran away. I ran away without getting anything but the pajamas on my body. I turned south, finally deciding where to go live on my own. Clouds began forming again and a breeze picked up. After a couple of miles my feet and hands were freezing again. My toes had gone from bright red to pale pink and my fingers were starting to change color too. Every step stung. The fluffy, squishy snow I started with now felt like meat cleavers with every step. I shivered uncontrollably as I approached my "secret" place. When I reached that big pine tree at the end of a path through the forest, I collapsed. I couldn't cry anymore. I couldn't walk anymore. I wouldn't be a burden anymore. Sirens blared in the distance. "Someone else is having a pretty bad Christmas too," I mumbled. Snow fluttered between the trees. The whining sound of police cars made my head spin. I was warm again. In fact, I was hot. The tips of my fingers and toes were purple now. Was I turning into a monster? My heart raced again. I felt so hot that I tore off my shirt and rolled in the snow. Everything was spinning. Everything was changing colors. My skin was burning. Memories flooded my mind. My pets. My friends. My family. My school. Sirens getting closer. "Your are a piece of crap" were dad's last words to his little boy. Now he wouldn't have to be bothered by me any more.