Homeless by Choice - The New Trend

My brother *Bill (name has been changed) is the youngest in a family of four. As the baby of the family, he was always coddled by my parents, and yes, very spoiled. From a young age, he was handed what he wanted with ease. While my sister and I struggled through chores, curfews and frequent grounding, my brother skated along easy street five years behind us, doing as he pleased.

A few years ago, at the age of 15 or so, Bill discovered the joys of drug use. What started as smoking pot now and then, soon spiraled into hard drugs and daily usage. He lost his job at the local grocery store for not showing up for work one to many times. As his popularity in the drug scene grew, he was no longer content to be just a user, and he began dealing out of his backpack and my parent's home.

As Bill's drug dependence grew, so did his abuse of those around him He verbally abused both of my parents, and threatened them with physical harm on a regular basis. He had nothing but contempt for everyone who cared about him. He'd disappear for days, sometimes weeks at a time, never calling to say where he was, or if he was safe, and then return home for food and recuperation.

Things finally came to a head when Bill was 17. He dropped out of high school and made a full time career out of being a bum, remaining unemployed, living off my parents and doing as he pleased. My parents, finally fed up with his blatant drug dealing out of there home, confronted him in an ugly scene which resulted in his drugs being flushed down the toilet and pockets full of cash confiscated. Soon after, Bill was arrested when he was pulled over on his way to a concert, with a backpack full of weed packaged for sale.

Bill was returned home until his trial, and it was then that my parents made the hardest decision of their life: They entered Bill into a juvenile rehab program in upstate New York. It was hell on everyone, but when Bill returned, he was coherent, sober and making plans for his future, even contemplating joining the Navy. As a teenager who has never shown an interest in anything, we were all very excited and encouraged him to explore a promising path. A few months later, Bill was cleared of all drug charges due to a technicality most of us still aren't clear on.

Once Bill received the happy news that he wouldn't be spending time in jail, he began slipping into his old habits. He'd sneak off to smoke with friends, and then try to claim he was staying sober. We all knew better. It wasn't long after Bill turned 18 that his disappearances began to turn into month long ordeals without so much as a phone call. My mother and father were tortured every day he was gone. When he returned home, there would fights, begging, and bribery, anything to make him stay, to help him. Soon after, he would disappear again, every sting longer than the last.

On one of these hiatuses from life, Bill blessed my parents with a rare phone call, letting him know that he had discovered the Rainbow Family of the Living Light, a new age group that embraced hippie ideals and shunned personal hygiene. This group travels to festivals and concerts, selling what they can, panhandling when needed, and promoting their brand of peace and love. Bill claimed a new inner peace and joined the Rainbow Family whole heartedly, begging on the streets, eating in soup kitchens, and traveling the country in hippie vans and by the power of his thumb.

Since Bill has hit the road for good, he has been robbed twice. The first time, he was almost beaten to death by a wayward group who called themselves pirates and told Bill they were going to kill him. Only the intervention of a few brave passerby's saved his life. The second time he was robbed, only a week ago, he was stripped of everything, from his mangy sleeping bag, to the cell phone my mother pays for so he always has a way to call home

Bill's eaten out of dumpsters and caught infectious cases of poison ivy. He rants about the ills of society while begging for hand outs from hard working individuals, and eating in government funded soup kitchens. He carries a crystal ball and smells like he's rotting from the inside. He's my brother, and I still love him through all of my disgust.

As I write this, I am overwhelmed by the confusion I always feel when I begin thinking about my brother. Here is a kid who comes from a loving, stable home and was handed everything he ever wanted. Even now, after all that he's put them through, my parents would welcome him home and help him any way they could. He defies all of the statistics on runaways. He was never beaten or abused. My parents don't drink or do drugs, and have never neglected him. As a matter of fact, after all he's done to them, my parents still love Bill and hold out hope that things will turn out for the best. So the question remains: Why choose to live the way he is, on the streets, shunning the people who love him?

Try as I may, I have yet to find any research or statistics for people in Bill's situation. He's over 18, so can't be forced to come home. He has all of life's advantages and still chooses a life on the streets. He has a family who loves and supports him, and still he runs as far away as humanly possible.

And Bill is not alone. Bouncing around the country, Bill has visited the parents of several of these road buddies. After using their phone to call home, many of these mothers have picked up the phone and reached out to my mother. They tell similar tales of well loved children who choose to live on the streets, hardly calling to tell loved ones they're alive. They rage over children who now call themselves names like Bumblebee and Mango and eat out of trashcans. But most of all, they ask each other "why?" Why? And no one has the answer. There is no one for them to turn to. Their children are legal adults, and have the right to be homeless by choice.

I've tried hard to come up with logical explanations myself. Simple answers such as drugs or lack of responsibility just don't seem to suffice. He's been evaluated for mental illness and been given a clean bill of health. Though I've urged my mother to start a support group, I just don't think she has the emotional energy for such an undertaking.

No one has the answers at this point. This odd breed of homeless individuals seems to be growing and thriving, presenting strange difficulties. After all, how do you get someone off the streets who chooses to be there? There's no program for that, no therapy. And the only thing their families can do are wait, and pray, and hope the next phone call will be a good one.