On the road again. It was no surprise that I was moving once again. Ever since my adoptive mother kicked me out at 12 years old, it has become normal for me to move at least three times a year. Used to it by now.
The drive to my new foster home was not that long. During the car ride my case worker gave me a short speech. She informed me that this would be the last home I will be placed in. I was getting too old and people don't like taking older kids into their home. I needed to try and make this work because my next placement will be in a group home.
This speech was similar to the one she gave me once before. It was around the time I found out I wouldn't be going to the same foster home with any of my siblings. Only difference is she never mentioned a group home. I had no idea what a group home was. The way she emphasized the words made me sure I didn't want to find out.
Sure enough this home didn't work out either. I was there only a month. The woman didn't even have the common courtesy to tell me I couldn't stay there anymore. My case worker picked me up from school and told me. I was so angry. I just knew this home would work out. I did everything that was asked of me and I hardly talked—I couldn't believe this was happening. Not this again, is all that was going through my head.
My worker was as angry as I was. I'm not sure if it was for having to find me another placement or because she felt my pain. She kept saying she tried her best and sorry, "I have no other choice but to send you to a group home." All there was left to do was cry.
Being in a group home helped me change my thinking about people. I don't remember being showed that much care and concern. The people that worked there were kind, respectful, understanding and patient. A lot of the kids came from similar backgrounds as me. Even though I was surrounded by a lot of people, I felt so alone. I missed my siblings and things there were okay, but strange.
I wasn't used to being treated nicely. This caused me to act out—I figured eventually they would get tired of me and kick me out. I decided to beat them to the punch. I didn't listen, got in trouble a lot, and ran away.
Eventually my behavior became too out of control. I got sent to a more restrictive place. My bad behavior continued so I was sent to different group homes, then residentials. The last residential I was placed at was in the middle of nowhere. All the doors had alarms on them. That made it hard for me to sneak and run away. I have never been to prison but that's how I would describe this place.
I stayed there for almost two years. This place helped me get my act together. They helped me tackle my emotional and behavioral problems. They did this with therapy, rules, consequences, and encouragement. I really hated being there but if it wasn't for this place, I would still be in my rebellious and destructive phase.
I was successfully discharged from this place when I was 18. I still belonged to the Department of Children and Family Services but I felt free. I was excited to have a fresh start on life. There was to be no more locked doors for me. If there was a lesson to be taught, I learned it.
I've lost count of how many placements I was in after number 10. There was no reason to keep track. It seemed that god was playing a cruel joke on me and I was furious with him. I used to think I was a bad person. Nothing I did or said could be right. I felt I wasn't worthy of love and no one would ever want me. Over the years my "stinking thinking" has changed. I had a brand new walk and attitude. No one could stop me, I was determined. All there was left to do was pack my stuff get gone, and face the world head on.
Breezi C. is a homeless youth activist who helped coordinate the recent Windy City Times' LGBTQ Homeless Youth Summit. This is part of a series of columns Breezi will be be contributing to Windy City Times.
