Lina

I experience chronic pain and fatigue, am incontinent, and have a long list of serious medical diagnoses, including POTS, gastroparesis, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, osteoporosis, PTSD, and suspected mitochondrial disease.
Each day brings physical and emotional challenges. I cannot manage appointments or go into the community on my own. I require support with almost all aspects of daily living: dressing, bathing, transferring, incontinence care, medical needs, communication support, emotional regulation, and simply managing life. Despite all of this, I continue to fight for a better life—because I believe I deserve one.

My name is Lina Frakes, and for the past five years, I have been living in a state hospital. I am the youngest resident here. Despite needing extensive support for complex medical and developmental disabilities, I have been placed in an environment that is not designed for someone like me—someone who wants to grow, connect, and be part of a real home. My daily life is marked by isolation, lack of privacy, and an overwhelming absence of independence. In some instances, I’ve even experienced mistreatment.

After years—or perhaps a lifetime of abuse and acute medical crises, including septic shock and a mini-stroke, I am still here, still holding on to hope. What I want, more than anything, is the chance to live in a setting where I feel safe, supported, and respected as a whole person.

I am autistic and nonverbal, and I communicate entirely through an AAC device. I also live with multiple physical disabilities, including the need for a wheelchair, and feeding tubes
(G- and J-tubes), and a suprapubic catheter.

I believe a host home could give me that chance. I’m looking for more than just care—I’m looking for a sense of belonging. I would love to be part of a household that sees me as a person, not just a patient. I celebrate Jewish holidays like Shabbat, and while I don't expect others to follow my traditions, it means a lot when my identity is respected. I’m open to sharing non-religious, seasonal activities too—things like decorating cookies or enjoying autumn leaves. These small moments help me feel human.

I know I come with complex needs. But I also come with a deep capacity for connection, a gentle spirit, and a willingness to grow. I want to be more involved in daily life, even if I need support to do so. I want to feel safe enough to explore who I am outside of survival. What I need is a calm, stable, and nurturing environment where I’m not just another person to be managed—but someone to be welcomed.

Living in the hospital has been incredibly lonely. I do not have in-person friendships, and my social life is limited to online connections. I often feel forgotten and disconnected from the world outside. Yet I still dream of things most people take for granted: going to a store, enjoying a meal at a restaurant, walking through a museum or a park. I want to participate in life, not just observe it from a hospital bed.

I believe a host home could give me that chance. I’m looking for more than just care—I’m looking for a sense of belonging. I would love to be part of a household that sees me as a person, not just a patient. I celebrate Jewish holidays like Shabbat, and while I don't expect others to follow my traditions, it means a lot when my identity is respected. I’m open to sharing non-religious, seasonal activities too—things like decorating cookies or enjoying autumn leaves. These small moments help me feel human.

Conflict is difficult for me due to my anxiety and PTSD. I do my best to avoid it, and I communicate with honesty and kindness. What helps me most is when others are patient, consistent, and willing to learn how I best express myself. Having a bedroom that feels peaceful and truly mine would help me feel more grounded. Feeling connected to the people I live with—being included in conversations and decisions—would help me feel like I belong.

I want to move forward. I want to experience joy, connection, and dignity. I want to be part of a home that feels like a soft place to land—where I can begin again, not in survival, but in possibility.

Thank you for considering me.

—Lina Frakes