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Living in Squalor!

  I head downstairs, the overwhelming scent of mold permeates throughout the room. Garbage and wet clothes are scattered everywhere and makeshift hammocks adorn the ceiling. A dirty rabbit hutch reeks of urine and feces, and the rotting smell of dead mice or some other mysterious animal buried beneath the filthy ruble burns my nose. As the intense aroma penetrates my eyes, they begin to water incessantly, I don’t think I can handle this. With a trash bag in one hand and plugging my nose with the other, I proceed down into the dingy basement. I  begin wading through the plethora of items in my path, deciding what to keep and what to throw out, I’m disgusted at what I see, my mother would have never let it get like this.  I stand, staring at a massive pile of clothes laying on the damp floor by the washing machine. It feels like just yesterday my mother died and suddenly life went from living in splendor to living in squalor. For me, living in “splendor” didn’t mean living ...
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Foster Care



  When I was taken from my home in the middle of the day, I was panic-stricken. I was scared of what was going to happen next. I had so many questions and the uncertainty of my future frightened me. I spent a short stent with a nice family in the city. From what I can remember it was a young couple, and they had two children; a teenage boy and a toddler. They made every attempt to make me feel welcome and at home.

 Coming from poverty and having such a distressing background, it was hard for me to acclimate. They effortlessly included me in everything like family gatherings, games and activities. On the outside I appeared to fit in well. It was easy for me to force a smile. I was good at playing pretend and acting as if nothing was wrong. I was used to hiding my pain, internalizing all of my anguish. I would do this for years to come. 

They would pry quite a bit about my home life, I think they were trying to find a way to connect with me or maybe they were just trying to satisfy their curiosity. Either way, it made me uncomfortable. My inability to adapt to my new lifestyle had nothing to do with how I was being treated by my foster family. The truth is, I was never going to be able to adjust to my new way of life. They may be very nice and I appreciate their willingness to help, it takes a strong person willingly take responsibility of someone they know nothing about, but, they are not my family. This is not my home and  honestly, they live vastly different than what I was used to. Culturally, spiritually and habitually. 

I stayed with them for about a month before being placed in a more permanent home. One day, I was picked up by another CPS agent and from that day on I would never see that family again. Sadly, I don’t even remember any of their names. At my next home, my new foster mom was an older black woman who lived just outside of the city. She was able to take myself and two of my sisters in. Eventually, she made it possible for our brother to come live us as well. She was incredibly kind. I feel bad because I am such a defiant child, fighting her constantly. There was no way I was going to conform to her standards of living. My actions were short lived as a week turned into a month and a month turned into two and so on. I knew I needed to accept the fact that this was my new way of life. With my siblings with me, I was able to transition a bit easier than I was at my first home. I was certain this was going to be a permanent situation. I was never going to have to see my dad again. I would spend a year with her and I grew to love her just as I would love someone I was biologically related to. 

Now as an adult, I am grateful I had the experience I did with my foster families. Opening my eyes to a different way of life has made it so I am able to see things from different perspectives. It makes it easier for me to be empathetic to other peoples situations. 10 years or so would go by before I was able to connect with my foster mom again. She has only recently learned about the horrific things I experienced before and after my time with her. 

The last day I would spend with her before my dad gained custody of us again, would be Christmas. Unfortunately, on this very day, I would have to pack up my belongings and prepare to move back in with my abuser. I would never be put in foster care again. No matter how much I said or how many times the police would show up to our house, nothing would change. When we moved back in with my dad, he was kind enough to give me a day or two to settle in before he would resume perpetually molesting and raping me. 

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