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I am guilty of being judgmental towards a young lady whose experiences are very similar to mine. She is in, what I consider, a toxic relationship with herself and a man. In the past, I have extended counsel but she never seemed to be affected or effected by my advise. The more I knew about her and the comings and goings of her relationship, the more hypercritical I became. But who was I? I had definitely been in similar situations and barely missed pregnancies and host of other things. So why wasn’t I more empathetic and concerned? I gather that it was because when I looked at her, I saw myself. Her faults were a reflection of mine and I hated it. So, instead of dealing with Charkes, I stopped acknowledging her and had begun to label her as a weak woman who was no good for the person she was with. I was really talking to myself.

There is no way I could reach anyone without first reaching myself. In addition, I would be nothing more than a hypocrite if I could blog my experiences claiming to want to help the world and turn my nose up at the person standing next to me, screaming for help. Today my spirit was convicted and I reached out to her. I apologized and shared some very intimate stories about myself. At the end of our conversation, she assured me that I would see a change within the next couple of months. I believe her.

So you have a five year old at home alone with an four year old, a three year old and a two year old. After a while, our neighbors discovered what was going on and got involved. Before we knew it, there were people at our door who called themselves “HRS” (Human Resource Services).

Against my mother’s directives, I opened the door. Before me stood a white woman and man asking all of right questions. “What’s your name?” “Where are your parents?” “Are you home alone?” And the most important question, “Can we come in?”. I had grown tired of our situation, so I was happy to see them and even happier to let them into our home.

As they surveyed, I could tell they were less than surprised at what they saw. Our kitchen was their last stop. The cupboards were empty and when they opened the refrigerator the only visible food was a jar of mayonnaise, a jug of water and a completely eaten loaf of bread with the exception of the two end pieces. It was evident that HRS was going to do something. Within minutes, we were in the back of a police car headed to the local police station.

The police officers fed us as we waited on one of our parents to pick us up. Although this was not the first visit from HRS, this would be the last time our parents would have custody of us.

The next time they paid us a visit we were taken to what I remember as a group home for mentally challenged children. I can recall an older aged boy lying in an infant crib. He was mentally challenged and likely couldn’t walk because his lower extremities were contracted. He cried all night long. I lied in bed wondering what would happen to us, wondering if we would remain in this place for the rest of our lives. I felt as if I had been captured and imprisoned for no justifiable reason. Soon, both the boy in the crib and I were crying, maybe crying for the same reasons.