Learning to Trust Myself

Names have been changed. 

Growing up, I believed my family was a close one. My siblings and I spent time together, and we  traveled every year to new places as a family. We lived in an apartment in East Harlem and I felt comfortable living with my parents, who mostly seemed to care for me. 

One Friday after our weekly trip to Costco, we were chatting at dinner about our days at school. I was in 6th grade, my sister LG was in 8th grade, and our brother JJ, who has autism, was in 9th grade. LG told us that one of her classmates told the school’s counselor about something that happened at his home, and the school called ACS (child protective services).

My mother laughed, “These crazy people don’t know any better than to tell private business to a stranger. I have a friend who went to a therapist and when she talked about her true emotions and feelings, she was called crazy and got locked up.”

My father took the conversation to a more aggressive place, as he often did.  “Y’all don’t really understand the importance of family and sticking together. What do you guys think would happen if you tell your counselor if you’re upset about something?”

He started to rant, as he had before, “You kids are ungrateful. When I came to this country, I didn’t have these opportunities.” My father moved from Cameroon when he was 25, and his parenting emphasized respect and hard work. He believed that kids deserved only food, water, and shelter and that anything else was a reward for good behavior. 

Hearing my dad’s fear of ACS made me wonder if he was such a good father. He called me ungrateful, manipulative, and often, “a piece of shit.” He drank a lot and was angrier when he drank. 

I started challenging him when I was 15. When I tried to explain my side, he would ignore me or get even more agitated. After an argument he’d say, “You’re just making it worse for yourself if you don’t get out my face.” I tried to be obedient so my parents would not give me hell, but that didn’t work. 

I didn’t think this was right, but talking to others about my dad felt like going behind his back and that felt wrong. So I went on assuming that my family was OK and that I just needed to be better. 

But my dad’s controlling ways wore on me. As I entered high school, I asserted my independence – staying away from home after school and during the weekends. I would walk alone till the sun set or hang out with friends. 

My dad punished me by not feeding me and by locking me out of the apartment. I often waited outside for hours for my parents to get home and let me in. 

Not a Bad Kid

In freshman year of high school a counselor talked to a group of us, mostly about substance abuse. But she also talked about “toxic relationships,” and gave examples of belittling people and giving them the silent treatment. That reminded me of my parents. 

The counselor told me I could come talk to her anytime, and I thought, “She might have some insight that can help me,” but my dad had drilled into us kids not to talk about family business to outsiders. He often said, “Therapy is for White people.” So it wasn’t until November of freshman year that I told the counselor anything.  

I told her that my parents thought I was a bad kid and they had taken away my phone. Having a phone was the only thing that made me feel somewhat normal. Taking away my phone felt like my parents trying to control me and take away my freedom. 

The counselor teared up a little as she listened. She told me, “It’s not your fault, you’re not a bad kid and you’ll get through this.” It was the first time an adult showed sympathy for me and my situation. 

When I was little my father would occasionally hit me, but in spring of my sophomore year we had a fight that was bad enough that my sister told her therapist. That’s when ACS opened the first case on my dad. 

I was seeing a different counselor at school by then. But I didn’t want to tell her what was going on. I had so much confusion and anger and other emotions built up inside of me that having one conversation with her about my life felt impossible.

The ACS case scared my dad, and he and my mom were nicer to us for a while. But slowly, my home became toxic again, and my parents went back to not feeding me or giving me money and locking me out. 

I felt alone, and I made bad choices. I had started drinking at a pretty young age. If nobody was home, I would drink burgundy, rum, or whatever else my parents had in their liquor cabinet. As time went on, I made friends who didn’t really have my best interests at heart, and we drank together. Sophomore year I usually came home very late, and things deteriorated over my junior year.

Upheaval

Then, one hot Saturday in the summer between sophomore and junior year, everything exploded. My brother and I both wanted to take a shower, and we argued about who would go first. We were working it out, but then my dad butted in, his breath smelling like alcohol. He said, “JJ doesn’t listen to anyone but me. Take your shower first, JJ.”

JJ said “Yes,” obediently. 

I was furious at my father and declared, “Well I am going to take my shower now, no matter what you think.” 

My father pushed me to the ground and held me down. He yelled, “You’re going to listen to me because you’re living under my roof!” 

Instead of being scared, like usual, I got mad and said, “Get the fuck off of me.” My mother ran out of her room into the hallway, saw us on the ground, and did nothing.

My sister was away that weekend. I told her about the fight the minute she came back Sunday night, and again, she told her therapist. A few weeks after the fight, I came home to find my parents arguing with two women who had IDs hanging around their necks. Immediately I knew what this was about. 

One of the ACS workers said to me, “We’re here because we received a call about your father getting physical with you around two weeks ago. Do you have anything to say about that?”

My father interrupted: “Don’t listen to this kid. He doesn’t know what he is talking about. If they [my sister and me] don’t like it here they can  pack up their shit and leave.”  

The other worker asked to speak to me alone, and we went into the hallway outside my apartment. 

I said, “They don’t feed me or provide for me at all.” I was uncomfortable going against my parents’ rule of never talking to outsiders. But the ACS workers’ presence felt necessary to prevent my parents from retaliating against me. Afterwards, I felt relieved that I was able to confide in someone about my struggles and more hopeful that I could make good out of a bad situation. 

Support Systems

From then on, things deteriorated at home, and in November of junior year, I ran away from home to a friend’s house. The first night I was there, my friend’s mom said, “I have no idea what you’ve been through, but me and my family are here for you. This place is now your home and we see you as family. You can stay here for as long as you want.” 

I couldn’t help but cry, sobbing out all the stress of the last few months.

She told me that a lot of who she considered family weren’t blood-related, that they were others like me who needed help. “The help is what created a forever relationship with them. We all need each other and it is important that you choose family and not let family choose you.” 

I slowly keep learning that there’s nothing wrong with me, that my parents didn’t take care of me the way they should have. 

Soon after that, I went into foster care. In family court, I said I did not want reunification with my parents. 

It was the beginning of a new openness: I began to tell my closest friends everything that had happened. Over the next six months, I was able to build up a support system and I stopped associating with people who brought me down, like the friends I drank with. I stopped using alcohol and weed and started taking advantage of opportunities like internships and jobs. I talked to my grandparents for the first time in 10 years. 

My current foster family makes me feel welcome. I cook with them every weekend and we do activities as a family. It has quickly started to feel like home.

One of the biggest ways I’ve been finding myself is therapy, which was provided to me through school. I am able to express myself freely and process my thoughts in a consistent manner. So much has happened so recently that I find myself thinking about my past and wondering what went wrong.

Writing My Next Chapter

Not too long ago, I told my therapist, “I’ve been feeling positive about my life, but I can’t understand why my parents wanted to spite me so much. When I didn’t have money, they would take away my clothes, phone and other belongings that I valued.”

“Do you have an idea why they were like this?”

“They had some sort of resentment against us kids, and when my mom and dad tried to explain themselves, it never made any sense.” 

Then I made a connection about my grandparents, my mom’s parents. I had just found out why I didn’t know them before: My mom had ended contact with them when I was little. 

“My mom cutting off her family must’ve had something to do with my dad’s view on family,” I said to my therapist.  

I slowly keep learning that there’s nothing wrong with me, that my parents didn’t take care of me the way they should have. 

Since I’ve been in foster care, I’ve gotten better at figuring out which people make me happy, and this led to healthier relationships. For example, when individuals show jealousy toward my accomplishments, that’s a red flag: They don’t have my best interests at heart. 

My grandparents and I are getting to know each other. I’ve been building relationships with other people in a different way since I moved away from my family, less than a year ago. 

Even when my parents and I ended our disagreements peacefully, I didn’t understand. I was always trying to make sense of it. Now I write my story, not theirs. I spend more time with people who look out for me and who I can tell the truth about what’s going on with me.

The people I trust now include my therapist, who is able to understand my feelings from a professional standpoint, and my foster mom, who appreciates my presence at home in a genuine way. Also my sister and a few friends. For now, though, the person I trust the most is me.