"Taheerah, get the boys ready for school." I was up late and now I was going to be late. My mom lay on the couch. I had to get my brothers ready for school. But that day I decided that my mom and dad needed to be taught some kind of lesson. I ran for the door to escape the small, cramped space that I called home.
It wasn't my plan to tell my teacher about my parents that day, but my parents were using crack and keeping the secret was hard. I felt like I was watching my parents die. My father was also sexually abusing my sister and me. I felt that if I didn't speak up soon, I would not be able to handle living for much longer.
For many years I had pretended that nothing was wrong, but it was too hard to keep doing that. I was starting to get very depressed. I thought that if I told somebody, my parents would realize they had a problem and that there are people who could help.
In school, I went to my teacher with all of my courage, even though I felt ashamed and scared. "Taheerah, what's the matter?" she said. I sat down thinking maybe this wasn't a good idea. I remembered my mom telling me, "There's nothing wrong with this family. Don't say anything to anyone or you'll be the shame of the family."
I tried not to think about what she'd told me. "My mom and dad are on drugs," I said, almost like it was a joke, but then I started to cry. My teacher was shocked. I said, "Sometimes my parents use drugs so they can feel better." I didn't want to tell her about my dad, because I felt sick, but I did.
My teacher wanted to tell the school social worker, who was my godmother. She told me, "I have to tell. If I don't I could get in big trouble." I didn't want her to, but I said. "OK, you can tell." I felt distant from what I was saying, like I wasn't talking about my own parents.
Later my godmother, who worked at my school, came over to me. She looked like she'd been crying. "Taheerah, is there something you want to tell me?" I told her. She said she was going to call a social worker and try to move us out of the house. The rest of the day was even scarier. I was afraid that if my parents found out they would beat me or hate me.
That night, I made dinner, cleaned the dishes and did my homework. I went to my room and talked to my twin sister. She told me that she was happy that I told.
That night I wanted to give my mom a kiss goodbye and give my dad a hug. I felt like telling them that somebody was coming to take us all away. I wanted to tell them that I was sorry, but I was too afraid so I went to sleep. That was the day that I changed my life but lost my family.
When I was little, home was the best thing. I loved to run home and know that my mom was finished working and that my dad would come home late but we would see him before school in the morning.
Sometimes my mom would turn on the radio and dance with us. She would take my sister and me outside to run around. My dad used to take me to places that sold toys and he would buy my sister and me one each. On Fridays, my family often went for long walks and sang songs together, like "Lamb Chop's Play Along."
But as a child, I also watched my mom go in and out of hospitals for depression. I watched her and my dad argue about the littlest things and fight with each other. And my parents were on crack ever since I can remember. When they took the drugs they made me feel like I was nothing. They treated me and the rest of my family based on their mood. If they didn't get their drugs they were violent and would beat us. When they got high they acted like that had never happened.
Things got worse for all of us when there was a fire and our apartment burned down. We lost everything. My dad left us. My mother and the rest of us moved into a shelter that wasn't always safe. Sometimes our stuff was stolen and there were gangs around.
All of this made my mom more depressed. Living with my mom's depression made me feel like I was depressed. I wanted to always be depressed like her and to lie next to her and sleep by her all day. I also would try to win her affection by keeping the house as clean as possible and letting her know that I loved her.
I wanted my dad to come and get us, and when he did come back two years later, my brothers and sisters and I were so happy. But everything went from bad to worse. My mom's depression got worse and she got angry. Sometimes she would treat me like I wasn't there, or she would make me stay away from her.
Watching her change and reject me made me so sad. I felt like I was to blame. And that's when my dad started to sexually abuse my sister and me. At night we would take turns staying awake to protect ourselves, but he would beat us if we didn't do what he wanted.
I dealt with everything by blocking out reality and pretending that everything was OK. As a kid, and even now, I didn't know how to show how I felt. I just wondered how I could make myself feel better. I made myself forget my feelings by eating candy, playing with my toys and going outside.
My mom would do the same thing. She told stories to cover up her drug use. Once her face was swollen and she said, "Oh, I went outside and a ball hit me." Other times when she'd been using drugs she'd say, "I shouldn't have eaten so much candy!" She made it seem like things were OK but we knew what was going on.
For a while I thought that my mom didn't know what my dad was doing to us. I wanted to tell her, so she would make it stop. But one day I was sitting next to my mom and she said, "If somebody is hurting you, tell me and I'll deal with it." Then I knew that she knew, but she wasn't going to do anything about it.
Then I really hated my mom and I started to feel detached from my parents. I started to think that they would always be two drug addicts. I saw myself growing up in a small jail that had no love and was cold all year around. I stopped loving them and started to blame them.
Finally, I decided to speak up, because I was tired of blocking out reality. When I felt depressed, I couldn't hide from my feelings anymore. I was afraid to face the fact that I didn't really have a home or parents. But I knew that my family wasn't going to get better if nobody did anything about it.
Two days after I spoke to my teacher, my brothers, my sisters and I were taken out of our home and separated -- my older sister and my brothers to one home, my twin and I to another. When the social worker came, my brothers were crying, but I had no tears.
I didn't think I'd stay in foster care long. I thought the social worker would kick my dad out and help my mom. I thought my mom would get us out of foster care when everything at home was OK again. I also thought that I could see my parents and that they would be able to see that I cared that they get better. I hoped my mother would call me at my foster home and tell me that she was happy that I would try to get help for her and my dad. I wanted her to make me feel that none of this was my fault.
But when I called my mom, she told me that she hated me and that she wished I wasn't born. I felt that I could never love her again.
After that, I didn't speak to my parents for a long time. I didn't hear from them when I turned 15. They didn't make any attempt to get us out of the system. And when I heard that my mom was still using crack, I knew that she wasn't going to do anything. Much of me had believed that my parents would forgive me, but there was a little hole in my heart telling me that they never would.
At times I'd go to see my parents. But when I went to visit, my mom didn't say anything to me and my dad wanted to see me in private to abuse me. It was just the same as when I lived at home.
When I turned 16, I saw my mom for the last time. She brought cake and ice cream to my group home, but she made a face that told me she didn't want to be there. She looked angry. I didn't want to think about our past but she made me face reality.
"Taheerah, can you come here?" she said. I didn't want to go in the other room, because I knew that she would tell me something to hurt my feelings.
"What's the matter?" was all that I could say.
"I'm still upset. You had a good family, and you went off and told those secrets. How could you?"
I didn't move. There was something inside that was trying to get out. When it finally did, I said, "Mom, I don't understand what the problem is. I'm glad that I told. It was better than watching you and dad get high all day, and letting dad just hurt me and you didn't do anything."
My mom looked at me. She didn't say a word. I was surprised. Then she turned away, gave me her back, and left.
When my mother left I knew I had lost something. I'd lost my family and I'd lost hope. Every part of me had wanted to believe that my parents would get the help they needed. But I could tell that coming into care hadn't helped them at all.
To be betrayed by my mother felt like getting stabbed in the back. I'd always felt that my mom was my world. For so long I had wanted to move back home with her (if she had the guts to leave my dad). It made me so sad that I couldn't see her anymore, and I felt guilty (and still do) for telling on my parents.
I also felt angry that my mother didn't give a damn about anybody except her husband and her drugs. I can't forgive her, but I can understand why she did the drugs and tried to keep it a secret. It's hard to blame her because I know that life is hard and sometimes we do things to try to make it easier.
Giving up on my mom is hard, because it means giving up on my dream to go home and live my life the way I wanted it to be -- happy and calm. I miss the way she used to dance with us. But if my mother couldn't see how she'd hurt my sister and me, then it would hurt me again to go home. If I lived with my mom I would have to fake it to the point that I would be back where I started, back to my silent ways.
It's also scary because now I have to be myself, not my mom's reject or my dad's slave, but myself. I don't know if I'm ready to do that. I usually feel most like myself when I can take care of something or somebody, like my sister. Then I feel like I'm still wanted. But I feel lost when my sister asks me a question about the things that happened to us. I can't talk to her about the past because I've pushed it away and it's too painful to bring back.
I don't like having to let reality step in. It's scary that I can't hide in my dreams but instead have to deal with the sadness, anger and shame I'm feeling. It's hard to think about all the feelings I have about my mother and try to let them go and move on. Sometimes I do things I shouldn't to cover up my anger, like drinking or smoking (rarely). And I try to laugh and detach from emotional situations. But the feelings that I stuff away show up in my dreams. They replay the things that happened in the past.
Even though I always tried to hide my feelings in my head, now those feelings I tried to ignore while I was being abused are coming out with all of the rage and the hatred I couldn't express before. Sometimes out of nowhere it feels like the abuse is happening again. It's frightening. I feel like I've lost control of myself, because sometimes when my emotions come back I feel like I'm still in the past, not here, and I can't stop it.
It makes me feel weak that I can't seem to handle my own problems anymore. I want to stay under control and I don't want to get angry, because when I get angry I feel like I'm going to jump into hurting anybody that gets in my way. I fear that I might hurt somebody like my parents hurt me, and not realize it. Or I might hurt myself even if I know I don't want to.
One way I'm dealing with those feelings is therapy. At first I just thought the therapist was trying to get in my business. But when I started to go I found that I could talk about some of my problems, although I keep many secrets. What I do tell her feels good, like I'm getting my issues off my chest.
I've also started to take medication, although at first I was afraid I'd end up like my mom. Her medications made her look like she was always lost and didn't see the days end or begin. But I think the medication I'm taking is helping.
I've also tried to mourn the loss of my parents by writing poems and drawing. I can tell that I'm feeling less attached to my mom now. I don't worry about her as much as I did when I came into care, when I worried that she wouldn't be able to do the things that I did, like cooking, washing the dishes and taking out the garbage.
Mostly I let go of my feelings by crying, although after I cry I feel like I don't know why I did that. My tears don't roll, they come down like the rain, and they don't stop. I fear that one day I'll cry and won't ever stop. To make myself feel better I go outside and I sit by the water.
One place I love to go is a small park along Riverside Drive. I go there to let go of my feelings. I can cry down there without anybody trying to ask what's wrong. Sometimes I lie in the grass and forget where I am, even if there are people all around me. The water takes the sun and breaks it into little pieces that fly off in all directions. I look over at New Jersey and wonder if there's someone over there doing the same thing as me.
To the right I see the George Washington Bridge. I look at the cars and I wish that I were in one of those cars, riding away from my group home and away from my past. I see people around me looking at the sky and doing the same thing I'm doing: drifting. Then I get up. It's time to leave. So I walk away, and leave my feelings there.
Taheerah Mahdi wrote this story for Youth Communication, an organization that helps teenagers develop their skills in reading, writing, thinking, and reflection, so they can acquire the information they need to make thoughtful choices about their lives.
Reprinted with permission from Represent: The Voice of Youth in Care, Copyright 2004 by Youth Communication/New York Center, Inc. For more information, contact Youth Communication, 224 W. 29th St., 2nd fl., New York, NY 10001. www.youthcomm.org.
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