FCYU-Feature Story

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. The dreams seem so real. In them I'm in the park where all is calm and peaceful and the next thing I know I get mad and pull out an automatic weapon and start shooting things.

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. At one point I even packed my bags and was prepared to go to Covenant House, the homeless shelter for teens in Times Square where I stayed for most of those months I'd run away.

I have 59 days left in foster care and I really do feel on the brink of insanity.

Nov. 18: Stress and More Stress

I was in my room patiently waiting for my ex-roommate, Mike, and his friend Antoine to finish their game of S.O.S. They took so long time that when they finally finished I was pissed off. Then my roommate took my radio without asking, to play his corny-ass music. I got up, put on my Timbs, got a couple of cigars, and went to the PJ's (a.k.a. projects). I went to my mans and said, "I'm so f-cking stressed."

He called someone and said to me, "Chill for a few, I got you. I got a girl named 'T' who you can speak to and possibly beat (sex up) to."

But she took her sweet ass time so I left and went home.

Nov. 27 : A Time to Be Thankful…Not!

Thanksgiving is a time when families get together and give thanks for what they have…NOT ME!

Well, that's not completely true, I have to thank Bob Marley for creating the herb marijuana.*

I woke up at exactly 9:07 p.m. after an 8-hour nap of dreams about trying to kill myself. To forget the dreams, I got dressed and copped a bag of weed and did the only thing a stoner would do: "I ate it, I ate it."* I didn't feel much, so I copped another bag. This time "I got high, high, high."*

* Disclaimers:

1. Bob Marley did not create marijuana

2. From "Tales Of a Fourth Grade Nothing," by Judy Blume

3. From the street hit "Goodtimes" by Styles P

Dec. 06: Why Me?

I was sleeping when this new kid named Carl came in my room. I woke to him feeling up on me. I said, "What the f-ck are you doing?"

He said, "I just wanted to borrow CDs."

Ok, granted, but why is he digging in my drawers?

I let it slide thinking that I was just bugging out. Then, the next morning, guess what? Same thing! So I yelled, "GET THE F-CK OUT MY ROOM!" And he did.

This got me thinking about a lot of things:

1. Is this a punishment from God for being gay?

2. Will I ever be comfortable around the issue of sex?

3. Will I ever stop being sexually violated?

I had the urge to smoke due to the stress and my worries about where I'll live when I turn 21, which were "compounding up," as my friend Joe says. So I left the group home and got lit as a Christmas tree. Of course, that meant I got into a big argument when I returned to the group home. I don't know how much longer I can take this.

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 is Korean, and who is no longer really my mother. After all, she 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 sh-t really hit the fan. 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?

If an angel is on my shoulder, I could get my crib yet.

Jan. 7: Lightning Bugs in the Night

The night before last I smoked some greens. They looked like lightning bugs, with the weed rolled in black blunt paper and the tip burning in the night. The weed did something bad to me. I could not sleep at all, so I stayed up all night and dressed, showered and cleaned my side of the room by 6:54 a.m. I felt strange. Later, when the staff handed me $50.00 and asked me to get change at the corner store, I stole it. Hello! They know I've done that before so why wouldn't I do it again?

Jan. 8: Eight Days to Discharge, No Place to Live
Right now my life is really shitty. 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 5 minutes from Yankee Stadium and in a hospital. 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 one-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? Why did they make Raggi and me wait an hour and a half?

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 the residence near the hospital mostly takes men coming out of longterm hospitalization.

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

Jan. 14: The Greatest Birthday Gift Ever

Due to the blessings of my Lord, who I pray to each night, 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. (I think they are doing this purely to be kind-they said they stop getting money from the government to look after me since I am no longer officially in foster care when 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.

Later on Jan. 14: Mom Needs Surgery
Just as soon my housing problem seemed to be temporarily taken care of, I get a family problem. My mother-my father's sister who raised me until I went into care-has to have surgery tomorrow on her knee. She is diabetic and anemic and so the doctors say she may have a hard time in surgery. I am scared for her and can't stop worrying about how her surgery will go.

Jan. 15: A Moment of Joy

Tomorrow is my birthday! I will be 21! And I have nothing to fear! I can keep living where I am!

(4:53 p.m.)

After writing the brief diary entry above at the Represent office, I went outside to smoke a cigarette. When I came back, Nora, one of the editors here, said, "Miguel, Kendra is looking for you." Kendra is my editor. I said, "Why? I do something wrong?"

"I don't know," said Nora. "You better find out." As if on cue, Kendra walked out of the conference room and said to me, "We better talk." So thinking I'm in trouble, I followed her into the room and guess what? Smack in the middle of the table is a cake, a gift, and all the staff there to wish me happy b-day!

We ate cake, talked, and I shared a couple of the painful experiences I went through this past year, such as cutting myself, drinking, and wilding out in general.

Jan. 16: Birthday Blessings

Today is my b-day! Yay! I am "legal" to drink, got loot to burn, people to see, and things to do.

I saw my friend Indira and she blessed me with a leather coat. Then I saw my mom at the hospital who recently came out of surgery. Bless her, Lord, in your name, Jesus Christ Amen.

Jan. 20: Mom's Health Deteriorates and It Feels Like My Fault

Right now I am very emotional. I just do not care about anything. My mom's health is deteriorating to the point to where I think I might lose her permanently. And even though I know she abused me and I had to be removed from her home, I feel like it's all my fault. I have so many thoughts running through my head, like, "Maybe if I loved her more, wasn't as bad a kid, showed a little more respect and compassion when I was in her home she would not be sick at all."

Jan. 22: Can We All Start Over Again?

Dear Mom,

I am so sorry for what I ever did to you to make you mad. I am also sorry for putting you down in the worst way. I didn't mean what I said about you not being my real mother. I know you were and will always be my mother. You were the one who raised me. I remember you taking my brother and me to Coney Island, Atlantic City, St. Mary's Park, and to the movies. All I ask is that you can stay alive, forgive me, and let us start all over again.

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. Lifespire told me to try the place again, because they rejected me the first time because my SSI letter had not come in. (An SSI letter is what tells a residence that you receive money from the government for having a disability. If they take you in they will get that money to look after you.)

This time I brought my SSI letter with me to the home, which was in Brooklyn on Patchen Avenue. It was a white brownstone, with an elevator. A different man interviewed me this time, but like the first person who talked to me, he acted more professional and formal than I like. He sounded like he didn't care if I was comfortable. This made me very nervous and unsure.

In the end, he did not accept me into the program even though I had the SSI letter. The reason he 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.

After they rejected me, my therapist and a social worker, Mr. Lee, and I climbed back into the car to head home. As the car heated up for the long ride back home to the Bronx, I broke down and began crying like a newborn baby. Mr. Lee 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. "It just means that this one house has closed their doors on you. 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?"

Feb. 2: More Help to Find Housing

I went to Fountain House today. Fountain House is a clubhouse for people who are mentally ill. They have activities like horticulture class, where we learn to make flower arrangements for the building, as well as their own dining room and snack bar. I've been going there on and off for a few years.

My worker at Fountain House, Jessica, asked me how my housing search was going. "I was denied again," I said. I felt down as soon as I said it.

"What's taking them so long?" she asked. She seemed upset. All these people in my life expected me to find a place to live long, long ago. Here it is, months after they've started looking for me, and I'm still without a permanent home. I've been on about 11 or 12 interviews for housing and am beginning to feel it's pointless.

I told Jessica no one wanted me because I am a "liability," with all my attempted suicides and hospitalizations, but even as I said it I didn't know if that was true. Everyone who has rejected me has given a different reason. Some people say that the real reason is simply because a lot of housing programs discriminate against young people.

I am getting tired of living at my group home and not knowing where I will be next. The other kids at my group home are tired of me being there, too. They expected me to be gone when I turned 21, and since I am still there, and anxious all the time about my future, the harassment has gotten worse.

Jessica decided to step in and help out. She called Raggi and had him fax over the official letter saying I am approved for supportive housing. Fountain House has some residences for people like me. She said she would put me on the waiting list.

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 going to Fountain House 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. They say that I'm a grown man, should not be living with children, and ask things like, "What if you get in a fight?" They are trying to get me to fight them to find out, saying things like, "your mother," "you psycho," "you nutcase." Since I'm not a minor and they are, they want to know if I'd get arrested for child abuse if I fight them. I wonder about this myself.

I don't know how much longer I can handle this.

The one good thing is that since my social worker said I could stay on in the group home I have stayed pretty sober

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. So I went to the hospital where they gave me a CAT scan. Under the scan machine, I decided enough was enough. It was taking too long for anyone to find me housing. 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, which is for teens, but because I am 21, 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, is 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 not bathing, by stealing, and by begging when they leave the shelter. 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 some of the guards working here are mad cool. One guy, who is white as a piece of paper, is mad cool and ghetto. When he found out I wrote for Represent, he said "Oh, sh-t, you're doing your thing. I like that. Keep it up." And some of the guards living here bought copies of the magazine from me even though it's against the shelter's rules. I guess they just wanted to help me out.

One truly positive thing I've done is open a bank account at Fountain House to manage my SSI funds. I also got help finding housing from yet another person-Vivian, at Voices for Youth, a program that teaches foster teens to speak publicly. I've been in the program for a while. I told Vivian about my problems and she is going to help. She says she'll find me a place to live if it's the last thing she does.

Now I have a bunch of people working on my case-Raggi, Jessica at Fountain House, Lifespire, and now Vivian. I have had so many interviews for housing that I can't even count.

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.

But I also smoked weed with my new roommate, and I feel guilty about it. I don't feel like I should be smoking if I am going to be guilt-ridden after each time I do it.

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 the f-ck 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.

I called Voices of Youth, from the hospital and spoke to Giselle. She told me what I already knew: I had to stop attempting suicide and stop going to the hospital if I ever want housing. She said I was creating a "medical history" for myself, and that since Medicaid has to pay each time I'm hospitalized, eventually they can just decide to lock me up permanently. She told me she had almost found me housing through a friend of hers who works in a program, but that she's worried that they won't take someone who has just come out of a hospital.

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

I can't believe it has been almost a year since I started this diary. So much has happened. I turned 21. Left the group home. Lived in a shelter and then with a friend. Went back to the shelter, and met my girlfriend at Fountain House. Misty and I lived on park benches for a while and then she cheated on me. Soon I was with Kenisha, another person from Fountain House, who was much older than me and let me stay with her. But when I missed her birthday, she slapped me in public and then left me. I went through a lot of pain over it. I miss her, and now I am back at the shelter.

I have been rejected by about a million housing programs and I still don't understand why it is so hard to find a home. Will living in shelters be my life? Will I ever have a stable home? How did this happen to me? I was going crazy thinking about it all, so I went and relapsed, cutting, drinking, drugging. I am scared I will end up in a hospital permanently.

After Miguel's last diary entry, Miguel secured a room in one of Fountain House's residences on September 30. However, in only two weeks of living there, Miguel was hospitalized three times for overdosing on over-the-counter medication and was told to leave the residence. With no place to live, Miguel returned to the shelter system. This time, the city required Miguel to go to shelters for men with substance abuse issues. He described this shelter as one of the hardest place imaginable to stay away from drugs. "There were people walking in high, drunk, selling drugs inside the shelter by the shelter anything they can do to make a score, or the next hit," he said.

Eventually Miguel was hospitalized at Kings County hospital for one month. He was and discharged to the shelter. Several weeks later, a social worker at the shelter found Miguel a home in a supportive residence for adults with substance abuse issues. Miguel has been living there for four months. He has been hospitalized for overdosing once during that time, but was allowed to return to his home. Miguel says the residence feels like a place he can stay. For now.