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I lived with my grandparents for the first thirteen years of my life. My parents weren't a part of my life during this time. My grandmother was clinically depressed and would fly into fits of rage during which she would throw plates and scream, but was otherwise apathetic to everything. My grandfather was abused by his mother, and he vented his pent frustrations on me. This led me to depression as well. By the time I was nine, Grandpa had convinced me I was worthless. So, I tried to kill myself. It wasn't serious, but I was put on a heavy regimen of antidepressants. These were followed shortly afterwards by medication for every mental disorder from OCD and ADD to Tourette's and allergies and ******* painkillers for migraines. This is how I learned that Gran was a hypochondriac. It didn't take long for me to develop a dependency to the cocktail of inhibitors and stimulants and NSAIDs flowing through my body. I took the pills for almost four years before I moved in with my mother and her boyfriend. I would come to realize that they paid rent by selling drugs and that John was actually more abusive than my grandpa. However, if I hadn't started living with my mom, I'd probably still be on those pills. They ****** me up pretty bad. The four months of mania from the withdrawal were something that I couldn't handle. I nearly killed myself. I made it though, more or less intact. I have a pretty big aversion to medication now. I only swallow anything that I absolutely have to. I'm afraid to drink or take painkillers, and I've never had much of a short term memory. Maybe that's unrelated. My story doesn't have a lesson. It didn't make me a better person. ****, I was thirteen when I got off. I just wanted to share it.