Most typical four-year-olds see their parents as security; someone to pick them up when they fall and hold their hands when they cross the street. Both of my parents used to provide me with security. Then, like a baby bird - literally, when I was still a baby - being pushed from its nest, my shield from the world was taken and my security was stripped from me. Changes began occurring at a blinding pace, almost as though I was in the middle of nowhere with no way to determine the direction of civilization. My father always worked tiring, lengthy shifts, but they quickly became longer and longer, and some nights, he just never came home at all. I would always ask my mother “Where did Daddy go?” only to be reassured that he would return soon. From there, the events increasingly got stranger. After returning from work, my dad would go straight to his room to, as I learned later on, engage in illegal drug activity, instead of bothering to spend time with my brother and me. Once sitting in there for a few hours, he would descend to the basement, only to entertain himself with violent videogames. “This is really all that I mean to my own dad?” was always the question I pondered after this sight. Months passed with no change. Then, without warning, I found myself falling asleep to the sound of yells as a result of arguments over the lack of my father’s attentiveness to his family. No matter how many times I sobbed or pleaded for the fighting to stop, it always returned the next night. Before long, I started noticing black eyes that my mother passed off as clumsy actions of her own. Shortly after, our little broken family retreated to the Haven House to escape my father’s rage, and hopefully learn to survive on our own. Low and behold, my mom could only take so many nights with a nine o’clock curfew, living off food stamps, and being jobless. At this point, my mother opted to take us to our grandmother’s apartment in South Carolina. I had a supportive family in my new environment, and news of my success was always appreciated. However, it was just different there. The neighborhood children were quite often violent and unnecessarily hurtful. This period in my life, I realized how truly unpredictable and cold the world can be. Despite the negative environment, this was my new home, and I was adjusting well. My mother and father were being civil, as far as visitation rights, and life seemed perfect. Then, once I had finally resettled my life, my father showed up out of the