"He's such a nice boy."

When I told my favorite teacher that another student in our class had raped me, her response was, and I quote, "Oh, Jason*? That doesn't seem like something he would do. He's such a nice boy." 

*Names have been changed.
 

"I just want my kids to have a tree."

It was tradition in our house to get our tree two weeks before Christmas, and spend an evening decorating it together as a family, sipping hot cocoa and singing carols. 

But when I was five, it was Christmas Eve, and we still didn't have a tree yet. This was when I first discovered my family was poor. 

That Christmas Eve, my mom begged my proud father to ask his friend for a tree, any tree. The friend sold them in our small town, and surely would let my dad have one with a promise to repay him once business picked up again. 

Faced with disappointing his wife and children, my dad went to do something he had never in his life done before, ask for a handout. 

I tagged along, being a Daddy's girl. He firmly told me to stay in the truck, and I watched for a minute as my dad made small talk. I rolled the window down a crack, then an inch. 

"Please, just for my kids. The ugliest, smallest tree you have, I just want my kids to have a tree." My dad couldn't look his childhood friend in the eyes. 

The friend came over to the truck and opened my door. I was afraid I'd been caught eavesdropping. "Go pick a tree honey, any tree you want!" 

Being five, I picked the largest one there. 

We left, got home and put the tree up. As we started our traditional decorating, there was a knock on the door. 

A neighbor dropping off an extra ham they had in their freezer and said Merry Christmas. Another knock, this time it was handmade hats and mittens. Another knock, another neighbor. This continued well after us kids had gone to bed. 

Christmas morning, I was the first to get up, so I snuck downstairs to see if Santa had come. I found my father sitting at the foot of our Christmas tree, crying. The room was full of gifts, some wrapped, some not, each one labelled. 

I sat in my dad's lap, unable to understand how he could possibly be crying. 

"I asked God for a miracle, instead He gave us great neighbors, and a great town."

Thirty years later, my husband still can't understand why I cannot pass a Toys for Tots bin without donating.

"You made it."

After graduating from high school at 18, I fell into a life of drugs and alcohol. I wanted to get clean, so I went to my grandmother's house. Our relationship wasn't great, but she had offered me a place to stay if I was ever in need. Strung out on meth and cocaine, I called her numerous times on the way to her house, but she didn't answer. Once I arrived at her house, she didn't answer the door. The police showed up and told me to get off the property. 

That night I slept at the bus stop around the corner from her house. I slept in the snow. 

The next morning I called my uncle who lived in another state, begging for help. All he did was give me my father's phone number. My only memory of my father was him locking me in the closet while he beat my mother. When I got ahold of him, he said, "Don't you get the point? I didn't want you then, and I don't want you now." 

I went back to my mother's house, who started crying when she saw what I had become. She helped me get off the drugs and back on my feet. 

I am now 20 years old and two years clean. I have two jobs and am in college online. I've met an amazing guy who has a similar history and is three years clean. My mom and I have an amazing relationship.

What stuck with me wasn't all the horrible things that were said to me over the years. It's what my boyfriend and mom tell me every day. 

"You're beautiful and amazing." 

"Thank you for being sober." 

"You made it." 

No matter how much my family screwed me over, I made it! 
 

"Good, bad, or indifferent, however you feel about them is alright."

Neither of my parents were in my life. I was raised by my maternal grandmother.

One day, when I was about 7 or 8, I remember coming to her asking why my dad and mom didn't want me. As I started to cry, my grandmother held me and said, "Honey! Honey. Listen to me. Your father and mother are the ones missing out. And they will regret it because you are an intelligent, beautiful, sweet girl who will grow into an amazing young woman. And when they do start wanting to come around and try to make amends? Good, bad, or indifferent, however you feel about them is alright. Don't let me, your aunt, your uncle, cousins, your godparents, your mother, your father, or whoever tell you how to feel."

Years later, what she said did come true. My father has apologized numerous times for not being there and so has my mother. But I'm in my prime, I'm in my 20s. And sometimes they get upset when I don't call them or talk to them as much like I do my grandmother, aunt, cousins, etc. 

But I just ignore both of them because I remember what my grandmother said all those years ago. 

"Good, bad, or indifferent, however you feel about them is alright."

"Despite your circumstances..."

I went into foster care when I was 16. I made the choice to do it, not wanting to go back to my abusive father after being taken from my drug addict mother. 

I had switched schools twice that year and got diagnosed with depression and bipolar. I felt depressed most days because of my parents, being at a new school, etc. 

But I had one amazing teacher who was always commending me on my schoolwork. I remember one thing in particular he said to me: "Despite the classes you're taking, and despite your circumstances, you're still managing to kick ASS in my class." 

That comment still makes me smile to this day. 

He ended up writing me a letter of recommendation for college and calling me over the summer to see how I was doing. This was back in 2010 and a thank you letter to him is long overdue. 

There were lots of horrible things that my parents said during my time in foster care which stuck with me too, but I wanted to share something that actually made me feel good about myself.

"Thank you for all you do!"

A few years ago, I landed my dream job, but it wasn't what I thought it would be. My supervisor always demoralized me. Nothing I ever did was efficient enough or even warranted a passing "thank you." I was constantly criticized and told that I needed to be better. I felt so dejected by the end of the year. I was stressed, anxious, and couldn't sleep at night because my dream job was turning into a nightmare. 

At the end of the year, I quit and got hired for a different position under a new supervisor. A very kindly, warm person that actually made me feel like a human being. 

This new supervisor randomly sent me a note that said: "Thank you for all you do!" I realized that I HAD found my dream job, and that I had always been pretty good at it. For me, it wasn't the wrong job; it was just the wrong supervisor. 

 

"...until I fit in."

I've always admired my mom. She married my dad, moved to the US from Mexico, and got her citizenship via naturalization. She worked hard to learn English, and worked even harder to provide for four us after a bitter divorce.

At one point she was working three jobs, and she still always showed us the positive even though we were really poor at the time. She often faced a lot of racism in our small town because of her (and our) heritage. 

One day, I asked her how she does it. A Hispanic woman in a small, Midwestern community making ends meet with a smile on her face, not letting the haters bring her down. She looked at me, smiled and said, "If I'm in a new place, I squish and squeeze until I fit in." 

That's always stuck with me. She made a place for herself and worked hard for it. I'm lucky if I'll ever grow to be half the woman she is.

"I'll see you in August."

I had a lot of issues with depression and suicidal thoughts in high school. Junior year, I took a college history class with a teacher who was known to be laid back. 

When the end of the year neared, I became wary of the summer because I would no longer see this wonderful teacher. He had become the only thing I looked forward to, and I think he knew that. 

When I went to say goodbye, I asked him, "What was your favorite part of this year?"

He smiled and said, "You were my favorite." 

With a few tears cascading down my face, I said, "I'll miss you, you know?" 

And he nodded, smiling, and said, "And I'll see you in August." 

It was because of him telling me I had to be back there in August that I stopped feeling suicidal. I stopped feeling as sad. Following a pretty awful breakup that summer, and a summer of pains, coming back to school and seeing my teacher's bright face and calming demeanor made me feel whole again.

I realized that he wasn't just my teacher. He surpassed that and became my friend. And seeing his face light up with such simple joys, well, it made me feel at home. And there is no place I'd rather be.

"At least one of them will turn out normal."

After years of abuse, a group home, and an abusive foster mother, my life finally settled down. I went to therapy, got diagnosed with depression and PTSD, and received the help I needed. I became happier, more confident, more in control of my life than I have ever been. I felt like for the first time, my life was going in the right direction.

One day I was talking to my adoptive mother about how my little brother might be too young for therapy because he wasn't talking much in his sessions. The she told me what his therapist said to her:

"At least one of them will turn out normal." 

I had always felt judged for what my birth parents did, but hearing that a professional believed that I would forever be tainted because of my past sticks with me. 

I may have issues, but I am not broken. I am not destined to follow in my parents' footsteps and I'm not destined to lose my battle with my illnesses. 

I understand all of this on a logical level, but there's still that intrusive voice telling me that I will fail, I'm sick, I'm not normal, and I never will be.

"I guess I did screw up minorly."

Ever since I can remember, I had difficulties in school, and I was always really socially awkward. Starting in second grade, I was severely teased for being different. 

My second grade teacher was so supportive and kind, and he advocated that I get tested to find out why I was different from everyone else. But after I was tested, my mother, who I refer to as "Birthgiver" made sure I never found out the results. 

I used to come home in tears, begging to know why I was so different, and she would say things like, "What did you do to them first to make them tease you?" "You're lazy and don't apply yourself." "The only way I can get through to you is by hitting you." "You need to stop being such a baby." 

By high school, I finally just stopped asking why I was different. Stopped telling her in detail about how cruel kids were to me. I just started saying "I'm fine," and, "School was fine."

I started dating someone at age 19, got married and divorced, and didn't speak to my birthgiver for eight years. 

When I finally reached out to her, I hoped that she had realized her faults in our relationship.  Instead of taking accountability for what she did, she just said. "Oh, yeah, I guess I did screw up minorly by not telling you that you have autism."

That has always stuck with me. If I had known I had autism sooner, and she had gotten me some additional help from outside school, maybe I wouldn't have struggled for so long.