For some people, telling the story of their life is easy. They're born, they grow up in a nice house with a good family, they go to good schools, they go to a good college, marry their high school sweetheart, have a perfect job, 2.5 kids, a golden lab, and a mini van.

For me, however, it's not that simple and it's not that nice. It started out the same as everyone else. I was born. October 10, 1987, at 2:26 in the morning. That, however, is where the similarities between my story and other people's stories end. I suppose I might have grown up in a nice house, with a nice family, and been happy...if my mother hadn't died when I was five. To this day, I don't know what happened to her. I was too young to be told the details when it happened, other than to be told that mommy wasn't coming home and that she had gone to be with the angels. By the time I was old enough to know the truth about what happened, there was nobody around who knew to be able to tell me.

When our mother died my older half sister, my mom's daughter from a prior marriage, went to live with her dad. My younger brother and I stayed with our father. Looking back, I'm jealous of my sister. I don't know for sure, but I'd guess that she probably had a better life than I've had. I'm not trying to gain sympathy by saying that...just calling it how it is.

While my sister went off to her father myself and my younger brother stayed with our father. At first things went on as normal...well, as normal as they could be with your mother dead. There was a time of grieving in our house but we all got through it as a family. But then, a couple years after mom died, things started to change. It was gradual at first. So gradual that I hardly noticed it happening. It started small, then increased in frequency and in..type, I guess you'd say. I was only a little girl, so I didn't fully understand what was happening or that it was wrong. Then, when I was ten, we had one of those classes in school....the type that tells you about stranger danger and about the places that you shouldn't let strangers touch you. I, being young and innocent, piped up and said that my daddy touched me in those places, but that it was okay because he wasn't a stranger. The next day the police and a social worker showed up at my house. I haven't seen my father since.

By the time you're ten, you're no longer cute and cuddly so you're not really adoptable. Especially when your father won't sign away his parental rights and nobody wants to take the time, energy, and money to go through the courts to get them severed. So, I spent my adolescence being bounced from foster home to foster home. For a year they managed to keep my brother and I together, but it's hard to place siblings together, especially once they're older. So when we were eleven and nine we were split up. I don't know what happened to him after that.

As for me, I just kept being moved around every six months to a year. The longest I was anywhere was about a year and a half...maybe a little longer, not quite two years. Nobody wanted a long term commitment, so they kept me for awhile then pawned me off to the next foster family. For eight long years, until I aged out of the system, I got shuffled around. The day I graduated high school my foster dad of the moment told me I had a week to get out of the house. I threw what I could in a bag and left the next day.

The first year and a half I bounced from friend's house to friend's house. Staying a week or two here, a few nights there, a month at this place. But that can only last for so long before people get tired of you freeloading off of them. For about past year and a half or so...since Christmas of '07 until April of '09....I was living wherever I could. Whatever shelter had an opening, whatever alley seemed safest, whatever bridge wasn't taken up by a million other people in the same situation that I'm in. Every now and then I'd meet someone who will take me in for a night or two, but those are few and far between. Mostly, it was just me looking out for myself. I've gotten pretty good at that in my life.

In April of 2009, I reconnected with someone from my past, one of my old foster brothers. He took me in off the street, gave me a place to stay when I need one. We even tried at a relationship, but we later decided that it just wasn't working for us. We weren't at the right point in our lives to have that kind of a relationship with each other. For now, we're just better as friends. Maybe someday fate will cross our paths again or maybe we will both move on on our own separate paths...who knows? I won't lie, it stung. It hurt like hell. But in my heart, I know this was the right decision for us. I really did love him, though. I will always love him.

So, in order to pick up the pieces and clear my head, I decided to move out of the city. Needing to put distance between myself and my ex, I moved. For awhile I bounced from place to place, trying to find somewhere that felt right. That felt like home. Eventually, my car broke down and, well, I've been here almost three years, trying to make a life for myself. It's hard sometimes, but...I keep on keeping on.

And that, is the life story of me: Alexia Nicole Jarrett.

Alexia Nicole Jarrett
	For some people, telling the story of their life is easy. They're born, they grow up in a nice house with a good family, they go to good schools, they go to a good college, marry their high school sweetheart, have a perfect job, 2.5 kids, a golden lab, and a mini van. For me, however, it's not that simple and it's not that nice. It started out the same as everyone else. I was born. October 10, 1987, at 2:26 in the morning. That, however, is where the similarities between my story and other people's stories end. I suppose I might have grown up in a nice house, with a nice family, and been happy...if my mother hadn't died when I was five. To this day, I don't know what happened to her. I was too young to be told the details when it happened, other than to be told that mommy wasn't coming home and that she had gone to be with the angels. By the time I was old enough to know the truth about what happened, there was nobody around who knew to be able to tell me. When our mother died my older half sister, my mom's daughter from a prior marriage, went to live with her dad. My younger brother and I stayed with our father. Looking back, I'm jealous of my sister. I don't know for sure, but I'd guess that she probably had a better life than I've had. I'm not trying to gain sympathy by saying that...just calling it how it is. While my sister went off to her father myself and my younger brother stayed with our father. At first things went on as normal...well, as normal as they could be with your mother dead. There was a time of grieving in our house but we all got through it as a family. But then, a couple years after mom died, things started to change. It was gradual at first. So gradual that I hardly noticed it happening. It started small, then increased in frequency and in..type, I guess you'd say. I was only a little girl, so I didn't fully understand what was happening or that it was wrong. Then, when I was ten, we had one of those classes in school....the type that tells you about stranger danger and about the places that you shouldn't let strangers touch you. I, being young and innocent, piped up and said that my daddy touched me in those places, but that it was okay because he wasn't a stranger. The next day the police and a social worker showed up at my house. I haven't seen my father since. By the time you're ten, you're no longer cute and cuddly so you're not really adoptable. Especially when your father won't sign away his parental rights and nobody wants to take the time, energy, and money to go through the courts to get them severed. So, I spent my adolescence being bounced from foster home to foster home. For a year they managed to keep my brother and I together, but it's hard to place siblings together, especially once they're older. So when we were eleven and nine we were split up. I don't know what happened to him after that. As for me, I just kept being moved around every six months to a year. The longest I was anywhere was about a year and a half...maybe a little longer, not quite two years. Nobody wanted a long term commitment, so they kept me for awhile then pawned me off to the next foster family. For eight long years, until I aged out of the system, I got shuffled around. The day I graduated high school my foster dad of the moment told me I had a week to get out of the house. I threw what I could in a bag and left the next day. The first year and a half I bounced from friend's house to friend's house. Staying a week or two here, a few nights there, a month at this place. But that can only last for so long before people get tired of you freeloading off of them. For about past year and a half or so...since Christmas of '07 until April of '09....I was living wherever I could. Whatever shelter had an opening, whatever alley seemed safest, whatever bridge wasn't taken up by a million other people in the same situation that I'm in. Every now and then I'd meet someone who will take me in for a night or two, but those are few and far between. Mostly, it was just me looking out for myself. I've gotten pretty good at that in my life. In April of 2009, I reconnected with someone from my past, one of my old foster brothers. He took me in off the street, gave me a place to stay when I need one. We even tried at a relationship, but we later decided that it just wasn't working for us. We weren't at the right point in our lives to have that kind of a relationship with each other. For now, we're just better as friends. Maybe someday fate will cross our paths again or maybe we will both move on on our own separate paths...who knows? I won't lie, it stung. It hurt like hell. But in my heart, I know this was the right decision for us. I really did love him, though. I will always love him. So, in order to pick up the pieces and clear my head, I decided to move out of the city. Needing to put distance between myself and my ex, I moved. For awhile I bounced from place to place, trying to find somewhere that felt right. That felt like home. Eventually, my car broke down and, well, I've been here almost three years, trying to make a life for myself. It's hard sometimes, but...I keep on keeping on. And that, is the life story of me: Alexia Nicole Jarrett.