My nine years growing up in the city of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, left me with countless experiences I often long to relive. I can't recall a dull moment in that gorgeous city I will forever call home, not with the frequent outings to Brewer Park with my grandfather to watch America's favorite past-time in the summer sun or the lazy afternoons spent wandering the eclectic downtown shops. A loving family to call my own, a three-story Colonial in the gated Brook Falls Estates, and plenty of adoring friends added up to a nearly perfect and covetable childhood. At nine years old, I was not well acquainted with unhappiness or disappointment, loneliness or frustration. I was much too young and engaged for those mature emotions. Little did I know that drastic changes were in my forecast, changes that molded me into the teenager I am today. About two weeks into my fourth grade year at Benjamin Franklin Elementary School, my father pulled up to the student pick-up curb in my mother's brand new, royal blue minivan, fresh off the sales lot. My dad, a warm-hearted, handsome man with a full head of salt and pepper colored hair and a button nose, worked as a clinical psychologist in a county mental health complex in downtown Milwaukee. He seemed to connect to his patients effortlessly and went above and beyond to help each person manage their illness. After I deftly climbed over the grey fabric seats, settled into the back and made small talk about our day at school or work, my father vaguely announced, “Now Cars, there's been a bit of a change. Once we get home, the family will talk. It's nothing to be concerned about though.” I found out that would be quite the opposite. My entire family, Ian, an introverted twenty year old drummer in a band; Leigh, an sociable freshman; Marley, an opinionated beauty; and Noal, my energetic four year old brother, sat around the living room tensely, the anxiety in the air nearly palpable. My mother, with her wat