I became homeless in 1987 because I was abused as a child until I was 18. I don’t know how it happened, but I became homeless after my last foster mother died. I remained homeless until I was 52-years-old, as I can remember. I was sleeping in and out of the streets, panhandling and asking people for food. I was drinking all the time. I would drink more than I ate. Because of that, I became depressed. I was even suicidal for a long time.
I just felt sorry for myself because I didn’t think anybody cared. It was because, at that time, I didn’t have anyone to care for me. I would just go off all the time. One day, I was walking by and I was about to jump off a flight of escalator steps. A police officer rode by on his bike, he then jumped off of his bike and grabbed me to keep me from going off the steps. A judge ordered me to go to St. Elizabeth’s. I was there for five years because I was no longer considered safe on the streets after that one suicide attempt.
