I was sexually harassed when I was 3 years old. By my father. I don’t recall the exact things he did to me, but I remember bits and pieces. My mother was a drug addict, as was my father. She was later charged with possession of over 100 grams of cocaine and meth in the trunk of her car. She was sentenced to 5 years. She would take me to parties, often forgetting me when she left the house. A number of times I was left in my bed, the door locked, for several days. I was punished for everything and nothing I didn’t do. My grandmother and uncle also lived in the same house. It was my grandmother’s house. I was always bruised and sometimes left outside in the rain with no umbrella. I never went to preschool. My mother, according to my grandmother, was also sexually assaulted by her father. When she told her mother, she said something along the lines of: “Some things you have to do for family. And he’s a good provider.” When I was adopted, I was 7 years old. I had traveled over Seattle, Washington, to different foster homes and different foster families. I had been in 36 foster homes in the span of 4 years. They discarded of me, seeing that I was not fit for family life. I was damaged and unchangeable, in their eyes. What they saw became what I saw, and I constantly blamed myself for being placed in foster home after foster home, believing that I was not good enough for anybody, and undeserving of love. I was leftovers. A kid bought from Goodwill for 5 dollars, no refunds. Passed on to people with scary faces and even scarier voices. I could not make any friends, in fear of them seeing how broken and wrong I was. I was finally adopted by a family with a much younger, adopted boy. His name is Ashten, and he was my first younger brother. I still didn’t feel accepted, but I felt like I was with people that would never throw me out, give me away, or hurt me. I did not know what love felt like, when I was 7.

I do now.