Introduction

My name was Frank Carlton Serafino Feranna Jr., known also as 'Piece of Shit' or 'Disappointment' courtesy of my step-father and mother. I shouldn't have to go into detail, but to make it short and bitter, I was abused by them both. Drugs and alcohol were always used in the house, some of which I indulged in myself by the time I was even ten years old. Great parenting, right? The past is too painful to go on about for now, so I guess I should get to why I've started writing in a journal -- something I always thought I was too manly for.

I'm from Seattle, lived there since I was born and it's no wonder I've ended up the way I have. Drugs were being sold on every street corner, even asking young kids - which once was me - if they wanted a gram of whatever the substance was for the day. I'm ashamed to say I ended up becoming a dealer myself. It was a source of income, since I couldn't hold a job for shit. I keep making long stories short, but it's got to be this way - I can't be inside my head for too long. Anyway, a night about four months ago, I was out on my usual street, tending to my usual customers when some crackhead slut came up to me, whispering in my ear about how she had no money, but could over something 'sweeter' instead for a gram of heroin. I was down for it, of course, but the moment the street light hit her face as I was reaching for my zipper, I was sickened by the face of my own God damn mother, licking her lips and staring at me like I was a full meal. She hadn't recognized me, but she was stunned and, I'm sure, confused after I shoved her away from me and stormed down the street with a pounding head and heart. Anger coursed through my veins and I just couldn't control my thoughts as I decided to head straight for the nearest convenience store. I knew I needed to flee the fucking city, but I didn't have that much money since I used whatever I made to buy my own stash of drugs. No part of me is proud when I write this. I attempted to rob the store, the poor clerk was terrified - his face as white as a sheet as I held my gun directly to his temple. I can't say if it's fortunate or unfortunate, but the cops showed up just before I could leave and arrested me, but by then, I had shot the man in the hip. Drugs were found on me, the gun, and loads of money that I had just robbed -- it wouldn't take a Harvard graduate to figure out I was going to be put in jail for a long, long time.

The attorney they assigned to me proposed that I was mentally unstable. I was determined as bipolar, manically depressed, and even had multiple personalities. The worst part? They bought it. I swore I wasn't crazy, but when it's declared that I legally was -- it made me believe I was after a while.

That's how I ended up here: Woodland Hills Mental Hospital. As of today, I've decided my name is now Nikki. I've been here for four months and three days. And it doesn't look like I will be leaving anytime soon.