I
am a former foster youth from Houston; I spent years in state care. My
story is like many others, but with a little twist. I was born a “drug
baby” and was placed into child protective services (CPS) immediately
upon my arrival into this world. My parents were drug addicts, and my
father abused me and my mother.
Rewind, right? I know you’re wondering how I was abused and witnessed
my parents doing drugs if I was in foster care from birth. Well, when I
was 5 years old I was returned home. My mother was drug-free, or so
everyone thought. For years after, my father abused me and my mother
neglected me. Sometimes I went days without bathing. I would miss school
because of the bruises on my body. I was terrified of my father, and
tired of being in crack houses with my mother.
At the age of 11, I ran away from home while going to check the mail.
I went to the police department, but they assumed I was a troubled
teen, so they sent me back home, where my father beat me. My saving
grace didn’t come until the next day at school, when a caseworker pulled
me out of class to investigate my abuse and neglect.
On December 7, 2000, I went back into foster care. I might as well
have stayed at home. For the next few years I lived in a series of
violent foster homes. In some my foster parents abused me. They took my
clothing voucher for their biological kids, who were allowed to
physically assault and belittle the foster kids. The ultimate
manipulators, my last set of foster parents made me think that if I was
ever to reveal what was going on, no one would believe me. I would just
be labeled “troubled” and sent to a group home.
It’s kind of what happened.
When I complained, my journey from group home to group home began. I
was treated like a “throwaway kid” – a burden and prisoner. There was no
privacy. The staff were only there to collect a check. In one home,
they would restrain us aggressively whenever they got mad and wanted to
demonstrate their power. Once it was so bad that I went to the doctor
with pulled ligaments in my back.
I developed this chip on my shoulder. I was overwhelmed by constant
stereotyping, not seeing my family, psychological evaluations and heavy
medication. I was angry – I didn’t ask to be in foster care and I surely
didn’t choose this life I was given.
I ran away from that home; there were so many things wrong with it that I would not have survived if I had stayed.
At 15 I decided that if I wanted any chance at life, love and
success, I would have to leave foster care. I went to live with my mom
(my parents had divorced by then), but her welcome was anything but
warm. My mother complained that she didn’t want me in her house. When we
disagreed, she always wanted to put her hands on me to make a point.
Yet when I moved out to go stay with a cousin, my mother made such a
fuss that I went back home. And on my prom night my father came over,
started drinking and tried to fight me.
For the next few years I bounced between family members’ homes until I
left to attend college. I didn’t know that running away at 15 would
keep me from receiving financial assistance. CPS said they wouldn’t help
me because I was not in the system on my 18th birthday – never mind
that I spent years in the system.
I’ve spent many nights sleepless and crying, and was suicidal for a
few of them. But I pushed through. I applied for the Linda Lorelle
Scholarship Fund, which required me to write an essay about the
obstacles I had overcome in my life. I had too many to choose from. That
scholarship alone not only saved my life, but also changed my
perspective on life.
Now, in 2015, I’m a graduate of Prairie View A&M University,
where I earned my B.A. in Communications Studies. I’m currently pursuing
a Masters in Counseling, and I’m the Communication Specialist for a
non-profit organization. In my free time I advocate whole-heartedly for
youth in foster care. I speak at agencies, churches, galas and to state
workers, raising awareness about the system.
I’m not perfect. I’ve done many things that I’m not proud of, like
drugs, skipping school and fighting. But I never stopped striving to be
better. And I have learned that sometimes you have to heal yourself and
forgive the unforgivable to reach your happiness. I can’t count the
number of apologizes I didn’t receive. I can’t tell you how many times I
was told I would never amount to anything and would end up like my
parents. Fall, my brothers and sisters, but don’t you dare GIVE UP! You
will see that life gets greater later.
Published on May 15, 2015 as part of Children’s Rights’ “Fostering the Future”
campaign. The opinions expressed herein are those of the blog author
and do not necessarily represent the views of Children’s Rights or its
employees. Children’s Rights has not verified the author’s account.
The post
The Race of My Life: A Runaway Kid’s Story appeared first on
Children's Rights.
Many in our fine nation called AMERICA, don't realize that 1 in 5 go hungry every day. 
