I’m so done…

Hi. I prefer not to disclose any personal info online, so I will only say that I am a teenage girl and leave it at that. I’ve been looking through this site for a while now and I’ve finally worked up the courage to create an account and post my own thoughts and feelings on here. Now that the intro’s done, I’ll get to my story.

My life has never been good. I remember when I was younger, I thought that it was all sunshine and rainbows. My mother and I were in and out of shelters, low on finances, and ostracized by our severely dysfunctional extended family who refused to let us live with them due to their dislike for my mom, but I was always able to ignore it due my my strong 5 year old imagination and my mother’s support. Reality didn’t set in about our dismal situation until I witnessed the first fight between my mom and dad that i could remember. I remember laying in my bed at 7 years old, wide awake and terrified, praying for the banging and shouting on the other side of my wall to stop. It didn’t. It kept up all through the night and into the morning. I remember being jolted out of an uneasy sleep by my mom screaming my tame, begging me to help her, threatening that she would beat me if I didn’t get to her in time. I scrambled into their room, terrified, to see my mom pinned to the wall by my father, a gun in his hand. I stood there petrified while my mom screamed at me to do something and I cowered at her harshness. Finally, slinging insults at me, she managed to wrestle the gun from his hand and escape past me into the living room. My father followed her and from there it got worse. I was caught between the crossfires as my mom told me to help her and stay in the living room and my dad told me to go back in the room. I was overwhelmed by the opposing commands and finally broke down into tears on the floor right then, traumatized and confused by the situation. I loved both of my parents dearly and I wanted to please them both and get them to stop fighting. I was very smart and mature for my age, but this was beyond anything my brain could comprehend. I remember the police showing up and breaking down the door (I found out later that a concerned neighbor had called), and, in a catatonic-like state, being picked up by one of the officers and carried out to a police car where I was questioned and then left to wait. My mom came soon later and apologized about her language and harshness, but it was too late. I was already scarred by this unseen side of my mom and the situation that had just occurred.

And I would continue to be scarred.

My dad went to jail for about a year or so and I continued to be dragged in and out of shelters with my mom. I was constantly switching schools and I never had a stable place to live. Once my dad got out, things were ok for a while, then they progressively got worse as I got older. My dad became obsessed with work and his outside life more than his own family. Any money we made was immediately used up by him for his own needs and wants. We alternated between living in hotels, the streets, and our car for a couple up years till I was eleven. Again, minimal support from the rest of our family that claimed to love me and my little sister so much. (My little sister was born when I turned nine. We were living with my grandparents then.) I never knew what it was like to have nice things, or to be able to buy something extra without agonizing over whether we could afford it or not. All of our clothes came from either Goodwill or the church charity center. Our food came from my mom’s EBT card and the money on her card would often run out within the week, leaving us hungry for the rest of the month. It got so bad that we couldn’t even afford diapers so my sister was constantly in pain from being in her plastic bag diapers too long, resulting in horrible, bleeding diaper rashes. Whatever apartment or trailer we were able to rent was in terrible condition, and infested with roaches or other pests. I learned to be comfortable in filth and poverty, even when we had no lights or water due to our inability to pay the bills for the utilities. I never expected to stay in one place for long. Through it all, though, my mom comforted me as best she could, although she was prone to some fits of rage herself.

The fights between my parents got worse and more frequent. My dad has a horrible temper and is a huge narcissist, so fights were constantly imminent. I would tense up at even the slightest disagreements and I was constantly on edge around my dad, especially if my mom was around. The fights would get so horrible and happen so often that I would give up trying to intervene. All I would get was insults and bruises. In my mind, I knew that my parents didn’t mean to hurt me like they would, that they were just blinded by rage, but it still left its mark on me and ingrained deep feelings of self hatred and self doubt in me. I lost count of the amount of times I would have to call an ambulance and take care of my little sister while my mother was treated. I became like a second mom to her.

During all of this, DSS became involved for the first time. The investigation started after the fight when I was 7 and lasted two years. It was horrible. I was even more on edge than I already was, praying that I wouldn’t be taken away, for as bad as my situation was, I knew that foster care would be much worse. They bombarded me with uncomfortable questions and words that I didn’t understand. I was so relieved when they finally backed off after we retreated to Virginia for two months.

Living with my father’s family in Virgina was hell. We had no freedom, as we were CONSTANTLY reminded that it wasn’t our house and we should be grateful that we were being allowed to live there. I was bullied at school and at home by my cousins, who told me that they hated me and favored my sister over me. I would often curl up in my room and cry because I felt so alone, and there was only so much my mom could do for me. I thought I could handle it, since I’ve been severely bullied since kindergarten when a girl cut a chunk of my hair off, but somehow it hurt worse coming from my own family. I was so glad when we left.

From there, my life was up and down. Every time that I would be given the slightest indication of life getting better for us, something would happen to dash my hopes. I learned to live with disappointment, anxiety, and my chaotic life. Things got worse when my mom became sick, though.

My mom has a rare genetic muscle disorder called Hypokalemic Periodic Paralysis (HKPP for short. You can read more about it here : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hypokalemic_periodic_paralysis) that has been diagnosed by specialists, on top of other conditions such as chronic migraines, severe scoliosis, pancreatitis, and multiple other afflictions. From the moment that she fell trying to get in the car and hit her head on the concrete, I was plunged into a constant state of worry, terror, and stress. There were times that I literally would have to DRAG her to the bathroom because she could not move, or call an ambulance because she was seizing. I was calling 911 for her every other day. I became a grownup at 12, taking care of my mom and sister, becoming my mother’s confidant for her troubles and worries, and protecting her from my dad as best as I could, who continued to beat on her even though she’s disabled because that’s just the kind of asshole he is. I became riddled with fear that my mother would die, and she almost did when she flatlined during a hospital visit. After that we became closer than ever before, strengthening our relationship, even though it was slightly dysfunctional with me being a second parent, basically.

Then she got pregnant again. How, I still have no idea. Dad still refuses to believe that my baby sister is his. But even pregnancy on top of disability didn’t stop him from his rages, as I remember walking in on him choking my mom and stomping on her stomach. Due to the stress, my baby sister was born premature. She was in an incubator at MUSC for the first few months of her life. Despite her being close to death at birth, she was growing healthy and strong and we visited her whenever we could. Then the hospital staff decided that they wanted to give my baby sister an unecessesary surgery. A ‘just in case’ G-Tube surgery. I remember overhearing the hospital staff and my mother arguing, with my mother insisting on a second opinion because she didn’t agree with her child receiving such a risky procedure with so many negative side effects.

In response, the hospital staff called DSS.

They claimed it was due to ‘medical neglect’ even though it wasn’t because a) my mom never explicitly said no and b) parents have the right to refuse any treatment for their children. In short, my sister received the surgery against my mom’s wishes and was then placed into foster care. They came after my sister and I next.

I was again plunged into a constant state of worry and fear of being taken away. I was constantly on edge, wondering if today would be my last day with my family. They stayed with us for two years, just like before, and the investigation was stressful, even more than before since I now knew what was happening and how serious the stakes were. I was dragged to meetings and court dates, my mom coaching me on what to say so it would paint us in the best possible light and me nearly doubled over with anxiety over trying to remember what I was supposed to say. It didn’t help that my caseworker was cold, uncaring, intimidating, and generally a *****. We were fighting tooth and nail trying to get my sister back and trying to keep us out of DSS’s clutches. It was one of the worst times in my life, or so I thought. I didn’t know it was going to get much worse.

For a while, DSS backed off. It seemed as though though they would end the investigation. Meanwhile, shortly after my 14th birthday, my mother, sister, and I were able to check into a domestic violence shelter where we would get help with money, housing, disability, and FINALLY being able to gain independence from my father. Things were slowly looking up. I cautiously allowed myself to hope that maybe, maybe, life would stop screwing us over and we could live normally.

Then I was taken away.

It was the most traumatic thing that has ever happened to me. Being dragged away from my mom, my only comfort in the world, my support, my security blanket, my rock, my EVERYTHING, kicking and screaming, begging them not to take me away. The worst part of it all was the fact that they had 0 evidence against us. As far as they knew I was safe, I was fed, I was clothed, and I was sheltered. That’s all that they require. But they still tore the bond between my mom and my sister, by splitting us apart. My depression and anxiety skyrocketed, the experience making it worse than ever before.

DSS is hell. I learned that the first day in a group home. No one cares, no one listens and you have no support. For the longest time, I wasn’t allowed contact with ANYONE from my family and that tore me apart. I was terrified for myself, my mom, my sister, and I still am, although I’m allowed to talk to them now. I was left for months at a time in the dark, in the hands of strangers who were basically controlling my life. Through trial and error, I had to learn how to work the system.

I’m still in foster care, and I’m no better. Hell, if anything I’m WORSE. I’ve been bullied so severely at all of the group home that I’ve ever been to. All of my foster homes were abusive, emotionally and sexually. No one gives a fuck, though. Everyone in DSS is in it for the money, and that’s it. They’re supposed to ‘care about the welfare of the children, but they don’t. They take kids like me who don’t need to be taken and put them in horrible situations. Then they ignore the kids who really do need help. None of your needs are met, none of your opinions are heard, and you’re basically herded like cattle from place to place. There’s automatically a stigma attached to you, so no one wants to take you in, so you’re dropped in institutions and forgotten. You’re a burden to everyone and everything, and no one lets you forget it. Your voice is never heard.  You become nothing but a statistic.

I’m now worse off than I’ve ever been. I’ve been in two mental facilities for months at a time and I’m hopped up on meds that do nothing to help my depression, anxiety, ocd, ptsd, and multiple other disorders I’ve been diagnosed with since entering care. Nothing helps, no one helps, and no one cares at all. I’m just so done. Everything I’ve been through has convinced me that life isn’t worth living and nothing will ever get better for me. This face is so deeply ingrained in my being that is physically hurts to be alive. Every day is a struggle, and nobody knows because I put up such a carefully articulated mask that everyone truly believes that I’m A-OK. My cutting addiction is carefully concealed, as it’s the only thing that I have left that can make me feel something other than despair or numbness. And soon, I’m not sure if even that will be enough anymore as I’ve been doing it for so long.

I’m sure my sisters will be better off without me and my bad influence. They’ll be ok; they’re too young to really remember me anyway. As for my mother, she’s already so close to death. I can’t live with or without her. Her hospital stays are getting longer and more frequent. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.

It’s only a matter of time for me, too…