A/N : This story will include certain words and actions that might act as a trigger warning for some people. Subjects included in this story are physical, mental and emotional abuse, self-injurious behavior, drug use/abuse, talk of death/suicide. Do not read if you are in any way uncomfortable with these topics listed.

Reviews on thoughts and suggestions on how to add to the story are always appreciated. Thank you and enjoy reading!

"It was the heaviest rain I ever felt on my skin. It was the heaviest place that I have ever been in. As the walls crashed down, I felt it slip away 'cause I went to hell and back just to be where I am today."

- Tonight Alive ; Hell and Back

Hello!

My name is Chloe Lynn Foster. I was born on April 9, 1990 in Boston, Massachusetts. I am 5'6'' and currently 24 years of age. I have long platinum blonde hair and dark brown eyes. I am the second and last child to parents Amy and Jonathan Foster.

Mason - my older brother - and I are inseparable. We can't go a day without either seeing or talking to each other. He knows me better than I know myself and I know him better than he knows himself. We have a bond that I don't find any interest in sharing with another person.

For the most part, I am very sweet, caring and humble and happy. I say "for the most part" due to the fact that that is only one side of me. The good one. The one I wish I could stay as. There is another side of me. The bad one. The one I wish that I never became.

I don't like this side. This "bad" side of me is filled with my illnesses. One of them being my anger issues that I deal with. I really don't like this. Most of the time, this makes me such an awful person to be around. You could say something and I would take it another way and scream and yell about it. I have lost many relationships due to this. Lately I have been noticing that I have been isolating myself from most people because of my anger issues. I don't want to. It kills me to not want people in my life.

Another part of my "bad" side...there is no way to make it sound cute. It's not cute. I'm depressed. There are some days when I feel like I have no reason to get up and out of bed in the mornings. I will find times in my day where I am all alone to cry out. I don't know why this was happening to me. I never thought that I deserved it. I already thought that I went through enough. I have had plenty of thoughts about suicide as well.

I like to tell people the only reason I am here is because of wrestling. It's true, it is. I remember when I first found the sport. It was a snowy, cold January night in the year of 2003.

I was going through all the channels on the TV when suddenly I felt an incredibly sharp pain in my chest. This wasn't new to me as this has been happening about once or twice every other month since the day I turned four. I threw the remote down, dropped to my knees and placed my hand over the part of my chest that was currently in pain. With every second that passed, the pain increased.

I have never been one to admit any sort of pain, though. It's not that I want the people around me to think that I am some sort of superhuman. It's because I never thought that I mattered enough. I always felt uncomfortable, conceited and thought I sounded too full of myself when talking about myself no matter the subject.

I never told anyone about my recurring chest pains. Maybe because of that whole "I don't think I matter enough" stuff or maybe it was because I never know how to start conversation. I really didn't think that coming up to my parents and telling them how every month or so my chest is in too much pain and sometimes it feels like i'm dying. I don't know, that didn't just sound right to me.

Once I thought that the pain became unbearable, it had stopped.

Very slowly, I got up. I picked up the remote off the floor, regrouped myself on my bed, looked at the TV and dropped the remote. Wrestling was on the TV and for some reason, I was enthralled. I was entranced.

I don't know how to explain it but I was so interested. Maybe it was characters. Maybe it was the promos. Maybe it was the incredible moves. Whatever it was, it greatly peeked my interest.

I begun to train in the sport myself later that year. I was always the first one in the building, and was always the last one out. I wanted to do this. I wanted to be a wrestler.

By the age of 15, I began wresting in matches in an old, abandoned, small, run down and barely lit building a few minutes outside of Boston. Not that many people performed there and not that many people showed up every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday night at 7:30 to 8:30. I still had the time of my life, regardless.

My finishing move was applied facing my opponent. I would pull them towards me, grab their right arm, put it behind me, pulled their head down and gave them a quick knee to the chin. This would send them down on the mat onto their back. I fell with them, keeping my knee in place, now under their chin.

My ring name was Lacey Winter. She was very...disturbed. Lacey was scary, insane, crazy and unpredictable. Most of all, she was...angry, just like myself.

Right after a match one nice and cool summer Thursday night at the age of 19, it happened again. My chest flooded with pain. This was not like the other thousands of times this had happened. This was painful. This was too painful. So painful that I had no choice but to tell people about it. I was screaming for somebodies help and that was the last thing I remembered before I fell to the ground.

When I had woken up many hours later, I was lying down in a hospital bed. A very tall and older man with short and straight brown hair with few white hairs showing approached me. He was my doctor. Dr. Nathan Smith. There, he would inform me that I had an enlarged heart and that was the cause of all my recurring chest pains. I was pretty shocked about this, to be honest. Maybe this was because I never liked talking about myself and maybe it didn't, but I never bothered to get a chest x-ray. For some stupid reason, 4 year old Chloe honestly thought that those chest pains were normal and this stuck with her for the rest of her life. Dr. Smith managed to get a good picture of my heart when I was in a coma.

Due to my enlarged heart, I would be forced to quit wrestling. The only way that I could compete again was after surgery. This kind of surgery was very difficult for me. I sat on the waiting list. I would check up with Dr. Smith every month and he would tell me the same old things. He just told me how I can't be too active, how I need to avoid eating and consuming certain things, how I need lots of sleep, how I am not moving anywhere on the waiting list, and how because of that, my chances of dying increased daily.

I would go to the ring a week later and announce my leaving to all those who were in attendance that night. I remembered how much and how hysterically I cried. I remembered how hard it was for me to leave the ring that night. I remember thinking that that was the end.

Only 4 years into it. I wanted to do so much more.

I was convinced that this was the end.

I was wrong.