I don't own iCarly

Sometimes you need to stop. You need to breath. To think. Relax. Rewind and play your life back before your eyes. Even if what you see is unsettling or embarrassing or depressing. Life is meant to be lived and relived, not hidden from. This is why I'm here, I suppose. I felt like it was time for a refresher. A reminder of what my life is like. I've spent so long at the Shay's apartment that I'm forgetting where I grew up. I'm losing my roots. Most people would argue that with roots like mine, losing them is one of the best things that could happen to me. Maybe it'd give me back the innocence I lost by growing up in my neighborhood. But I don't know who I'd be without my roots. It's because of them that I am who I am today. So I visit every now and then, despite what my conscience is screaming in my head, so that I never lose who I really am.

I grew up on a crowded street where I knew everyone. I'll let you decide whether or not that's ultimately good or bad later.

I'm walking down the sidewalk, taking note of all the familiar cracks in the pavement. The old graffiti, some of it mine. The dead, weed-infested front lawns that are just barely contained from the rest of the world by rickety fences with peeling paint, held to together primarily by duct tape and other household items as opposed to actual nails. The children that live here (poor things) leave their toys out, strewn across the sidewalk and lying out in the street, rusting in the rain and slowly turning white under the sun. Most houses have two or three bedrooms. Most families have seven or eight people. Most nights, you end up in someone else's bed. We have so many block parties here that no one can really 'claim' a certain home to be theirs. Each home belongs to everyone in the community. We're strange like that.

I grew up with four mothers and six fathers. None of which were actually related to me. We grew so accustomed to running free within our block and sleeping over on other family's roofs, lawns, sheds, you name it. It got to the point where any adult figure was considered mom or dad.

When I was little, they'd let us run free on the streets, so we'd end up in pretty much every house at least once for lunch or a nap. I knew where each family kept their band-aids. I knew where they kept their plastic party cups (the only ones anyone would trust me not to shatter). I could pick the lock to every house on the block by second grade. No one cares when you accidentally call the lady across the street 'mom'. Chances are, she's better than your real one.

Growing up here, I was never sheltered from any of the outside world. I lost my innocence fast.

Adults cussed excessively, whether we were in the room or not. I was never refused alcohol when I asked. The first time anyone offered me some, I was nine. I drank it only because no one had told me I should be doing anything different. Every single one of us was subjected to huge amounts of second hand smoke, and trust me, most of it wasn't cigarettes. They smoked all sorts of things, just as long as it wasn't legal. Every family had some sort of weapon in the house. Everyone in that house knew vaguely how to use it. Porn was stored on the family bookshelves, and our fathers felt no shame in accidentally leaving it lying open around the house every now and then.

I grew up in a community. It may not have been ethical, but I wouldn't have wanted to live anywhere else.

I grew up in a family.

And then I grew out of them.

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