by JH
I could tell you a million stories of separation in my life. It almost happens religiously. What I mean is that it’s happened so many times; it’s almost like a daily routine but over time.
The first time I was separated from someone I care about was when my biological parents went downhill in their lives. My dad was arrested for a crime he did not do, and my mom overdosed with a needle in her arm while I was in a playpen next to her.
I was separated from my whole family and put in foster care for two years. During that time, my youngest brother passed away at eight months of his life. I was thankfully found by my aunt, who adopted me and got me out of foster care, where I was being beaten and nearly got choked to death.
Thanks to my aunt, I was saved and brought back into the arms of my own blood. She changed my name to what it is today because my father was in a dangerous situation that had a light on him and on all of his kids.
Even though I was put through a lot of obstacles in my life, and still continue to go through problems, they do not define me. What I was taught is that no matter how far I am from my family, the family I have will never give up on me and I will never give up on them.