The Black Trash Bag

You never know how lucky you had it until you hear someone else's life story. This story is about the time I lived out of a black trash bag. Now I know what you're thinking, "Oh my! She was so poor she was homeless." and in a way, you are right. I was homeless and even family-less. I was given up for adoption, and I know what the majority of society likes to believe. "She went to a loving home and was adobted by a wonderful family.". However, that is not my story. I did not get adopted, and I was not fortunate enough to find a loving family.

Christmas time was hell. Christmas time in California foster care back in 1995 was foster parents taking you to a crowded pizza place to meet with your family while waiting for Santa (who smelled like he smoked 12 packs of cigarettes before bringing in the presents) to call your name and hand you a gift. However, again this was not the case for me. I got to wait on nicotine Santa to call my name while I sat alone watching children open presents with their families who missed them and showered them with love. Shortly before Christmas, the family you are with gets tired of you being depressed and making no progress in therapy that they pack your bags.

Ah! Yes! That one black trash bag. The same bag that causes you trauma as an adult because of the negative feelings it gives you. Remembering every time your clothes were thrown into just ONE bag. No toys and no memories. Just you, your clothes, and the black trash bag. You learn to keep your clothes in your trash bag because no family wants eight year old when there are cute three-year-olds who will forget their family and, if they are lucky, forget the trauma they endured. But not the 8-year-old who remembers the trauma and remembers their family.

At this point, you are already labeled, and in my case, they send you back to your abuser because "family needs to stick together" no matter the damages they cause. Yet still, you hold on to the black trash bag, but this time as a reminder that you will one day leave this nightmare. You try and tell child protective services that you need help, and no one listens.

Remember? Already labeled. At this point, they say you're too emotional, and maybe you need medicine. At this point, I was 9. Who listens to a 9-year-old who has a history of harming herself? No one. They don't try to find out why. They medicate it. It is easier to make your problem go away if you medicate it. If your parent tells the doctor, it isn't working, they put you on something more potent. At this point, you are just a drooling zombie who will allow anything to happen.

Ah yes. I am sure you are one of those who believe child protect checks the home you are in. No. Not if you live in your stepdad's house. As long as he does not adopt you, child protect feels you are in a good home because there are no reports. However, they made sure to keep you in the questioning room with your stepbrother, so you stay quiet.

While every night you hug that black trash bag. Promising yourself that one day you will get out. One day someone, anyone, will listen to you. One day a loving family will adopt you. However, no one ever believes you. You never get out. At least not in time. Not before something devastating happens and you use your last black trash bag.