I learned I was capable of great violence when I was 15 and it still haunts me.

I[34f] have lived with this for more than half my life now, and would still consider it to be a clearly defining moment in my life. What that definition is exactly, I'm not entirely sure myself, but I would still like to believe I walked away better for it.

In 2007, when I was 15, I had just moved to a new foster home, was excited to be starting my senior year of high school, and was working with the county that managed my case to work towards an emancipation program that would allow me to live as an adult after graduation, but still technically remain a ward of the state until the age of 18. At that point, anything that keep me safe from being rotated through households was more than worth the efforts. This new home seemed lovely: A working mom and a stay at home dad, 4 biological children in the home from 10-22, one adopted child in her early 20s, 2 other foster kids who were 15m and 12f, and myself now making for 10 whole people in this house. Space was NOT an issue, but I did share my new room with my then 12 year old foster sister, whom I will call L to protect her identity.

L and I quickly discovered that we had grown up only about 15-20min away from each other, rearranged the bedroom, divided up the closet, and I used one of the oversized trash bags I had brought my items in to start picking up the trash and old food she had had throughout the room. I learned she had lived there almost a year, and we discussed the nature of us being removed from our families, which I will not disclose, again for protection. We were both in long term care with no chance of going back to our families. Neither of us were eligible for adoption through normal channels. Your imaginations are more than enough to ponder our circumstances, and it won't leave you with scars.

Before finishing up, I got called downstairs to be introduced to a few more people. Not everyone had been home when I arrived, as it was towards the beginning of summer vacation and everyone was doing their own thing. I wasn't gone for more than 10 minutes, returned to our room to retrieve the trash, and as I grabbed the top of the trash bag to close it, it was wet. Really wet. I looked at L, who was sitting on her bed reading, and asked her why it was wet. I hadn't thrown away any liquids. I hadn't found any liquids. She shrugged her shoulders without looking at me. So I did what any person would do, and I smelled my hands to figure out what I had just touched. It was pee. Absolutely no doubt about it. It was pee. I asked her if she pissed in the bag, and she said yes, that she really had to go. To be clear here, this house had 4 bathrooms, one of which was immediately across from our bedroom door. 2 steps from it, tops. I told her that was disgusting and I then told on her, and requested she be the one to remove the now peed on trash bag from our shared room, to which my foster parents responded. In the moment, I believe it was chalked up to being nothing more than like a territory dispute, which isn't entirely uncommon in foster care, or any shared living for that matter, but the use of bodily fluids as a weapon was specifically discussed. Everything was tense, but otherwise fine. You also gain a fairly forgiving nature when you understand you're all just wanting attention.

Fast forward a few weeks, and I had gone with all of the biological children, and both of the other foster kids to a pool club the family had a membership too. This was my first time going, and was incredibly excited, but I don't know how to swim well, so I spent a fair amount of time sun bathing and talking to other kids that I would soon be going to school with. I had settled pretty comfortably with a mixed group of kids around my age, probably 7-8 people, talking about the new school I was going to. L came over and sat with us, and at first I didn't think anything of it, but then I noticed she had grabbed the attention of one of the 16 year old boys and was now sitting in his lap. To clarify something here, L did not look 12. L was very well developed to have only recently turned 12, and I knew from living with her, she already had her cycle. I asked her what she was doing. She said "don't be jealous". I laughed and replies "jealous? You're 12. You're trying to get him in trouble." The quickness with which that boy threw her was astounding. "You said you were 16!" She made a fuss about how I'm her sister and I should have had her back and started crying. She stayed mostly to herself after, and we all left as a group not too long after it happened. Again i told my foster parents about her actions. Sure we had their adult children with us, but they weren't concerned for our well being on a level of parenting a child being promiscuous, or even being aware it was happening in the first place. L was told she's no longer allowed out without one of the parents.

2 weeks later, I am desperately moving things in our room, looking for a terrible stench. It's summer time on the second floor and the smell is so thick in the air I couldn't breathe. I had tried looking over the past 2 days when I first started smelling it, but at this point it was just disgusting. I had asked my foster parents for help and they just told me to clean the room. Finally, I pull the long dresser by my bed away from the wall, and the smell gets stronger immediately. It's wren. Decomposing into the carpet. Loosely covered with a washcloth. I went through a variety of emotions and began to cry before landing on anger as the realization that the presence of the washcloth meant the bird likely didn't enter the house naturally, nor had it died naturally. Instead of getting my foster parents, I called my case manager directly, explaining the situation and how I no longer felt safe where I was. Unfortunately, this wasn't something that merited an emergency change in situation, she made necessary notes and said she would file the incident accordingly and I agreed to involve my foster parents.

This resulted in a big family meeting. L did confess to the bird, but claimed she had only wanted it as a friend, and was unsure of what to do with it when it died, and didn't want to be in trouble, so she hid it. Conveniently behind my dresser, by the head of my bed, at the furthest point away from her bed as possible, as the beds were caddy corner to each other. I clearly stated to the family that I did not believe her, and I did not feel safe with the current arrangements. The eldest biological son, 20, volunteered his room to me. He would be going away to college soon, and said he had no issue staying in the family room during holidays, and that he would also be okay to wait after my graduation for the emancipation program to go into effect. The only catch was that he hadn't begun to pack het, and requested that the change wait until after he left for the dorms again. I agreed. Any end in sight was better than none. I spent the night with a friend that night.

The following day, I returned home and began to deep clean the room, the carpet, and to ready my things to move to the basement bedroom in the lower level of the home. As I was finishing up, I decided to strip my bedsheets to take them down to wash. As I lifted the corner of my mattress, I was met with a terrifying discovery. Under the head of my bed were multiple used tampons and panty liners, some so coagulated to the mattress that it made a velcro type noise as I lifted it up. I immediately went downstairs where L was watching TV with our foster dad. I explained what I had found and asked for a solution. He sent her up to clean it, and I called my case worker again, notifying her of my situation. My foster mom came home later with a plastic mattress protector and said that should "fix it" until she could deal with it later. Just 2 more weeks..

3 days go by, and I had made myself scarcer than usual around the house. The 3rd day, I came home around 10pm, took a shower, plugged in my phone, went to bed. L was already asleep.

Roughly 2:30am, I wake up to something warm on my side. I have always been a side sleeper, preferring to lay on my right side, which also left me sleeping facing the whole room, only the wall to my back. I tried to sit up to quickly realize there was also a large amount of weight in the same warm spot, and that it wasn't just warm, but wet. I open my eyes to L, smiling ear to ear, straddling my midsection, no pants on, pissing on me in my bed.

I immediately flip her off of me toward the wall and pin her down with my blanket and the weight of my leg. She starts laughing so maniacally, trying to kick free from my blanket. Im already screaming as I start pounding my hand on the adjoining wall to our foster parents bed room. They yelled back to quiet down. L was still struggling against me, trying to break free, and I sounded again. They yelled to cut it out. I leaned over to grab my flip phone, and as I did, L's arms broke free and she grabbed the arm I was using to hold the blanket and dug her long nails in as hard as she could. I started bleeding almost immediately.

That's when I snapped. With what I can only describe as unhuman strength in a burst of adrenaline, I grabbed her by the throat with the same arm she was drawing blood from. I dragged her to the head of my bed, and lifted her onto the wall until she no longer touched my bed. The harder she tried to squeeze my arm, the more I tried to crush her throat. I remember watching the blood run down my arm. I remember staring in to her eyes and watching her go from laughing to scared. I pounded my fist against the wall again. "Go back to bed" they yelled. I told L then "they aren't coming for you, just like they aren't coming for me". Her grip was beginning to loosen on my arm, and I stayed staring her directly in her eyes. I wanted to make her suffer at my hands the way I had suffered at hers. I wanted to make sure she never messed with me again, even if it meant she would never do anything ever again. I wanted her dead. That's when I told her to beg.

Almost as soon as the word left my mouth, all the rage subsided and was replaced with fear. I almost couldn't believe what I was doing, except that I was watching the light start to fade in her eyes as she was beginning to lose consciousness. It was then that I remembered my phone. I did successfully grab it. I was gripping it tightly in a closed fist in my free hand. I called 911.

I told the operator everything that was happening, including me actively choking her against the wall. I told her if she didn't send help that I was probably going to kill her. That I had tried to yell for someone and no one came. That I was scared of her and scared of myself. At some point she did convince me to set L down, which I complied only to the degree that she was back under the blanket and I was now sitting on her to prevent her from moving at all.

When the police arrived, as well as an ambulance, I had to give the operator my foster mom's phone number because they wouldn't get up still to go get the door, and I was adamant that I wasn't moving until someone came to take either me or her or both. I will never forget the looks on their faces as they dealt with authorities, watching as L and I were checked out separately by EMTs. L was found to be physically okay, and the cuts on my arms were cleaned up and it was recommended that we follow up with primary care within a day or 2.

That was the last night that I lived with L. She wasn't permitted back off the ambulance. She hadn't suffered any critical injuries, but it was deemed that she was in a psychological crisis. A case worker came by a few days later without L to gather her belongings. I was left in that home, still moved into their son's room when he went back to college, still graduated that school year at 16. Still got my first apartment with the emancipation program. There were never any disciplinary repercussions for my response. I was already in active therapy, and there isn't really such a thing as doubling down on therapy. Despite what I see as negligent on the part of my foster family, they faced no repercussions either. They never did look at me the same, but that was fine. I was only a paycheck for them, I was never going to be a part of their family anyways.

What did matter was that I forever changed how I viewed myself. I am not a violent person by nature. At 34 I feel I can say that fairly confidently. However this situation that escalated over one 3 month period, resulting in violence that in reality only lasted a few minutes, made me firmly believe that everyone is capable of this. Everyone has that breaking point. And at that breaking point, the punishment might not fit the crime. I'm still scared of how I responded then. I still think about it frequently, and it's been 18 years since it happened.

Note: L, if this ever finds its way to you, know that I'm sorry to have played the part in your story that I did. No matter what led you to any of it, know that I'm sorry for the extra harm I caused you. We were kids thrown to the wolves. None of it was ever fair, and we grew up in a rigged system that never truly had our best interests in mind. I hope you are well, and that you never had to live through another moment like that. I hope you found your peace in the world.