Looking back at my past, it’s clear to me how I got in this position. One in 10 children are victims of child abuse; I grew up with a mentally ill mother in a household fraught with neglect. My parents reminded me on a daily basis that I was nothing more than a burden to them, and I was desperate to prove them wrong and to find some worthiness in my existence. As a teen, I spent my weekends working at an animal shelter and volunteering with the special-needs children at my church. When I was old enough to leave home at the age of 18, I quickly did, traveling the country as a missionary, helping the rebuilding efforts in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, and even volunteering at a food bank.
But, despite my desire to leave my abusive past behind, I was young and inexperienced, and I married a man with all the qualities I was running away from. Over time, my desire to help the world fell away as I focused on just surviving with an abusive husband. Four years into our marriage, our first child was born, followed by a second child. Three years ago, my husband left, his only legacy a history of drug addiction and abuse and two children who grieve for the parent they lost. I am now a single mom without a college education to fall back on.
Isometimes cry myself to sleep at night as the emptiness of my stomach claws at my soul. I wear donated clothing and recently had to tell my daughter for the third year in a row that I cannot afford to throw her a birthday party. I never expected my life to turn out like this, and I’m sure that the other 48.1 million Americans who are also food insecure feel the same way.
