I know the smell of heroin cooking… I’m resilient.

I’ve seen heroin cooked on a dirty spoon and smoked through a cloudy thin glass pipe… I’m resilient.

I’ve awaken to my sister being kidnapped.  She was gone for almost a month… I’m resilient.

I know what it feels like to wake up and go to bed hungry… I’m resilient.

I’ve lied to teachers and counselors about my homelife… I’m resilient.

I’ve had to pretend to sleep while strangers engaged in perverted sex acts alongside me, in the very same bed where I was to sleep.  In my bed... I’m resilient.

I’ve lived in crack houses.  I’m resilient.

I’ve seen bullets fly on the street and in my home.  I was there the day they were put into the walls of our house.  The day one pierced the scarf on my mothers head...  I’m resilient.

I’ve seen my most prized possessions one day and sold to buy filthy poison the next.  The little pink radio I got for my birthday.  Our bird...  I’m resilient.

I’ve traveled city to city on my own before kindergarten...  I’m resilient.

I’ve fought off perverted attackers with my angry, knowing eyes and prepubescent blood curdling screams.  I’m resilient.

I’ve been driven to abandoned structures and a cemetery (perhaps to be left for dead)...  I’m resilient.

I’ve been let down by most adults in my childrearing life...  I’m resilient.

I’ve seen block fights where weapons soared and blood splattered… I’m resilient.

I’ve seen grown men and women crawl like infants on the floor and inspect every fiber of the carpet in hopes to score a left behind fix… I’m resilient.

I’ve slept in a cars… I’m resilient.

I’ve stood in line at food banks… I’m resilient.

I’ve sat on the curb to participate in a last chance effort to scrounge up change to eat… I’m resilient.

I’ve seen my mother plea for my forgiveness with her eyes… I’m resilient.

I’ve seen a woman stabbed 17 plus times and lay in a bathtub of her own blood, all the while begging her three small children to go in the other room and convince us that “everything will be ok”.  I’ve seen this same woman overdose at least three times… I’m resilient.

I’ve had a hairline fracture in my wrist from latching on so tightly to my sister the day social services came to pry us away from each other… I’m resilient.

I’ve begged my mother to forgive herself when she was depressed and guilty for all she has put us through.  Oh how I loved her... 

I’ve seen my father hold her down and shoot heroin into her fighting body when he finally found us after being released.  She’d been clean and sober for nearly a year…  

I’ve seen food pantries with padlocks on them in foster homes.  Locked up like garbage cans on campsites where bears might linger…

I’ve seen entire suitcases filled with $100 bills.  I’ve seen rolled-up wad’s of these large bills in duffle bags...

I’ve seen my mother through the reflection of a broken rearview mirror of an old pick up truck, running frantically for me when she found out that a ‘friend’ had exchanged money with him to “buy me until sunrise”… I’d been sold for less than $40…

I’ve seen a toddler chained to her potty on a 24 hour basis in a foster home…

I’ve seen my brother thrown into a bathtub from across the room to be bathed.  This was our first placement into foster care…

I’ve had my head inspected for lice with a tiny comb as standard procedure more times than I can count...

This filthy foster kid was bathed in bleach before touching anything once...

I made up a secret handshake with my sister so that we’d know it was really us if we’d ever be separated...

I’ve skimmed through countless crowds wondering if my siblings might be amongst them...

I’ve felt envious of the bio children of foster parents...

I’ve actually run out of tears before...

I felt guilty for my light skin and crawly hair in my all black foster home and community...

I’ve spent sleepless nights in shelters and receiving homes, wondering what my siblings might be doing and if I’d ever see them again...

I’ve been afraid to share the truth with my social worker in fear that my foster parents might find out.  So I never told...

I’ve had to cook, clean, babysit… for the burden of my living in my foster parent’s home...

I’ve witnessed people getting jumped into gangs...

I’ve had mere hour visits with my own mother all the while being accompanied by a designated ‘supervisor’..

I’ve been accused of suffering from depression and forced to be put on meds.  My evaluation with the psych was less than five minutes before he prescribed prozac...

I’ve been in over 23 foster care placements… never removed for bad behavior...

I’ve lost all of my most precious belongings… stuffed animals, photos… I didn’t have a baby photo to bring to class when it was required for a project near graduation.  I was docked points...

I’ve had segregated meals where all the foster children ate separately after the rest of the family had finished...

I’ve had the cord pulled mid sentence on phone calls with my mom and siblings when my time had run out… before getting the chance to say “I love you”…

I’ve been grounded for using the phone without permission...

I’ve had my personal calls screened...

I’ve had social workers ask me how everything’s going in a foster home with the foster parents present...

I’ve read my sister’s (as well as my own) doctors reports and exam notes on our physical state after being abused (in any way your mind may or may not have the capacity to wonder).  I read these much later than the fact as I was only 2 years old at the time it was written.  I would not have been able to sound out the words used to describe the mutilation that our baby bodies endured...

I’ve witnessed a toddler forced to eat their own feces in foster care… I’m resilient...

But this ‘troubled foster youth’ has also been inside the Dome of the Rock, I’ve touched the naturally scented, green-lit rock with my own palm and I’ve kissed the bed where Jesus’ body was cleansed before burial.  I’ve curled up in the bed where Jesus is said to have read and slept.  I’ve walked the dirt of Petra, one of the 7 wonders of the world.  I make up part of the 1% of foster youth who graduate from a 4 year university and have a professional resume that would knock the socks off of many middle aged professionals.  I’ve led movements, organizations, etc. and, most importantly, inspired the uninspired.  Troubled?  Hardly… I’m blessed.

[This is merely a small collection of some of the edge & corner pieces which make up the massive colorful puzzle of my extraordinary life. 

I hold these experiences near and dear to my heart and cherish them as I would the most precious treasure, as these experiences have been those of other foster youth in the past, are happening now to some and will happen in the future to others.  It’s my duty & obligation to use this anger, frustration, hurt, pain, sorrow and empowerment to fuel the fire of my desire to change the lives of foster youth.  To bring about a major paradigm shift amongst the general public, policy makers and current & former foster youth themselves]. 

I'm resilient, yes.  But Hell-Bent describes me best.

by

Amber Summer Lane