“I would rather pay for someone’s abortion than pay to raise their
child for eighteen years.”
That was a comment
that came across my news feed on Facebook the other day. It is a false argument to claim that welfare
children, wards of the state, or children that are born into abusive families/situations
would be better off aborted. I know
because I was an abused welfare child.
I did not choose the life or family that
I was born into. I did not choose my
status or circumstances. But I do know that all children deserve a chance at
life no matter the situation, and I am so thankful I was given that chance.
Let me start from the
beginning and add that this is MY life the way I see it. I do not blame, resent, or hate anyone that
was ever in my life, including my mother.
God had a plan for me. And even
through all the bad, His will was done for His glory.
It
began when my mother married her drug dealer in order to score free drugs. I
guess that’s a perk of being married to a dealer. Their marriage didn’t last long, go figure.
They separated and ultimately divorced while she was pregnant with me. Being a single mother with a desperate need
to be loved and a daughter in tow makes you an easy target. Some were looking to abuse her low
self-esteem, some were looking for a “partner in crime” (literally), while
others had eyes for her pretty, young, blonde daughter.
My childhood was an endless (so it
seemed) struggle. We moved constantly, usually
in the middle of the night to evade landlords looking for months of back rent. We
lost possessions and precious childhood memories in the process. I attended a different school every year
until sixth grade. I was the child that
smelled like cigarette smoke, struggled to focus during class, and had very few
friends, if any at all. We used food
stamps and stood in line at the welfare office to get our box of government
food. We took the city bus and walked
everywhere. I am thankful that I never
had to live in a homeless shelter. I’m
thankful for the times I was able to live with my grandmother.
During these early years there was a
particular man involved in my mother’s life who was extremely abusive. He had fits of rage. I remember looking into his eyes during one
episode and seeing pure evil. Sometimes
I was unable to go to school or even see my grandmother because of the
bruises. There were so many times that
school and sleep were my only refuge. I
was just eight years old when I began to think that it would be best if maybe I
didn’t wake up. There had to be
something better out there and heaven had to be it. Even though religion wasn’t really a part of
my life at that time, I believed in heaven.
Little did I know that I could have died at the hands of this abuser.
One day we were walking to the store and
I was pushing my sister in her stroller.
I kept popping up the front at every sidewalk entrance. He yelled at me
and said I didn’t need to do that. At
the next sidewalk dip I didn’t do it, the front wheels caught and the stroller
tipped. He lost it; he picked up the
stroller and hit me square in the face with the back of his hand. He struck me
so hard I flew back into a big metal garbage can, hit the back of my head and
lost consciousness. Everything just went
black. The first sense that came back to
me was my hearing. At first it was
ringing and then I heard someone scream “Pick on someone your own size”. I can only assume it was from a passing car. He dragged me off the ground and made me walk
as fast as I could back home. I don’t
remember getting home. I remember waking
up in my bed. He had friends over and their children who I knew had come in to
tell me they were sorry I was sick. I just
remember I couldn’t stop crying.
Hindsight is 20/20. I’m glad I woke up. Even through all of those years when I felt
so hopeless God had a plan. Did He want
me to suffer that abuse? Absolutely NOT.
He created me to be a fighter. I
had a stubbornness and fire deep within my soul. I used to daydream about the moment when I
would be older and I could finally fight back.
Honestly, those revenge fantasies are what got me through many of those
encounters.
The day finally came when that man exited
my life. Just to make room for something
even worse. I began being groomed for
sexual abuse when I was ten years old. I
didn’t know it at the time and I welcomed the kind and loving attention. You see, predators are very skilled in
manipulation. I consider this abuse the
worst because even though I had already experienced “bad touch” during my life
this was twisted and damaged my soul. My
sexuality had been awakened far too early and I felt contaminated.
After that my mother gave a wholehearted
try at the straight and narrow path without a man or drugs and life was good
for a while. We had food to eat, a place
to live that had electricity and for the first time I was going to the same
school for a second year. She threw me a
big golden year birthday party. A golden
year birthday is when you turn the same age as the day of your birth. For me, I
was 12. I got to invite all the girls in
my class. We had sub sandwiches and sundaes. We stayed up all night and I had so much
fun. And for my 13th birthday
I had my very first co-ed party. If I
could go back I would stay in those moments longer and appreciate them more
because life would fall apart all too soon after.
Everything went back to the way it had
been, almost like it had never been good at all. All it took was the wrong friends, yet
another man, and drugs. By the time I
was fourteen I was raising my sister, doing all of the cooking and cleaning
while trying to maintain good grades. I
tried running away. We lived with an
Aunt for a while but ended up back with my mother.
We were borrowing electricity from a
neighbor via extension cord from one window to another. We didn’t have food to eat. I was stealing maxi pads and food from the
store. One time I had to beg a friend to
give my sister a can of spaghetti-o’s so she didn’t go to bed hungry. I only ate my free lunch from school and any
left overs my friends gave me. Finally one
day I was just spent. My only pair of
jeans were soaked with menstrual blood because I didn’t have any pads left. My
mother went on a rant about her needs and how I was to provide for them. I was done.
I decided that life was never going to get any better. The only thing I would ever have control over
was the choice to live it or not. I decided that day it would be the latter. I swallowed fists full of extra strength
Tylenol and called my boyfriend to say good-bye. He wasn’t home. However, his twin brother saved my life that
day, because yes, you can die from too much Tylenol. It’s just a very slow and painful death where
all of your organs shut down one by one. I look back now and am so glad I
lived.
Not all of my memories are bad. I remember when I was three I convinced my
mother that I could read because I had memorized all of Cinderella. The jig was up
when I said a word before I turned the page.
She made me pick a different book. It was about a Bear that had a
Halloween party and made so much popcorn it burst through the windows. I wish I could remember the name of it. I remember dinners and Christmases at my
Grandma’s house. I had a Papa that loved
me. (I was seven when he passed
away.) And though misguided as she was,
my mother did love me. These are just a
few of the memories I hold on to.
So, what’s the moral of the story? You’ve seen the good, the bad, and the
horrible of what my childhood was. I
stand (or sit on the couch with my laptop) here to tell you I am glad I lived
it. I am glad that God created me to be
a fighter. That he healed my broken soul
through the love and blood of His Son Jesus. He sustained my life even before I knew
Him. I’m thankful He brought a wonderful,
stable, God fearing man into my life that saw past my brokenness and was
patient while I struggled and healed.
After 18 years of living on welfare and
having an abusive childhood I am a contributing member of society today. I vote, pay taxes, volunteer in the community,
and try to spread a message of hope and change to others. (The God kind not the Obama kind.) The two most wonderful things about my life
are that I get to be the wife to a man that truly is my other half, and I get
to be the mom I always wished I had.
*Oh, and by the way that
boy I called to say good-bye has been my husband for over 15 years now
and we now have four beautiful children.
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Guest post by Melaina Lausen.
