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Listen to thisI was taken into care at the age of 14. There had been problems within my family and I had tried to kill myself. I went straight from hospital to a foster family with 3 younger children. I still remember how scared I was the night I arrived. Although difficult and rebellious at school, I was really very shy and unsure of myself. I found it hard to cope with change, so I was thankful that I could stay on at my old school. However, that didn’t last long. I lived in a small village near Bristol, where news travelled fast. Within two months I could no longer cope with the stories and the gossip, so I was moved away.
I was fostered again in Gloucester by a family with two small children. I joined the local school and tried hard to settle down. But I never felt that I fitted in. So many people started getting involved: social workers, support social workers, counsellors, psychiatrists ... it seemed never-ending.
I felt so unsafe
Then the court cases started for the care order. I felt under too much
pressure, being pulled in all directions, and I became increasingly
unhappy. School became a refuge, a place to escape from all the
questions and decisions. But such a lot was being expected of me, no one
seemed to understand the fear and loneliness I felt. After several
months it became too much so I ran away to London. I soon realised that
was no escape either. There were no bright lights with lots of fun – only more fear, more loneliness and the danger of men trying to pick me
up.
On my return to Bristol I was moved to a children's home. It seemed massive, with up to 16 young people and only two staff on at a time. You could easily get lost in the place. I was 15, but still quite innocent. I was shocked at what I saw and heard in the first week: solvent abuse, drug abuse, self-harming, crime, and such anger. Within two months, I was exactly the same. I started skipping school and gradually got into more and more trouble. It was very different, almost exciting, like a whole new world. No one went to school, people stayed out all night without permission, verbally abused the staff stole anything they wanted. It didn’t seem real.
To begin with, it frightened me and I didn’t want to be part of it. I felt so unsafe, but the peer pressure was heavy. I soon learnt that the only way to survive was to learn the rules – not the rules of the staff but of the other teenagers. I admired their strength and I was desperate to please, to fit in and belong somewhere. I would do almost anything to be accepted by both the staff and the other young people. So I sat on the fence, trying not to lean one-way or the other.
Everyone had given up on me
I soon felt that I’d totally lost my identity. I didn’t know who I was
any more. I lost the stability of school and no matter what I did I
couldn’t be happy. After four months of petty crime and self-harm, I was
sent to an adolescent psychiatric unit in Cardiff for 5 days a week. I
hated it there and life seemed really dull after the children's home. I
wasn’t ready for counselling and just wanted to be left alone to be “normal”. I continued to abuse solvents, cut myself and, at my worst,
attempted suicide. I kept running away and, after five months, I was
taken to a secure unit in Exeter on a 72-hour order. Being locked up
came as a terrible shock to me. I don’t think I’ve ever known such fear
as I knew that first weekend. The feeling of total abandonment,
rejection and loneliness was something I can’t explain.
A 28-day secure order was extended by a further 3 months when social services couldn’t find me a home. So those 72 hours turned into 4 months. All I’d ever wanted was to be loved and suddenly I’d ended up feeling like the most unlovable teenager in the world. Everyone had given up on me. No one could see the pain, hurt, fear and unhappiness underneath the cold, hard exterior which I needed in order to survive. For 4 months I counted the days until I could leave. At Christmas, when my 28-day order was extended, I managed to run away. I spent three days enjoying my freedom. Then I was caught on a train and returned to the unit, where I started cutting myself again. I finally learnt that the only way to true freedom was to settle down and prove everyone wrong. I wasn’t a hopeless case, but a young person looking for what every human being needs: love, care, security, stability and somewhere to belong. I moved to an independence unit in Devon which provided just that. It was a dream come true. I went for a trial period and, to begin with, I felt that it was too good for me and it could never work. But after four days I thought it was fantastic and I wanted to give it a try. Everyone talked it over and I moved in a few weeks later. At last I’d chosen my home.
It wasn’t easy
The couple who ran the home, with four other staff, were totally
dedicated to caring for young people. No case was too difficult or
hopeless for them. As long as you wanted to be there, and to change,
they gave you a chance. But most of all they gave you trust, love and
responsibility. They became second parents to me and now, four years
later, they still are.
It wasn’t easy. At first, I rebelled and went back to my old ways. I felt certain they’d reject me as everyone else had done, but they didn’t give up once. When my solvent abuse became dangerous they helped me to receive some counselling in a psychiatric unit. Within two weeks I was back with them. They gave me all the love, care, praise and guidance any teenager could want. They made it a place full of affection and support. Everyone worked together and felt the overwhelming love. Good behaviour never went unnoticed and difficult behaviour was always talked through.
With the help of such special people, I got back my faith in adults. I returned to further education and gained four GCSE's. I started to live independently, in a flat attached to the unit. For the first time in years, I was happy. Someone believed in me and had given me what everyone deserves – a chance. I'll never be able to thank them enough. I had gone there as a hopeless case and, nearly a year later, I left as a young woman. I now work as a volunteer for social services, helping young people who are still in the system.
If any good can come of my experiences, it will be to help others who are suffering. There is light at the end of the tunnel, though, for some, I know that can be hard to believe.
This feature: Rachel (1994). Light at the end of the tunnel. From Who Cares? the UK magazine for young people in care.
