Carried By The Game Chapter 15: Numb Became Normal The realization that the biggest battle isn’t the streets anymore.

Damn. Back to square one.

No kids. No responsibilities.

No motivation.

That’s exactly how I felt.

I mean, how the fuck could I lose my kids? What did I do wrong?

It was time to step up and fight. At least, that’s what I was supposed to do. Shit, after my first court date, I already knew they weren’t just going to give me my kids back. Growing up, I always heard, “Once you get them in your business, it’s hard to get them out.” So I expected this to be a hard fight.

What I didn’t expect was the system to challenge me like this.

I kept thinking, How the fuck you gonna fight me for my kids? Something—or someone—I created?

What I didn’t know was that they were willing to take me through every emotion I had ever felt just to get to my children.

The crazy part was, I was young. I was played. And the little support I did have was scrutinized.

My stepmom had a charge from when she was sixteen. It had to be expunged first.

My brother had too many kids.

My grandmother was too old.

I kept thinking, My kids should’ve gone to next of kin.

But they made everything hard.

Their fathers would fight me. I was still on the streets. I had given up my home, and now I had to figure out how to start working again.

I was lost.

I was angry.

I was sad.

And I was definitely depressed.

I had lost my kids—the only ones who loved me in a way that felt genuine.

They needed me.

My daughter needed me.

My mini-me.

I didn’t feel resentment toward my boys, but having a daughter hit different. I wanted to guide her. I wanted her to look up to me. I wanted to be her friend. I wanted that bond between us. I wanted to look at my baby and know I was someone she could look up to.

It felt like I had been robbed.

My kids were happy.

They were clean.

They were in school. We were a family.

And somehow, it still wasn’t enough.

Maybe it’s never enough when the system has already decided who you are.

They gave me the option to stay at a shelter, but my pride was heavy. I had been raped before in a shelter. That wasn’t somewhere I felt safe going back to.

I can admit it now.

I gave up.

Not only on myself, but on my kids too.

Then March 18 came.

My birthday.

And instead of celebrating, I was in Los Angeles working.

That day, CPS called and told me I had lost my rights to my children—except my oldest.

Just the babies. I Knew I was being played.

I guess they were looking to adopt them out quickly.

That same day, something inside me went quiet.

I became numb.

And that night, I was introduced to cocaine.

I was already familiar with Coke. I had seen it before.

I had even tried it before.

But it was never something I liked or wanted.

That night was different.

Being numb felt quiet.

My mind felt leveled.

For once, I didn’t give a fuck.

Nobody did.

Shit the nigga I was with didn’t either I was

“Numb”

I just knew I didn’t want to feel anymore.

The more my mind raced, the more numb I wanted to feel.

But I considered myself classy. I knew getting hooked could leave me in a bad place. I knew better.

I was smart enough to understand where that road could lead , But knowing better doesn’t always stop you from doing something.

As time went on, I knew I had to get my shit together. I couldn’t let myself fall completely into that dark place.

So I started fighting.

I wrote emails.

I wrote letters.

I showed up for visits through Zoom.

I did everything I could think of.

And “BOOM”.

Every bit of effort I put in would somehow get pushed to the side.

It still wasn’t enough to bring them home.

I was fighting for my kids, but at the same time, I was fighting to survive.

No home.

Back in the streets.

No stability.

Just lost.

At this point, I had become a product of my environment. But my firstborn son just wouldn’t let me give up.

It was like we were fighting together.

He was too smart.

And maybe that’s exactly why God gave me a window.

Because if he had still been a baby, maybe they would’ve taken him too.

But they didn’t.

And that gave me hope.

So I continued to fight.

It wasn’t my best fight, though.

I was weak mentally.

Weak physically.

Weak emotionally.

But I was still fighting.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something I didn’t want to admit:

The biggest battle wasn’t the streets anymore.

It was me.

It was the pain.

It was the anger.

It was the emptiness.

It was learning how to feel again after I had trained myself not to feel anything at all.

Because when numb becomes normal, you stop realizing how much of yourself you’re losing just to survive.