Anthony's Story

I would like to share a story told through the eyes of a young man who left our program a little less than a year ago. His name is Anthony.

When I was a child, my father was my hero. Today, just after my eighteenth birthday, I know that he was not a typical hero. My father was an alcoholic and a drug addict. I lived with my mother when I was little. She was always dropping me off with different neighbors. Sometimes she wouldn’t come back for months. I thought all kids were dropped off with their neighbors until I was in kindergarten and saw how other mothers and fathers cared about their children. I thought there must be something wrong with me. There were older kids in the neighborhood. They told me that I should hang out with them. One day they pulled four people into the old house where we hung. That’s when I saw four people brutally murdered. After they were shot in the face, they had a gang name carved in their chest with a knife. The killers told me that those were bad people and since I was in their gang, I would never get hurt. They taught me how to smoke crack. I was only seven years old. I thought I was safe with them. When I was eight, my mother dropped me off at a drug rehab center. That was the last time I ever saw her. Although I try to remember, I can’t recall that she ever hugged me.

I went to live with my dad when I was almost nine. I remember flying on an airplane. When I arrived, my dad was standing there with his arms held out to me, like in the movies. I remember what it was like when I ran to him and hugged him — and he hugged me back like he meant it.

My dad allowed me to hang out in the neighborhood--well not really allowed -- he was just out of it and so it’s really more like he didn’t stop me from hanging out on the street. I remember a street man named Joe. He would sing songs with me and we would make up stories about living in a fancy house and having barbeques in the back yard. He would get us pot to smoke and whiskey to drink, so I thought Joe was my best friend. As I think back, Joe was probably up to no good.

During the two years that I lived with my father, he remembered my birthdays. I had lots of problems because I had bad nightmares about those murders and all. I couldn’t sleep. My dad would help me by getting me to draw those memories and then tear them up. He was really smart. He was an artist. He taught me how to draw. I wish he was not a drug addict.

My dad got really sick shortly after I turned ten. My aunt sometimes came to help out. Mostly, I took care of him. I remember one morning, he was really angry because he had called for me in the night and I did not hear him. I found him on the floor. After that, I had even more trouble sleeping. One morning, I woke up after having a dream that he was calling for me and I ran in to check on him. He was still, his mouth was open, his eyes were open and he was white. I didn’t want him to be dead. I tried to hug him. He did not hug me back.

I ran and told the neighbors. Then I went and got drunk and smoked a pack of cigarettes. I became a junkie at age ten -- heroine, crack, cocaine. I joined another gang and lived on the streets. I got gang tattoos.

When I was thirteen, I was picked up by the law. I was having such withdrawals that they had to put me in a center for drug rehab. I got dried out and then went to a foster home. They were a great foster family but I ran away to get back out on the street so that I could get high again. I ran away from three more treatment centers until I ended up in a place called Pathfinders when I was almost sixteen. Now this was not really a drug rehab place—these people made me get up early, feed the horses, go to school, go to therapy, go to Boy Scouts, and help build fences and stuff. These people really made me mad. I never had to do so much stuff. I called my caseworker and told her that she put me in the wrong place. I told her “this is not a drug rehab place and these people expect me to sit up, pay attention, follow all kinds of rules, and do work. I hate this place.” She said “no Anthony, you are in the right place—try to get used to it”. I did not get used to it. I physically threw punches at the staff and did stuff that let them know just how mad I was. I even ran away a few times. They took me back. They just kept saying that they could wait for me to be ready. “Ready for what?” I would say. They said “ready to change your life”. “Aint gonna happen” –I’d say. Well, it did happen. I realized that they meant what they said—and that they really did care about me. I began to like the guitar classes and actually got really good because I practiced. I began to talk with Miss Trish about my real stuff. Like the bad dreams. I kept seeing those murders and my dad’s dead face. I had dreams about a little boy who always wanted hugs from his mom but she never would hug him no matter how hard he tried. We worked for a long time and finally—I quit having the bad dreams and was able to sleep and I learned that I could ask for hugs from the people around me. I re-designed my tattoos so they no longer represented a gang. After all, I’m artistic like my dad was. Pathfinders took me to get the tattoos fixed. I began to have phone calls with my previous foster family. They even came to visit. They said they wanted me to come back when I was through with treatment.

Suddenly, right in the middle of everything, I began to want to go back to the streets. It was too much work having to look at my life and how I act. I told my caseworker that I needed to leave to go back to my home town.

When I told Ms.Trish that I was going back, she saw right through me. She helped me to realize that this was yet again part of my relapse pattern. Ms. Trish and the staff told me that I would have to make a choice. They told me that it was a choice of life or death. I knew that I would likely die if I returned to the streets. About that time, we had the church come for a chapel service at Pathfinders. I decided to go to chapel service this time. I guess the timing was right because for the first time, I learned how to pray.

I did make some choices. I talked about my real feelings. I played my guitar. I earned Boy Scout merit badges. I prayed. My old foster family began coming for family therapy. Finally, one day, my family - MY FAMILY - came to pick me up and they opened up their arms and we hugged. One big family.

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I am pleased to say that about six months after he left, Anthony called us to invite us to his Eagle Scout ceremony. Ms. Trish flew across the state to attend. Finally, I’m especially happy to report that Anthony’s foster family adopted him just before his 18th birthday.