In order to sue on behalf of all kids in Permanent Managing Conservatorship, Children's Rights told the stories of nine kids located throughout the state.
The stories are similar to Shae's: kids uprooted from abusive homes, only to be shipped to homes and treatment centers of widely varying quality throughout the state. (Children's Rights would not make the plaintiff children available for interviews for this story, even though their names would not be used.)
Photo courtesy of Shae
Shae says she moved 52 times in eight years of foster care.
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"Defendants have long been aware of these and other deficiencies of the Texas foster care system, yet have failed to effectively address them — leaving many thousands of children to be harmed while in the state's care," the suit alleges. The group also asserts that "children in Texas's PMC will continue to be harmed, and their constitutional rights will continue to be violated, unless and until fundamental changes are made to this damaging system."
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The last time Shae tried to kill herself, it was because she was finally in a place where people loved her.
Lubbock's Nelson Home was, by her count, the 52nd facility she'd been shuffled to in her six years in Texas's foster care system. Shae (she asked that we not use her real name) wound up in the system because her alcoholic mom gave her black eyes and belt-buckle bruises.
At the Nelson Home, she expected more of the same: staff that were indifferent at best; another therapist to B.S.; and more waking up each day wondering if she was going to stay there or be shipped to another part of the state.
During her years in the system, state-contracted psychiatrists had plied her with more medications than she could remember. Prescribing psychotropic drugs to a preteen is much easier than finding her a home. Shae got to experience nearly every kind of accommodation the state has to offer a child who's ripped from his or her parents, separated from siblings and stuck someplace that, somehow, is supposed to help the child: emergency shelters, foster homes, treatment centers.
She'd just come from a lockdown facility in San Marcos, where, she says, the staff shot up residents with thorazine to keep them mute and malleable. Sometimes, its numbing qualities were a welcome respite. She didn't have to think about her surroundings. She didn't have to feel anything.
The Nelson Home was the first place she'd come to where she suspected that the staff might actually care about her. She panicked.
"I had gotten to the place where they wouldn't just give me a shot of thorazine," the 27-year-old says, 12 years later. "They made me feel my feelings."
They were feelings she couldn't process. Ultimately, she decided God didn't love her. In what she now admits was not a very well-thought-out suicide attempt, Shae swallowed a handful of disposable razor blades.
Shae left the system when she was 18, but she says she still has nightmares.
Looking back on it now, it only makes sense to her that, while learning to survive in the state's foster care system, she got to the point where someone's expressing genuine love and care would make her want to kill herself.
Seven years before Shae found hope at the Nelson Home, she was a heavily medicated nine-year-old. A state-contracted psychiatrist believed Shae was bipolar.
Her medication changed as she bounced around. Prescribing Zoloft, then Depakote, then lithium, then Ativan to a preteen is much easier than finding her a home.
Shae wanted to live with her ex-stepdad, the man she had always considered her father, but when he and her mother divorced, he had no legal ties to her. According to Shae, this is why DFPS never considered him for placement.
And because Shae had a tendency to run away, wherever CPS wound up sticking Shae, she was always a bit of a problem. The exact terminology was "oppositionally defiant."
This is how she wound up in the San Marcos Treatment Center, where her oppositional defiance and what she described as the staff's aggression fed off each other.
Shae says there were times when she was strapped to a bed and, for a reason she doesn't understand, covered with mosquito netting. The netting would make her gag, and she'd try her best to twist and turn so she wouldn't choke on her vomit.
There were fleeting moments of peace, like when investigators came for scheduled inspections.
On those days, she says, "you get back all the things that you're supposed to have as a normal human being. So you get your mattress back on a bed, you get to, like, have sheets on your bed. You don't get stuck with a needle that day if you're not supposed to have medication given to you." (A spokesman for San Marcos was unavailable for comment.)
Eventually, the restraints and thorazine wore her down to the point where she was no longer oppositionally defiant. She was numb.
San Marcos was one place Shae was never able to run away from. Security was just too tight. But if she had ever managed to sneak away, she knew where she would want to go. Straight to the man she calls her father to this day. In her eight years in state care, that was her one wish.