BRATTLEBORO — The first time I ran away, my parents told me to come back,” Sarah said. “But it didn't take me long to realize that nothing had changed. They still didn't care about me. Three months later, I ran away again.”
“I left them a piece of paper with a phone number so they could get hold of me, but they never called. Not once in four years,” the 20-year-old young woman added.
It was my first meeting with Sarah, and I was trying to get a clear understanding of her situation. Why was she here? What was she looking for?
She had walked in from the street one day last week and asked for help finding a place to stay. She was couch-surfing, she explained at the front desk, and had been told by the family she was staying with at the moment that she needed to be out in a couple of weeks.
“I would like my own place, where I can lock the door and, you know, just be myself,” she told me.
For Sarah, privacy was an unknown. Growing up, she had never had her own room, always sharing with her older siblings. The last three years before running away, she had been a full-time nanny for her baby sister, feeling abused and unappreciated.
Since running away, she had been a spectator to other people's family life, sleeping on a mattress on the floor in her friends' rooms, at the mercy of their parents: four years without ever being at ease, without ever feeling at home.
Officially, the type of work I do is called case management. I like to call it life coaching. Basically, it's about helping youth figure out what they want to accomplish and actively supporting them in the process of getting there.
* * *
Through my short time as a case manager for homeless youth, I had heard several stories similar to Sarah's.
My first client, four months earlier, was abandoned by his parents at the age of 14. By the time I got to know him, he had lived with various friends' families for three years. Now, as a high school senior, he had been told by the mother where he was staying that he needed to find another place. He came to us because he had no one else to turn to.
He worked 20 hours a week and had an old, beat-up car that was no longer drivable. However, the school year had just started, and the weather was still warm. He planned to spend his savings fixing up the car and then sleep in it.
Another client, a young female seven months pregnant, had been couch-surfing with a neverending list of friends for the last 18 months, staying with each somewhere between two and three months on average.
She had run away from her mother and stepfather, who were very strict, and she never wanted to return. She hadn't seen or heard from her father since that court hearing six years ago where he was charged with sexually abusing her for a prolonged period of time.
* * *
Usually, when meeting a homeless youth the first time, there is one moment in our conversation that stands out for me.
This moment doesn't have to be something that seems especially significant to my clients. Often, it is just one painful sentence among many. But for me, it shapes how I see and understand them, and it sticks with me for a long time.
With Sarah, that moment came when I realized that she had lost not just her biological family, but also her family of choice.
“The first two years, I lived with my best friend and her family,” she said. “I would never have graduated from high school had it not been for her mother.”
But then, “we got into a fight over her boyfriend, and she told me to leave. I haven't talked to her since,” said Sarah.
Since graduating two years ago, Sarah's life had been at a standstill. She had held no job and had no real hobbies.
“I'm a gamer,” she said.
I looked puzzled.
“I play video games,” she explained.
* * *
Even though Sarah's goal was independent living, we quickly realized that we needed to start somewhere else. She needed a job.
With no income whatsoever, it's hard to afford a place of your own. With help from another agency, she soon started working part time as a dishwasher.
Shortly thereafter, Sarah and I went to look at a shared living arrangement - a so-called single-room occupancy, or SRO - where she would have her own room (with a door she could lock), her own fridge and cupboard (also with locks), and shared kitchen, dining room, and living room with eight other tenants.
For Sarah, the prospect of getting her own place was so exciting that she saved up the $800 needed for first month's rent and security deposit in just two months. I have funds available to help qualified youth pay up to two-thirds of these start-up costs when moving into their first place, but Sarah wasn't interested. Despite part-time and minimum wage, she wanted to do it on her own.
“I would love a Subway sandwich,” Sarah would say to me at almost every meeting during those two months. “But I need to save up my money.”
And so she did. In that short time, she spent no unnecessary money, and every other week she would cash her paycheck and go to the landlord to pay off a bit more of the startup costs. I had already promised her that when she was moved in, our agency would help her access a rent stipend of $100 a month. That would cover one-third of her rent.
* * *
Then one day, 3½ months after our first meeting, Sarah and I sat, staring at the Connecticut River, eating Subway sandwiches. We were celebrating.
It was a sunny day in early spring, and Sarah had just moved into her own place.
“It's strange, having my own place. It's nice and kind of lonely at the same time. But I think I can get used to it,” Sarah said with a smile and took another bite.
It has been four months now, and Sarah and I have been meeting at least once a week. And, let me tell you, it has not been all been just a picnic for her.
She lost her job two months ago and has been struggling paying her rent since then.
Had it not been for the active support from Youth Services, she would have lost her home also and been back to couch-surfing.