Ask young people locked up in a juvenile hall, and chances are they will say that the journey into the criminal justice system started with running from a foster parent or a group home they just could not stomach. Running away is often a major element in the process which leaves many young people stigmatized as incorrigible or even criminal. YO! offers first person accounts from two young people grappling with group homes -- both writing anonymously because of their situations. The first has been in more than 20 group homes; the second is in her first placement.

The house was in a nice neighborhood and had a sauna, a Jacuzzi, and other luxuries Mrs. B. often stated we couldn't use, since we had come from poor homes. Her own home was very important to her and she was not going to let our ignorance in handling expensive things ruin any bit of it, so she had set aside a special part of the house and turned it into a space just for us.

That special part was the basement.

The basement had been divided into three rooms. Two were bedrooms, each with a bunk bed, dresser and lamp. The third had a card table with four fold-out chairs around it, two sagging couches and a TV (with cable). We were not allowed into the upper part of the house except to vacuum, and on Sundays, when we were invited to eat dinner in the kitchen. Breakfast was brought down to us -- small boxes of cereal with school-lunch-size containers of milk and juice. Lunch was Cup O'Noodles or sandwiches with a bag of chips. Dinner was a hot meal, but seconds were given stingily.

Mrs. B. did not like dealing with us one-on-one when problems arose, but played us off each other, choosing favorites and telling others our personal business and the reasons we were not at home. If we yelled back at her, she would call us derogatory names.

After about a month, I started running away. It seemed as if I had found a way out, an escape from my problems -- when all else failed, I could just leave! It wasn't like I had any special bond with the people who held me. They were not my family, and I had not known them growing up.

Whenever counselors at a group home claimed to care -- or were under the illusion that they had the patience to help me, or thought all I needed was a little attention -- and tried to grow close to me, I would unload my frustrations on them and then run away on their shift.

I did whatever I wanted. Whenever anyone tried to give me guidance or advice, I let them know I thought they weren't being real and only cared because it was their job. I was a very angry child, and the majority of those who attempted to be in my life buckled and gave up. I grew used to that and came to expect it.

I soon gained a reputation, and was placed in lockdown facilities where it was more difficult to go AWOL. But the harder it was to run away, the more I wanted to. I ran from 22 different foster homes and group homes.

I ran from some places because I didn't want to take the time to earn my freedom. Often when you move to a new group home, you can't go anywhere but school for the first week. Your freedom increases as you move through the "levels" or "phases," but in ridiculously tiny amounts.

When I had the tenacity to ask why this was the case, I got answers like "Take it up with your social worker" or "Wait until the director gets here. I can't change it. I'm just doing my job." When the director only showed up once a week, and the rules didn't change, and I was given invalid reasons why, I went off on the counselors. I didn't realize how little they got paid to listen to some child cuss them out. So when the words, "If you don't like it here, you know where the door is," slipped out of their mouths, I took them up on it.

Eventually, I stopped coming back from my AWOLs. I would stay with friends, trying to avoid their parents so they wouldn't call the police on me. Only once was I taken up to juvenile hall for running away, but the staff there told the officer there was no room for such a petty offender. (That has since changed, and if you run away enough, they will lock you up).

The last time I ran I was gone for a year and a half. I got an under-the-table job, learned how to outsmart the police and manage on my own. I made the choice to go back into a group home because I wanted to go back to school, and because once I had actually taken care of myself and learned how hard it is to survive on your own, I figured I would let someone else pay for the rent and the food until I turned 18.

Now that I'm back in the system, I'm tending toward my old ways. I'm too used to making my own life decisions. Letting someone else have the upper hand is hard. These people presume to know what's going to be best for my life in the long run. They claim it's because they have more experience. However, I took care of myself before and I can do it again. Sometimes I think I'm too set in my ways to change, and maybe the effort I'm making just ain't worth it.

After all the stories I'd heard about group homes, I thought I would be living in a warehouse with beds and toilets -- like juvie without the locks. But the place I was sent to was nothing like that. It is a regular-looking house, with nine other girls, three staff people on duty around the clock, plus a supervisor and a social worker.

At first, the days and nights were long. The thought of leaving was always in the back of my mind. I'd stare at the door, knowing it wasn't locked and the staff couldn't do anything if I walked out. I missed my family, and I had a new baby brother I'd never gotten to see. The group home wasn't all bad, but it still wasn't home.

A couple of months passed and things seemed to get better. I gained points for good behavior and got to go out more. I got a job, and the girls who hung around with me became like family. When I felt down, or started to think about leaving, my supervisor and social worker were always there to help me. They are the main reason I haven't run.

Now I'm going on my seventh month here, and things are much easier than before. I'm off drugs and I even get to see my family sometimes. But anyone who lives in a group home will tell you it's a hard life. We spend a lot of time thinking about our lives outside and trying to get back to our own homes.

I know people who have been in the system since they were eight years old, and who will be stuck there until they turn 18. It's easy to lose hope when you know that it will be many years before you can be on your own. Sometimes the anger and sadness are just too much to take. Some kids relieve the pressure by walking out. Some do drugs on the sly. Some take their anger out by fighting with other residents. Some take their frustrations out on themselves.

Whenever life gets too hard for me -- when I feel there is nowhere to turn, no one who can help me and nothing I can do -- I feel like hurting myself. I cut so deep into my arm that the blood runs down to the floor. Cutting myself takes my mind off the hurting inside. I know it's not what I'm supposed to do when I feel down, but it's the only thing that makes me feel as if I have some control, as if I'm still in charge of the way I think and feel, whether I'm in a group home or not.

The second another resident tells staff that I have cut myself, they start the same process. They call my family, my mentor, my probation officer, my therapist. Then they call Child Protective Services, Child Crisis, my social worker and the group home supervisor. I'm sent to about ten different appointments with people who say they are "here to help me." I think they just want to find out if I need to be put in a mental institution. They all ask me the same questions and talk to me as though I'm a three-year-old.

"No, I don't hear voices. No, I'm not going to try to kill myself," is all I ever say.

It's tough being away from the only life you've ever known and the only people you ever learned to love. It stays hard from the day you step inside the group home until the day you leave. But I look at it like this: at least it's better than the Hall!

I try to make it work. I try to stay focused on the day when I can be on my own. I try  do what's right for myself. Days go by slowly, but with the help I have here, I know I can make it. I just have to hold on.