Happiness.

It's a well known noun in the dictionary and our everyday lives, but does everyone experience it? It's a question I've been asking myself for years now.

'Are you unhappy?' many ask me to which I respond with, 'I'll be okay, I don't have a choice.' they always give me a sympathetic expression afterwards, as if I said something wrong.

Honesty is the best policy, right?

Why ask a question if you want someone who's hurting to lie to your face?

'What's your story?' they ask.

'Depression.' I answer.

'No, your story. Everyone has a story, what's yours?' they insist, as if I'm a set of dead, tightly pressed trees in-between thick cardboard with a doodle and some words on the front of it.

I like to see it more as history, than a story because that's what it is. History is what shapes us to be who we are today. Maybe there was a mistake made and your consequences forced you to gain some wisdom that shaped you into the person you are today. That's what history does.

History, much like mistakes and spills, can be repeated however. Sometimes it takes a few trips and a few spills to create that wisdom and lesson taught.

'What's the history?' you may ask after my rant about the correct verbiage.

Well, I shall tell you my friends.

I come from a small city called Avalon located in California. My parents, Ashley Perry and John Perry, my older brother, Noah, and I all lived under the same noisy, crazy, roof. Everyone had their own space in the house. My mom had her office, my dad had his "man-cave", Noah had his bedroom and the basement, while I had the attic and my bedroom.

I was a happy kid growing up. I had Noah, who's always been my best friend and worst enemy-depending on the day-and two loving parents who would do anything to ensure the happiness of their pride and joys.

However, this all changed when I started school.

I was home schooled up until I was old enough for fourth grade. I was then thrown from the comfort of learning in my own home to learning in a new environment filled with people I wasn't accustomed to.

I started getting bullied for being the "new girl" and the "weirdo" because I was dressed in a white t-shirt and overalls, my beat up black gym shoes with my hair was in pig tail braids while the other girls my age were wearing these beautiful, flow-y dresses with their hair curly and converse or flats on their tiny feet.

I went home after the first day and sobbed once I stepped my right foot in the place I was thrown out of educational wise. Noah, who started seventh grade at the closest junior high that same day, saw me first once I came home. Mom was in her office while dad was in his "man-cave".

That should've been a wake up call to me, or some sort of call-but it wasn't and it never was until it smacked me in the face two years later when my parents announced that they were not happy anymore. They agreed to get a divorce after a screaming match that lasted months.

During their matches, Noah would quickly grab my hand and drag me into his room where we would hide until we could no longer hear their harsh and angry words. Sometimes, I refused to go with Noah and wanted stay with my parents, but Noah would always win that fight because he used to forcefully grab me then and hoist me over his shoulder before going to what we then started calling our 'safe room'.

Things got worse at school. The bullying continued so I had the anger and hatred at school, and now home. At school, I was friendless and sad. At home, I was surrounded by more anger and more hatred and more sadness.

The depression quickly set in. I had disconnected myself from the world I lived in.

I was unhappy to say the least.

My brother and I were once my parents main concern, but all they cared about then was who could yell the loudest and most harshest words about the other. It felt as if they no longer cared for my brother and I.

In sixth grade, the fighting was still going on.

It was my birthday. I had turned twelve that day, but that didn't matter to my parents. They were focused at that time on staying away from each other. Noah was the one who knocked on my door and smiled sadly at me on my birthday.

He sang happy birthday to me, then gave me a small navy colored box. He kissed me on the forehead, ruffled my hair, then turned around to leave.

I remember opening the box lid to see a large photo box filled with pictures of Noah and I growing up. Pictures of me in my princess costume and him in his pirate, chasing me around the backyard, pictures of him giving me piggy back rides over the years. Pictures that were lasting memories, not only for me, but for the both of us.

That was the best gift I had ever received.

My brother and I fought sometimes, but never like my parents.

Then the day finally came when they sat us down in the kitchen at the dining table towards the end of sixth grade for me and the end of freshman year for Noah and told us they were getting a divorce.

They then proceeded to ask us who would we rather live with-my mom, or my dad. All I did was gape at my parents as if they were insane.

"I know who I want to live with," Noah started, glaring at something behind both of my parents.

"Who?" My mom questioned, to which he responded with: "Autumn. I want to go with my little sister."

My parents looked at me, while Noah grasped my hand under the table-our fingers intertwined into one huge ball like figure.

"I want to live with mom, but I want to visit dad on the weekends." My mom grinned sadly at me while my dad nodded thoughtfully.

"I love you dad, so that's why I also want to see you on holiday breaks. I want all of us together for every single holiday. I don't want anymore fighting, or yelling, or mean words. I want peace."

That was that, then. My parents made it so my dad was out of our house within two weeks and that Noah and I could see him on weekends and the two of them had shared holidays.

That didn't cure my depression though.

I was still disconnected from the world and I took the divorce the hardest.

I used to stay up in the attic for hours at a time. I kept my head down in school.

My grades, along with the rest of my sanity, started plummeting when I was in eighth grade.

I was done with living.

I wanted to die.

I never tried to hurt myself or worse, I just cried myself to sleep every single night.

The bullying carried on and still is carrying on today.

Going into the present now: I'm currently in tenth grade and the same as ever. Still getting bullied, still have my bulky and thick framed glasses, still have my blonde hair and hazel eyes. Still depressed.

I haven't been happy for five years now.

I didn't think I would ever be again.

That was, however, until I met him.