No Place to Go

By Miguel Ayala

Nov. 5, 2003: Where Will I Live When I Turn 21?

I live in a group home for teens with mental illness. When I turn 21 in a couple of months, I will have to leave foster care. Because of that, I have a million worries about where I’ll live, how I will get money, and how will I eat when I can barely boil an egg.

My old social worker, Sarah, told me I would get “supportive housing” when I leave care, which means I’d live in a group home similar to the one I’m in now, only it will be a home for adults. A year ago Sarah applied for me to get supportive housing when I turned 21. But then I ran away from the group home for 5 months because I couldn’t handle the bullying there. I didn’t realize it might affect my getting housing after I left care. But my application couldn’t go through while I was gone, and when I returned, I learned that my social worker was quitting her job. So my application for supportive housing went on hold.

Last April, my next social worker, Ms. Brown, tried to pick up where my last worker left off, but nothing seemed to come of that. Now I live in fear that I won’t have supportive housing by my 21st birthday. I’m afraid I’ll end up homeless, or that my group home will commit me to a hospital until I get proper housing. My latest social worker, Mr. Raggi, and everyone else tells me that of course these things won’t happen, that they will find me somewhere to live.

Mr. Raggi is very supportive and cool. He’s worked in foster care for 18 years so he knows what he’s doing. He restarted the process to get me housing in September. He got me an updated letter from the housing department saying I was approved for supportive housing and could be in a home for adults with drug or alcohol issues. Still, I can’t help being a little scared.

Nov. 10: A Home Near the Zoo?

Mr. Raggi, and I have been going to lots of appointments to make sure I get my “SSI disability benefits,” (monthly money from the government since I have a mental illness and cannot support myself right now). Having these benefits will make it easier for me to find supportive housing since most of that money will go to the residence.

Raggi and I also went to look at a home in the Bronx, near the zoo. Looking at it made me feel optimistic and hopeful about my future. It was very clean and nice and had an elevator and laundry machines. The home had a social worker and psychiatrist on site, which made me feel safe—I’m used to having a lot of support around.

The staff at the home seemed nice. After they interviewed me, I was excited and sure they would take me. But they rejected me. I’m not sure why. Raggi thought it was because I need more treatment than they can give. I felt heartbroken.

Raggi said not to worry, he’d keep looking. Even though he’s working hard, I would like him to look a little harder since time is not on my side.

Nov. 17: Gunshots

One day last week I was in a pizzeria near my group home in the Bronx. Halfway through eating my slice, a guy in his teens pulled out a pistol. The next thing I knew I heard a POP! Everyone was in a state of pandemonium. When the smoke cleared I went straight home. I didn’t even stay around to see if anyone got hurt. I didn’t want to know.

Walking home, I thought, “Whatever, so what, somebody shot a gun near me,” but soon I felt really freaked. Three days later I'm still having violent dreams.

To make everything worse, the bullying at my group home has started up again. This kid, L, keeps calling me “psycho,” “crazy,” and “insane.” I can’t take it anymore. I have 59 days left in foster care and I really do feel on the brink of insanity.

Jan. 6, 2004: Going Down Memory Lane (And Hating It)

Today was a very hard day. Raggi got me an interview with this young woman named Ms. Foster, from Lifespire, an agency that helps find housing. Ms. Foster asked me questions about my life, my past, even how prematurely my twin brother and I were born. “Two or three months,” I said.

She asked if I had drugs in my system when I was born and I said I didn’t know. My father died from drug addiction, but I don’t know if my mother used.

That interview got me down. It had me thinking for the rest of the day about my past and my mother, who gave my twin and me up for adoption at age 3. What the f-ck? Who gives their kids up after they’ve had them that long?

At 3 I went to live with my father’s sister. That’s when things really got bad. She started beating me and touching me until, years later, someone put two and two together, removed me from her home, and put me in a group home. I was 16. And I’ve been in care ever since.

There’s only 10 days to “crunch time,” aka my birthday. I still don’t have a place to live. I could be homeless. Or maybe my moms will see where she went wrong and take me back all these years after she gave me up?

Jan. 8: Eight Days to Discharge, No Place to Live

Right now my life really sucks. Eight days to my discharge. Eight days! The director of treatment services at my foster care agency said to me, “On Jan 16th [my birthday] you can’t legally stay here whether you have placement or not!”

Where will I go? What will I do?

Jan. 10: If At First You Don’t Succeed…

Yet another housing interview. This one was inside a hospital complex. That made me worried. I thought, “Oh God, if they accept me I’ll have to live in a hospital!”

I had a lot of time to worry about that because the interviewer was one and a half hours late. Then he asked the same regimen of questions I’ve become so used to: “Why did you come into foster care? Why do you want to move here?”

Afterwards, he rejected me. He said I couldn’t live there because of my age. That didn’t make sense. If I was too young couldn’t he have denied me before even meeting me? Why did they make me come to the site and answer a million questions?

Raggi thought I was rejected was because I am too active, too “functioning,” he said. I’m in so many programs, like Fountain House and writing for Represent. Raggi said that this residence mostly takes men coming out of long-term hospitalization.

Oh my God. Getting housing is like winning the lottery.

Jan. 14: The Greatest Birthday Gift Ever

Ms. Allen, the social worker supervisor at my group home, and Mr. Raggi gave me two of the greatest birthday gifts a teen in care bound for homelessness could ever get: A temporary place to stay after I turn 21 and peace of mind.

They said that because they have not found me housing I can stay at my group home after I turn 21. The conditions of me staying on at the group are that I cannot drink (which ruins my b-day plans, as I wanted to be lit that day), and I can’t fight or physically harm myself.

I accepted these rules and now feel a sense of security I haven’t had in months. Amen.

Jan. 26: Bawling Like a Baby

Last Friday I went to my second housing interview at a place that rejected me once before, a couple of months ago. They rejected me the first time because my paperwork hadn’t come in, so LifeSpire told me to try again.

This time I brought all the papers I needed with me to the home, and sat through another interview. But in the end, they did not accept me.

The reason they gave is hard for me to understand and accept: I am not mentally ill enough. You see, I am what they call an Axis 2, meaning I suffer from depression, suicidal thoughts and attempts, and borderline personality disorder, which basically means I have very severe mood swings that land me in the hospital. But their program only houses people who are Axis 1, meaning they are not only bipolar, like me, but also have schizophrenia.

So basically, while I have problems, I don’t have enough.

As the car heated up for the long ride back home to the Bronx, I broke down and began crying like a newborn baby. My social worker tried to tell me something reassuring. “Just cause they didn’t accept you here doesn’t mean their whole agency has rejected you,” he said. “Your case is going to be sent to other houses in their agency.”

Hearing that made my tears subside, but I am still sad. Millions of questions are going through my mind, such as, “Where will I eventually live?” “Is this all my fault?” “Why doesn’t anyone want me?” “How would my life be if my dad never died?”

Sometime in March: The Residents Want me Out

I feel angry a lot of the time. Frustrated. Wondering where do I belong. I spend most of my days ranting and raving about how I have no housing and how the other kids are picking on me about how I’m 21 and should not be living at my group home anymore. They are trying to get me to fight them, calling me “psycho,” and “nutcase.” I don’t know how much longer I can handle this.

April 3: I Ran

A lot has happened since I last wrote.

First, I left my group home.

Here’s why: I got into an argument with my roommate and he hit me in the face with a closed fist. Blood started pouring out of my nose and mouth. The next day I went to another housing interview and got rejected again. I just couldn’t take another rejection, especially since my head had started throbbing from the blow. I decided enough was enough. I couldn’t keep living in a group home with a bunch of people who didn’t want me there. So I got myself together and left.

I went to Covenant House, but because I am 21 now and they only serve teens they would not take me. So I went to Bellevue, where adult men go when they first enter the shelter system. They diagnosed me with a mental illness, and told me I would be staying at Bellevue, the shelter for mentally ill adults.

April 5: Welcome to Shelter Living
The ironic thing about Bellevue is that it’s right across the street from the Administration for Children’s Services, as if this is a natural place for those of us who grew up in foster care to end up. Next door, there’s a morgue.

It is bad here. The bathrooms are disgusting, smelling like something I can’t describe. We sleep on cots with thin-assed mattresses, but I’d rather sleep on those than in the cold rain on the ground. The clients live up to all the stereotypes about homelessness by stealing and not bathing. My navy blue book bag with all my poems and my CD player was stolen when I turned my back for three seconds. Seriously.

But one guard, who is white as a piece of paper, is mad cool and ghetto. When he found out I wrote for Represent, he said “You’re doing your thing. I like that. Keep it up.”

April 12: Life’s Looking Up

Well the past three days were mostly awesome! I moved in with a friend I know from Represent, and agreed to pay half the rent to live with her. (No more shelters for me!) I also made more than $100 selling copies of Represent on the streets. Then I sent an email to my twin, who is in Iraq, serving in the army. I felt so, so happy to hear from him and to know he’s OK.

May 17: Locked Out

The past four days have been very, very hard.

My roommate and I got in a fight so I met up with a friend to chill. When I came back to the apartment, I put the key in the lock but I could not get in. My roommate had locked the second lock that I don’t have a key to. I figured she had made a mistake and would be home soon. It was a quarter after 11, so I sat down and fell asleep.

When I woke up hours later in the hallway, my first thought was, “Where am I?” Then I started panicking. I felt very scared and disoriented. Not knowing what time it was, I got up and went outside. That’s when my panic turned to anger. My “friend” had locked me out! Suddenly I wanted to cut myself again, just to feel the physical pain instead of emotional hurt.

I knew what to do. I went to the hospital to get help, even though I’d been told a million times that each time I go into the hospital feeling suicidal it’s less likely I’ll find a housing program to accept me. But at that moment I didn’t care. I thought that if I didn’t go I might really cut myself, or worse.

Now, I have been discharged and I feel like I’ve ruined everything. My roommate has still not let me back in the apartment, even though all my belongings are there. So I have nowhere to live again. I have to go back to the shelter.

Sept. 6: A Year Later and Still No Home

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