Of course, we’re here again. This time the room is big, all four walls are white with nothing on them. The smell is so strong I can tell they were just recently painted. I’m sitting on this small black recliner waiting for the african american lady to come back and ask tons of more questions about how my parents treat my siblings and I.
I love them, I mean they are my parents after all. They have different parenting styles but I know it’s just going to make my 10 siblings and I stronger in the end. In my opinion? I think they could’ve stopped having kids after my older brother Ian and I. But I just keep having to remind myself that without my siblings I would have no motivation to keep fighting against my parents wishes. I also forget sometimes that I am the daughter. See my parents are both addicted to methamphetamine. This means Ian and and I are changing the diapers, making sure the bills get paid on time, cooking, cleaning, and basically keeping this family together.
I don’t really get it, I am only 17 years old and I know the principle that you need to have money and a healthy environment in order to have kids. If it sounds like things are bad now then maybe I should share a few stories of how it was 10 years ago. Before I was able to go out and make some money we were living off ketchup sandwiches and living on our roach infested basement floor with just a few blankets to cover up all of our fears. When my mother and father are having an episode on one of their highs there’s no telling what they are going to do next. My siblings and I got locked in the basement for 3 days one time. My parents just forgot about us, that’s all. But I mean that’s normal right? People are allowed to forget. I got my first bed when I was 10 years old, except it wasn’t just my bed. I had to share that bed with 5 of my other siblings. My parents explain it to me as they are doing their best, which my siblings and I highly appreciate. The neighbors have been suspicious at times but I don’t think they quite get it. My parents love us, I know they do. They just show it a little differently than other parents.
Aside from my family I have a few friends, the kids down the street. My parents homeschool us to protect us from the outside world, as they say. Some nights after the kids go to bed and the parents are passed out high on the couch watching Game of Thrones Ian and I are able to sneak past to the back door and down the street to see Maggie and Dominick. Dom is 17 like me and Maggie is 18 like Ian. But I guess this night they weren’t drowned in meth and a mixture of pills enough to not hear my nike’s tip toeing on the carpet. I take one step and the floor creaks louder than my younger sister Amber was screaming from one of her nightmares. I quickly turn but before I can get around the corner dad yells my name. I get yelled at a lot so this is nothing new to me. He quickly jerked my shoulder back which sends a sharp pain shooting all the way down to my fingertips.
That is exactly how we ended up here, at the board of CPS (Child Protective Services). I’ve been here many times. They ask a lot of questions to each of my siblings and I. I guess they have been trying to bust my parents for their hideous acts ever since my 4th sibling was born. My parents love us, I know they do. Which is why I like to keep quiet every time we come across this place. Last time it was because my parents were sent to jail for a week for possession. Except that time was much scarier. Older people with walkie-talkies and blue rubber gloves pushed their way into our house and started going through everything. But I guess they didn’t find anything worth taking our parents from us. The black eye Ian had and my fractured right shoulder must’ve done it this time. Since this last visit I am yet to meet face to face with my parents.