Life was a struggle for me from day one. I was born prematurely and was fighting to survive. My mom was schizophrenic and was a drug abuser. I was told I was born in a toilet in some sort of halfway house. Can you imagine being told that? I do not feel that I was important to my parents, and to this day, the thought makes me feel completely insignificant.
I was taken immediately from her when I was born and became a ward of the state. Most of the time, I was just thankful I had a roof over my head, but now, looking back, I cannot believe how I lived and how I was treated. How could Child Protective Services place me from one bad situation to another?
No one in my family stepped up to try and give me the life I deserved. No one wanted me. I felt like no one in my family had true intentions to care for me, and no one fought for me. I remember the day she told me that my mom had overdosed. I was only seven years old. These were details no seven-year-old needed to hear.
I was thankful for this woman, but she did not deserve to take care of me or my sister. She hit us when we misbehavedβwith either her hand, a spoon, or anything that she could reach for. I can still remember the sound the spoon made as it hit my wrist. She was decent if there was nothing to stress about, which was rare. Gramma had a son that was always in trouble and was a chronic drug user. He lived on the premises, and life was chaotic with him around.
She was always scared of himβas was I! He ran a meth lab, and there were constantly strangers coming in and out of the house. I remember the odd smell from his trailer. We always had to walk on eggshells, as his temper and his paranoia were so unpredictable. I never knew how he would react and take it out on my sister and me. He did such horrible thingsβhe called us names, he hit Gramma over the head with a vacuum, he turned off our power, he took our phones, and he blamed us for everything.
