What Makes a House a Home

November 14, 2011
Written from the perspective of an abused foster child.

Dear Diary,
I’ve always wanted to walk through my white picket fence into my warm home; however, that was never the case for me. I guess I was considered to be one of those kids who had a troubled childhood and still lives a troubled life. I would come home from school where I was greeted by the putrid odor of drugs. I would walk in and squint through the almost opaque fog to see my mom outstretched on the battered and torn hand-me-down couch. Shocking, I know, but this was considered ordinary life to me.
Every day I would try to get her up and about, but every day, she would ignore me and continue watching the news. You would think that a person that knows so many things that are going on in this world would know more about her daughter, such as how school is, or how your classes are, but shdidn't’t ever know what her life, if you would call it a life, was about. Her morals were clouded as was her life. I never invited people to the house, and no one invited me to theirs, either. I shrugged it off, I was still strong, but I don’t think I could tell you the same about my mother.
When I was 10, my mom fell very ill, but she kept doing drugs. The very thing that she relied on, the only thing she trusted, had failed her while I was waiting for her to stop, to call the hospital, to finally tell me, ask me, how school was, to pay attention to me. As I lie there, watching her body being taken over by the demon, I asked myself if she is even worth it. I seriously asked myself that. I think she held on for about three months before it sucked the life out of her. I went up, packed, and left my own smoke – filled house.
I then stumbled upon a foster home, called Sunny Days. It was a living hell. By the end of two weeks, I looked like an urchin due to the bruises I received from the almost scheduled beatings I took.
As I lay here writing this account of whatever life I have, I have to say, I really think I missed out on the childhood I wished I had. I don’t know for sure what makes a house a home, but I know it is the opposite of what I have experienced. However, I really believe that in a home, you need to surround yourself with wonderful people that care for you and provide a nurturing environment in which to raise you. If you really have a home, you won’t be able to imagine a better perfect than with the people you are with. When you are in a home, you are loved. I hope whoever finds this understands the value of having a home – something I never was able to experience. I honestly don’t think I will be able to last any longer in this living jail.
I haven’t completely lost hope yet.

A SIMPLE DREAM OF MINE
A house
Made up of cold brick stone
Stares blankly
At the open road

A home
Does not need shelter
Or a place to stay
Rather, they lean on one another
Staying strong
Without plywood in their way

A home
Consists of family and friends
Of whom you look to and live with
Time and time again
For you do not need a house,
You simply need a home.


Until tomorrow,

Me





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