My Parents Picked Drugs Over Us Every Time!
Part One
I have never done anything like this before, so I'm just going to start from the beginning and work my way to where I am now. It will have to be in parts, so here is Part 1, entitled: "My parents picked drugs over us every time!"
If I had to pick a Scripture looking back, I would choose Isaiah 41:13: "For I am "The Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you..." As a child, with all I went through, GOD has had HIS hands on me the whole time; even when I didn't feel protected, HE was protecting me. Everything was necessary to help me through the next valley.
My backstory
I was born in Naples, Italy. My mother is African American, and my father is Italian. From my understanding, my mom was stationed there in the Navy. She had a one-night stand with an Italian man, which led to me, so I have never met my biological dad. I moved back to the States when I was 18 months old. My mom met another guy in the Navy while stationed in Corpus Christi, Texas, and my brother Austin was born.
Later on, my mother and stepfather were stationed in Denver, Colorado, and this is where my story begins.
I was about seven years old. We lived in a beautiful two-story house; by now, the family had grown: I, the oldest, my two younger brothers, and a sister. Life was great, as I remember, but that was short-lived because I could have never guessed what was on the horizon. Some neighbors a couple of houses down would throw these wild weekend parties that my parents would frequent. And that's when they were introduced to crack cocaine.
Studies show that children suffer when their parents/guardians fight.
Being so young, I didn't realize what was happening, but my grandparents must have sensed something because they were moving in with us the next thing I knew. They moved all the way from Georgia to Colorado. Though this was about to be the start of a bad season, it was my best years with my grandparents -- it was mindblowing just how strategically GOD was working, already knowing the things we would face.
I have fond memories of my grandmother. She introduced us to the Lord at a young age and took us to church every Sunday at Mt. Carmel Missionary Baptist Church. I was baptized at this church, but I was too young to know and understand the meaning. Every night, my siblings and I would go downstairs and kneel at my grandmother's bed, where she taught us the Lord's Prayer.
My grandmother spoiled us. We had the best meals we ever ate (home-cooked meals every day), and we would ride the bus down to Woolworths (F.W. Woolworth Store) for shopping and milkshakes. We were being kids and enjoying every minute of it until the day our grandparents had to leave.
When Parents Choose Drugs Over Their Children
I was about ten years old, and I remember a big argument. It was the first time I heard the word "drugs, " but it wouldn't be the last. My grandmother was telling my mom and stepdad they needed help. We had lost the car, the bills were behind, and my grandmother couldn't sustain us. I remember my mom being mad and saying, "She didn't need no help." This was her house and her kids, and she kicked her mom out.
I would see my grandmother again when I was sixteen.
Things started changing fast after that. One day, my mom and stepdad said we were moving because the house had flooded and all our stuff was ruined. However, I never recall seeing any water in the house.
We were being evicted! From there, we moved into an apartment, and it was here that I started seeing more and realizing what was happening. We had a lot of traffic in and out of our apartment, and I remember this awful smell on paydays. It was the sickening smell of crack cocaine. I would become very familiar with this smell.
On paydays, to appease us, my parents would buy us all these snacks and let us do whatever we wanted because the adults were in one room getting high, and they couldn't care less what we did.
The days after were always the worst, when they came down off the high and realized all the money was gone. They would sometimes argue (and fight), hurling insults at one another and picking sides.
I discovered (and was often reminded) that I had a different dad from my siblings during these fights. Whenever they fought, my mom would take me and tell my stepdad that I wasn't his child, and I would go with her. There were nights when my mother and I slept at the bus stop or rode the bus all night from one city to another. This behavior would last a day or two, and then they would reconcile when payday came.
Part Two
After being evicted from our apartment, we ended up at the Samaritan House, a homeless shelter in downtown Denver, Colorado. Looking back, I can see how GOD covered me.
The Samaritan House had four floors: a basement (where they kept lots of goodies), the first floor was for single men and women, the second floor housed a cafeteria, a lounge area, and an outdoor patio. The third floor was for families with kids and had a large playroom. The setup was ideal. The adults worked inside or outside the facility, and Samaritan House would withhold a portion of their check and reserve it until the families left. This was to help get you back on your feet, hoping you would have enough for a downpayment for your home when you moved out.
My brother Austin and I were given bus passes to catch the city bus to and from school. It's crazy to think we used to catch the bus alone. I was only 12, and Austin was 10. Our younger siblings, Diana and Gene, would get dropped off at school by our parents on their way to work. No one at school knew we lived in a homeless shelter, which was great because I was easily embarrassed and already dealing with image issues.
We were allowed to shop in the basement a few times that year. Staff would give each family member a list of how many clothing items they could get. For example, you may choose five pairs of panties, four pairs of jeans or shorts, eight shirts, socks, shoes, etc. Even though they were all hand-me-downs, I remember being excited to try to find some nice clothes.
That summer in the shelter was the best because we lived there as a family. The staff did an amazing job making sure the kids experienced fun activities. I remember my brother and I attending a two-week Christian camp at Camp Balarat in the mountains outside Denver. It was enjoyable because no one knew we came from the homeless shelter.
We learned about Jesus, horseback riding, swimming, hiking, and how to build a campfire. I loved singing Christian songs around the campfire. I had so much fun; it was a nice escape from the Samaritan House.
The fun continued with outings to various sporting events, like the Denver Broncos games, the Colorado Rockies, and the Denver Nuggets games throughout the year. Things felt normal, but I was wrong and fooled myself into thinking things were turning around.
The end of something good
After an evening of getting high, our parents didn't come back to the shelter, and because of that, we were removed from the Samaritan House and taken to a children's shelter because kids could not stay there without a parent or guardian. What made the situation worse was that I had turned 13, and because of that, I wasn't allowed to go to the youth shelter with my younger brothers and sisters.
Instead, I was placed in housing for troubled teens. I was so angry to be separated from my siblings. I was scared. I didn't know if I would see them again. I wasn't troubled. I was there because of my parents' neglect.
I remember arriving at the "home" at night and feeling like I was going to jail and how unfair this was because it was not my fault. I can still recall the cold, sterile room I sat in for hours with this woman asking me a bunch of questions, most of which I didn't have answers for. One staffer told me I had to earn privileges to watch TV or participate in activities. It felt like a prison.
I kept thinking, "I'm not one of these teens who got in trouble and ended up here. I'm here because of my age and my parents' failure to come back to the shelter." The staff didn't care and treated me like I was a bad, wayward, and misguided teen.
I became depressed.
The other girls made fun of me and called me Olive Oil from the cartoon Popeye because I was skinny and wore my hair bunny. I cried myself to sleep nearly every night. One of my chores was kitchen duty; for some reason, I was always assigned to clean the kitchen. I hated being there.
This was an awful place. No one was nice. I was there for about a month and didn't connect with anyone. While I was there, I remember starting my menstrual cycle and having no clue what was going on. Imagine being separated from your core family and forced to live in an unfriendly environment filled with strangers.
Now, imagine your body betraying you with an unknown bloody affliction.
I didn't know what was happening to my body. My mom never talked to me about 'coming of age' and what I would experience. Thankfully, one of the counselors explained what my body was doing and gave me sanitary pads.
I was worried about my brothers and sisters and didn't know where or how they were.
Drugs first, family second, third...
One day, my mom, with my siblings in tow, came to get me from the teen shelter. My siblings said they had the best time at the children's shelter, and I was so happy to be back with them. But, little did I know what was on the horizon. When you think things can't get worse...
My family ended up at a boarding house in the Five Points area near downtown Denver. We had never been to a boarding house before, so I didn't know what to expect. It was different. Because we were the only family there, they gave us a room up front. Down the hall by the kitchen was where the house's owner stayed. His name was John.
Two other men rented rooms in the back of the house; one was a truck driver with a beautiful big wolf-dog, and the other was a white man named JD. I later learned JD was a drug dealer.
There was only one kitchen, and everyone cooked and cleaned for themselves. The house was full of black cats, and one black and white cat named No Tail because he had no tail. There was a window entrance in the basement where the cats came and went as they pleased. To this day, I can't stand cats.
I learned how to play spades, dominos, tunk, and 21 because everyone did that. They spent most of their time sitting, smoking cigarettes, and playing card games. During this time, my parents became good friends with JD, the drug dealer. They would buy their drugs from him.
My mom sold me to a drug dealer
I remember this day like it was yesterday; it was the start of the abuse for me. Mom said JD would take my brothers and me to the store. JD had a red pickup truck, and the stick shift went to the floor.
I was the oldest, so I had to get in first, sit next to him, and straddle the gear shift, and then, my brothers slid in beside me. As he drove and changed gears, he would fondle me. I didn't know what was happening, but I remember it hurting. I didn't know what to do. I hated going to the store with him because this happened every time.
One night, my mom told me I was going to sleep on the sofa outside the room in the living room so I could stretch out. I thought nothing of it since it was so crammed in our room. And then I saw my mom and JD go outside and talk. I didn't know what they were discussing, but I would have probably run away if I had known.
Later that night, as I was sleeping on the sofa, I was awakened by JD with his hand in my panties. I started to cry, and he hushed me and told me my mom said it was okay. I was so confused and hurt to my core.
She had given him me for drugs. I was told every time by him when he was done, I couldn't tell anyone, or else I would be in trouble. There was a time when I looked forward to my parents' paydays because we got candy and were treated to McDonald's. However, now I dreaded payday because I knew what that night meant for me.
I hated myself. I wondered what was wrong with me. I would often daydream about my real dad coming to rescue me, but that never happened.
The beginning of the end
I will never forget when our parents got into this huge fight, which wasn't uncommon, but this time was different. Mom had a knife, and I remember seeing her stab our stepdad and just seeing blood. There was no phone in the house, so I grabbed my siblings, and we raced three blocks to the fire station to get help. When we arrived, we were all crying. I told the firefighters what happened and gave them our address. One of the firefighters stayed with us at the station.
I remember the fireman being so nice. There was a Nintendo at the station, and he let us play it. I think about us laughing and not thinking or even wondering what was happening with our parents. Later that night, the police came and said they were taking us to a women's battered shelter. That's where they took our mom earlier. I felt so happy because I was not returning to the boarding house.
My mom was separated from my stepdad, and believe it or not, the battered women's shelter was the nicest place we had ever lived. We had a lovely room with bunk beds, access to a huge open kitchen, and an outside playground. I hoped this was our forever house; everyone was so sweet, and I felt safe.
The shelter offered counseling, and I still remember my counselor's name: Pasha Cowen. I told myself I said I would never forget that name, and I never did! Ms. Cowen showed me love. She would hug me and tell me I would be okay, how brave I was, and that she was there for me.
It was the first time in a long time that we had clean clothes. We made friends, and we just had so much fun. However, our stay was also short-lived. My mom was still meeting up with our stepfather outside the shelter and without anyone knowing. She didn't finish the program and chose to leave the battered women's shelter where we were happy and safe to go back with my stepdad. This time, we would live in a motel in Aurora, Colorado.
Before we left the shelter, Pasha gave me a piece of paper with her name and number and told me to call her anytime. I remember feeling sad and wishing I could stay. I didn't want to be with my mom or stepdad anymore, but I couldn't leave my siblings. They needed me. At nearly 14 years of age, I had taken on the role of their mom, literally.