How I got Here

*****NAMES CHANGED TO PROTECT PORTLAND'S STREET KIDS*****

I don't know if I can honestly call myself a "street kid". And if I can I don't know where the story of how I became a Portland street kid begins. A part of me believes that I've always been a street kid, whether I was sleeping outside or not. I was four or five when my parents divorced because my father used my mother as a punching bag. I don't remember much from those years besides one  incident. They settled on joint custody so my brother and I would take a suitcase with us each Friday when we switched houses. I never knew which one was home.

 At six my mother remarried. Her second husband liked little girls. All I had was myself. My brothers (one blood, two step) started doing drugs so they were not concerned with protecting me. As a result I was left to sleep outside in the park to protect myself. I was 12 when my mother was told to pick between me or her husband. Naturally she chose him. I was dumped off at my father's work and I didn't see my mother for almost a year. 

 When I was about 14 or 15 I went back to my mother who had by this time left husband #2. She struggled with keeping jobs and claimed to be so depressed she wouldn't move from the couch. This meant not only did I have to take care of myself but I had to take care of her too. I suspect she had an addiction to prescription medication as I don't know anyone else who carries a purse of 15 different medications. And there was never anything really wrong with her. 

She spent money frivolously and never on bills or rent. She constantly asked to borrow money or she would steal money from my grandmother or even myself. I still do not understand where all this money went. We went from place to place when we were evicted. In the end when I was 16 we were sleeping in the car. Between the cramped car full of stuff and the sound of my mother snoring I never got any sleep.

Eventually my father's sister and brother-in-law took us in. This wasn't perfect either as my uncle had problems with alcohol. Many nights were spent up listening to him yelling and ranting at family photos that I was eventually torn out of. This ended up with us back on the streets again.

 

I was lucky to have amazing teachers that agreed to work with me so I could graduate high school despite the shuffling around, trips to a mental hospital (where I would intentionally get sent to have a bed), and exhaustion. They always told me if I wanted out they'd call CPS but I refused the offer. I knew better than that. I graduated June 4, 2009 in California. The next month I moved to Portland, OR to start over.

It was hard once I got to Portland. I was scared; I didn't know how I was going to make it. I worked my butt off. I went to school and lived off student loans when I couldn't work. I got involved in school programs that offered tuition waivers. This time last year I was working three jobs and going to school. I was making it. Doing a damn good job of making it. 

Then I got sick. Doctors found an ovarian cyst causing me excruciating pain. Several times a month I would end up in ER screaming in pain. For a year I went to 5-6 doctor's appointments a week plus acupuncture plus therapy. I spiraled into depression and found it impossible to balance three jobs, school and sickness. Finally, after a year of pain my doctor scheduled a surgery to remove the cyst. 

The surgery came with its own complications and in 1 week post operation I was in the ER 3 times. I had to drop my math class as my  college teacher was unlike my high school ones and would not work with the time I missed (in the end it was a total of 3 weeks). This cost me $800 I couldn't pay so I had to drop out completely as you can't sign up for classes when you owe money. I lost my jobs as two were connected through school and one didn't have enough work for me. I ran out of everything, out of options. 

In the end my estranged father I hadn't seen in six years invited me to come stay with him in Alabama. I agreed. I wanted to be able to have someone else take care of me for awhile. The job market was much better there. It made perfect sense. Until a month later when he started drinking again. He came in screaming one night while I was sitting on my bed. He told me to pack my bags and go back to Portland.

So I did. More or less.

I stayed with an uncle (my mother's brother) in Atlanta for a few weeks.  He bought me a plane ticket back to Portland. I left knowing that I would be sleeping outside or in a shelter. I feel like people might judge me for this decision when I could have easily stayed in Atlanta or Alabama. All I can say is that it was one of the hardest decisions I've ever made. I know others in my situation may have made a different choice if they were looking at the options. My options were as follows:

A. Manipulate situation so I could stay with my father and keep my job in Alabama with him as my supervisor. This would mean conditioning myself to take verbal abuse from him, which would condition me to taking it from any one. I could not do this. Not only because that would mean being abused but that conditioning myself to expect to be abused verbally would make it easier to accept an abusive guy in the future as a significant other. This would be repeating the same mistake my mother made and would harm any future children I may have.

B. Stay with my uncle. That would mean 3 people and 4 cats in one 2 bedroom apartment. I would have no job (until I found one). I would have no health insurance so I would have to make do without my medications or treating  my conditions. I cannot be without my medications. Cymbalta keeps me stable mentally and helps with the physical pain. Without my birth control my ovary makes me scream. On top of that it was cramped and my uncle and I are both hermits.

C. Go back to Portland where I would have food stamps and health insurance and a place to get help even if that means staying in shelters or struggling.

Maybe it was a choice but at the time that I made the decision it didn't feel much like one.

I don't feel like I can speak for street kids. I have now been doing this for 4 days. What the hell do I know after four days? I have yet to spend a night outside sleeping on concrete. I have much more than most of the street kids have: a bank account that has roughly $300 in it, a laptop and other electronics, and an uncle who wires me money if I'm desperate. If I am a street kid I am a pretty damn rich one in comparison. 

But blogging about the things I see keeps me sane. It makes me feel like I'm doing something. It makes this a journalism project I can distance myself from rather than a nightmare I'm actually living. It makes me an observer. I like to think this will somehow be progressive rather than damming. All I can do is try to tell the truth as I see it and if I'm really lucky bring to light all these hidden children that society would like to overlook. So this is my life as I see it.  

--mm