…my name is Easter bunny

*it’s long, but I hope you make it to the end…

.

I went to the store and what did I see,

An entire section of Easter candy beckoning me.

I stood there excited, I stood there in awe,

I almost passed out from the excitement of it all.

I’ve always been broke, I never had any money,

Until I got hit by a car, it wasn’t that funny,

But now I have cash, so now I can buy

Enough Easter candy to last me until the day I die.

I started with PEEPS, because they are so cool

I grabbed green and orange and blue, all chicks because they rule.

I looked in my cart, and looked at the display,

I needed one of each color, what can I say?

I loaded more in and piled them high,

It looked like a PEEP rainbow, it almost made me cry.

I passed on the coconut, because its not really candy,

Look it up folks, it’s a drupe, that does not taste so dandy.

I grabbed some jelly beans, multi and black,

There was much more candy to grab, and attack.

My eyes locked on the reese peanut butter eggs,

I almost tripped running towards them, over my own dam legs.

One time I ate so many reeses, I almost passed out,

From a sugar-induced coma and lack of moderation, no doubt.

I grabbed a bag, another, and lots more,

By the time I was finished, I couldn’t see the PEEPS anymore!

I paused and I stopped to wipe off my drool,

That dripped off my mouth, I must have looked like a fool.

It didn’t matter to me, I didn’t care,

Let people look, let them stare.

I found the chocolate bunnies, solid and hollow,

I gulped and I smiled, I took a big swallow.

Into the cart, I tossed them really fast,

Big bunnies, small bunnies, people looked aghast.

By the time I had finished, by the time I was through,

At least 25 chocolate bunnies, oh shit my cart really grew!

I walked towards the exit, but stopped at the pay phone,

I called my friend KC, who was sitting at home.

“Come and get me,” I said, “I need a ride,”

“You won’t believe what I bought, I happily sighed”

I entered the self-checkout, my cart was all filled,

With tons of Easter candy, I was so thrilled.

The check-out lady nodded but gave me a weird glance,

I didn’t really care, I was in a Easter candy trance.

KC came in and found me about to pay,

She looked at the bags and decided to say,

“Holy shit LT, that’s a ton of candy.

It will last you for months, pretty dandy.”

I shook my head and smiled some more,

She helped me take all the candy out of the store.

She started to drive towards my part of town,

I told her to “Stop!, please turn around.”

I directed her to drive to a rough side of town,

The buildings were old, dirty, and run-down.

She seemed slightly nervous, it was not her comfort zone,

I told her “It’s ok, you’re not alone.”

We pulled into a parking lot, an old building was there,

I said to KC, “this is a shelter for moms and kids who live no-where.”

She smiled at me when she realized my intention,

I said nothing more, I had nothing left to mention.

We hopped out of the car and took everything inside,

Dropped the bags off at the front desk and the lady replied,

“Wow, thank you for this, look at all these treats”

“The children will be so happy to get these sweets.”

She smiled at me and asked “What is your name, honey?”

I looked at the lady and at KC, and said “Easter bunny.”

She smiled at us and we waved adieu,

Me and KC took off, there was nothing more to do.

.

.

the power of the chocolate bunny

The Easter bunny never came when I lived with my bio-parents.  Not once.  I never had a stuffed bunny, never a basket full of treats and gifts, never a chocolate bunny. It seemed that all those years, he hopped right over my hell in the hood.  Growing up was hard because me and my brother KNEW that there was an Easter bunny, because kids at school talked and even the local grocery store where we would steal food sold Easter candy… mostly jelly beans and chocolate rabbits.  We never did steal any Easter candy because it was always towards the front of the store, and my brother focused on the “basics.”

So, while we knew that the Easter bunny existed, we couldn’t figure out what we needed to do to get the Easter bunny to visit.  Disappointment year after year, holiday after holiday, is hard when you are little and don’t really understand the truth behind holiday “figures.”  Eventually we just assumed we were really bad; and that the Easter bunny doesn’t come to really bad kids.

Easter was random in foster care.  Some years it happened, some years it did not. When I was young, it was confusing and it strengthened my feelings about good and bad … that the Easter bunny only came the years I was good.  But I didn’t understand how “good” was defined; was it defined by what I did or didn’t do… or was it defined by how I serviced other adults … or was it defined as how I was inside?  I didn’t understand.  Then, as I got older, I could care less… probably if I had seen the Easter bunny as a teenager, I would have beaten the crap out of him…

I honestly don’t remember alot of “Easters”… nor do I remember ever getting an Easter basket.  But, I’ll never forget my first Easter chocolate bunny.  It was hollow, had colored eyes and came in a box.  It was huge to me.  My foster parents told me not to eat it all at once and I never intended to, but I carried it up the stairs to my room … afraid that they would take it away from me.

I sat on the floor looking at the rabbit in the box for along time.  Eventually, I took the rabbit out of the box and placed it on the floor.  Before I knew it, my hands began to break it apart into pieces.  After a few minutes, laying on the bedroom floor was a broken chocolate rabbit, in many pieces of all different sizes and shapes .  I pushed the pieces together in a pile and laughed at the mound of chocolate on the floor.

I picked up a piece and put it in my mouth.  I let it melt on my tongue.  I took another piece, put it on my tongue and raised my tongue to the roof of my mouth, melting the chocolate.  I took another piece and put it under my tongue, but decided I did not like that.  Suddenly my creative little mind decided that each piece of chocolate laying on the floor would bring me superpowers when I ate it.  So I put a piece on my tongue, stood up, threw open the closet door and pretended to fight the bad guys coming out.  As the chocolate piece melted away in my mouth, my powers slowly disappeared.  In my pretend world, the only way to keep my powers active was to keep chocolate in my mouth!

Next thing I knew, I was fighting bad guys in the hallway and in the bedroom.  I put 3 pieces of chocolate in my mouth and climbed up on the bed, jumping up and down, battling demons that were surrounding me in my pretend world.   My mind was lost in my play and I didn’t hear my foster mother come up the stairs, down the hall, and into my room.  My play world was shattered, when I saw her looking at me and looking at the 2 small pieces of chocolate sitting on the floor.

My superpowers gone, I suddenly started to feel fear as I realized that I was jumping on the bed, with a shirt around my neck like a superhero cape… and that I ate the WHOLE thing. 

I just stood there on the bed, as she asked me to get off the bed and said:

“LT, looks like that was some really powerful chocolate.”

.

And…that was my first chocolate bunny.

.

Let’s abolish child abuse this April

Today I got out of the shower and as I was drying myself, I looked at my body.  I don’t usually do that, because I hate it…I hate my body.  Absolutely hate everything about it, the outside and the inside.  My therapist, Dr. Val, has not gotten me to admit to one thing I like about me.  If I had my way, I would destroy it.

As I looked over my white skinny body, I saw stories screaming out from the scars.  Some scars created by me and some scars inflicted by others, but each one tells a story.  Each one has a history that I should NOT have.

I looked at my left wrist, at a faint smooth scar that lies on the inner part of my wrist.  It’s not super big, but the story behind it is HUGE.  That scar represents my feeble attempts at getting my hands out from being tied behind my back, as I was forced to kneel on pebbles in the backyard with my foster siblings (Story Here).  I remember rubbing my wrists raw with the cord or rope that was used on us.  I never did get free, but I have the memory of my time in that foster home permanently scarred on my body.

I looked at the rest of my wrist and forearm, scarred from trying to take my own life… multiple times; and scars from punishing myself over and over, scream the hate I feel at myself.  Hundreds of line shaped scars, some smooth, some keltoid, cover both my arms.  Running your hand over my arms would feel like rubbing a rough stone wall, with areas of raised rock, areas of smooth rock, and areas of indentations.

Amidst the scar lines of my life, are circles… from cigarette burns.  Cigarette burn scars are round, about the size of a dime that can either pile up or make an indentation in the skin.  I don’t know why sometimes they rise and sometimes they sink, but they do.  I have a few from group home games of “chicken”… you know who can last the longest type of thing?  Those exist on my forearms or the upper part of my back.  But those are not as bad as the other circles that scar my body.  I have a some keltoid scars mostly on my upper arms and my sides, in the rib area, that were inflicted by my mom.  She would grab me, hold my lower arm and burn me on the upper arm or side.  Cigarette burn scars are very characteristic in the way they look… no mistaking them.

I dropped my arms and looked down on my stomach.  Tons of self-inflicted scars surround one of the most telling stories of my life.  Two scars mark that story.  One short angled scar, the length of an average knife blade below my belly button and slighty to the right….  and one longer almost straight scar that basically dissects from below to above my belly button.  The short scar was from my bio-father.  The longer scar from the doctors.  Both scars are daily reminders of how used and abused I was.

Scars I and others can see, tell my story.  But the scars that are deep inside me hide so much pain.  Whether physical scars remain from the years of sexual abuse from my bio-father and other men, who knows, I can’t look down and in there?  But the emotional scars are much worse anyway.  I try to deny that I have an inside of me, because it doesn’t feel like it’s mine… it’s contaminated and it belongs to others. If I am not denying I have an inside,  I am feeling  as if I am filled with black disgusting slime.  Do you know what it feels like to want to get out of you?

My scars mark my life experiences like a “normal” person uses ages or school grades to mark their life experiences.  No child or adult should have their life story in scars.

Stop Child Abuse

April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month

Stand Up and Speak Up for Children!

So their story is not told by scars!

.

If you are being abused and are reading this, please call:

1-800-442-4453 (Childhelp National Child Abuse Hotline)

1-800-999-9999 (Covenant House Nine Line)

1-800-448-3000 (Boys Town Hotline)

….these people can help you.

Was I too traumatizing for adoption?

.

Today I was reading the internet and found writings of adoptive parents that described their adopted hurt children as “traumatizing” to the adoptive parents… and that the adoptive parents were “as traumatized as their children were” because of raising them.

While I believe parents can be affected by the behaviors of their “hurt” children, I simply can’t believe that what parents experience is as damaging and traumatizing as what a child experiences during abuse, rape, extreme neglect, etc.  Adults are developed, have defenses — children are developing, have limited defenses.  Adults have access to support — children are alone, with no support.  Adults can take respite, dump a child, etc — children are captive.  Adults have words to describe their pain — children don’t.   Trauma changed me and my life forever, because I grew and developed in it.

.

I know secondary trauma occurs, that is why Dr. Val takes care of herself.  I also know raising traumatized kids is hard, but please don’t compare that “trauma” to the childhood trauma of being held down and harshly raped, or beaten to where you can’t move your half dressed body because everything is sore, or having to sleep in the stairway of your housing project because your parents locked you out and are getting high, or being locked in a closet for days with barely enough room to piss, or losing your family.

 

After reading the internet, I got it.  My body oozed trauma, all kinds.  My responses when I entered foster care were that of a very traumatized child; angry, scared, hiding, running away, sleeping under the bed, stealing and hoarding food, stealing other “things” I felt I needed, terrible nightmares, wetting the bed, using all the soap, throwing things, etc.

.

Is that it?

No-one wanted to be traumatized by me?

 

Coupons for Kids in Foster Care

Today I was watching this show on TV about people who collect tons of coupons and buy so much stuff, it is almost ridiculous.  In this show, the people get hundreds or thousands of dollars worth of items at the store, but only pay like $10 because they use coupons.  I didn’t quite get why the people wanted to store 100 jars of mayonaise and 500 toothbrushes,  instead of donating some of it to soup kitchens or shelters…

As I watched this, I thought of a series of coupons that ALL foster kids need while being stuck in foster care…

.

1)  Dump a Worker

This coupon entitles foster kids to dump workers that suck.  Those that are non-responsive, disappear, lie, are burnt-out, and don’t care.  This card can be used multiple times, especially since the longer a kid is in care, the greater the risk of getting workers that suck.

Workers that don’t return calls… use the coupon.  Workers that don’t do required visits… use the coupon.  Workers that do not follow through with things they promised …use the coupon.  Wouldn’t it be interesting to record how many coupons kids use on each worker?  Geez, that could tell alot…

.

2) It Didn’t Happen

Since so many foster/adoptive parents are focused on a child’s behaviors, this coupon entitles foster kids to make a “mistake” that will be ignored.  Instead of yelling, punishing, or spreading negative energy at your child, completely ignore the “mistake.”  In instances where behaviors are truly inappropriate and corrective action is needed, this coupon could be a reminder to use creativity and methods that force “togetherness” instead of separation.  Foster children should be given a new coupon each new foster home and perhaps even a few to get through the first weeks in a new foster home…

.

3) Dinner of Your Choice

This coupon allows foster kids to choose dinner for a night.  What a great way to make foster kids feel welcome and accepted!  When a child comes to a new home, frequently he/she is required to get used to the “new family’s” food.  This coupon requires the “new family” to try the foster child’s favorites.

.

4)  STOP

This coupon can be used to STOP bad foster parents from hurting foster kids.  It almost has “magic” coupon powers, as pulling out the coupon automatically stops abuse.

.

5) Free Advice

If you are a regular reader of my blog, you know I often ask for advice about “life things.”  Growing up, I never had the stability or trust in people that I could ask questions or ask advice.  This coupon entitles foster kids to get advice when needed.  Ideally there should be a 24-hour advice line that foster children have access to contact, if they did not feel secure enough to ask the other people in their lives…  Advice kids mostly need probably focuses on body development and image, sex, school work, and bio-family issues.

.

6) Freedom

This coupon is like a “get out of jail free” card, except that it applies to foster homes.  Foster kids can use this card to get out of foster homes that suck.  Foster homes suck for a variety of reasons:  abuse, neglect, foster parents who shame children, foster parents that are not interested in a child,  foster parents who speak badly about the foster child or the biological family, foster parents who do not “click” with the child, etc.   This coupon can be used to choose to move.

.

7) Avoid an Ass-Kicking

Every foster kid who gets the luck of winding up in a group home or RTC needs this coupon.  Don’t fool yourselves into thinking that these places are safe, they are not.  I have written about fuck closets and bathroom beatings before.  Newbies watch out!  Younger kids watch out!  If you have something others want, watch out!  This coupon is used to avoid ass-kicking, either from a group home/RTC or in a foster home.  Every time a child goes to a new foster home or a new group home or RTC, this coupon needs to be given.

.

8)  Forever Family

For every kid in foster care… so they never have to feel like me…

.

Dr. Val didn’t dump me over dubbies

im really tired, so bare with my “not so polished” blog…

recall on monday, i had an “event” with my therapist Dr. Val… well, on wednesday,  i called her:

<ring> <ring> <ring>

.

“Hello this is the private voice mail of Dr. Val _____.  I am sorry that I can not answer your call at this moment.  If this is an emergency, please go to the nearest hospital.  If you are a client, leave a message letting me know.  If this is not an emergency, leave a brief message and I will get back to you as soon as I am available…blah, blah, blah.”

ME:  Dr. Val? …. this is LT.  its wednesday today.   im sorry i smoked pot…. …  actually im not sorry i smoked pot, …  im sorry i did something that you think is bad.  …… oh crap, ….. i mean im sorry i dissapointed you when i smoked pot.  i swear im not gonna start drugging again. 

and.. ..  and… im sorry i walked out of therapy.  it just seemed like the best thing to do at the time.

<sigh>

… but im not sorry i told you to take a “chill pill” because sometimes you need one.

are you dumping me?

my number is … ah…. xxx-xxxx.  bye.”

Later on wednesday, there was this on my phone:

“Hello LT.  This is Dr. Val.  I got your message.  Thank you.  I am NOT dumping you.  Never once did I think that.  What you did was not “bad,” it was something that we need to understand.  Walking out made that difficult to do since we did not get to explore it.  I apologize if I seemed disappointed or if I seemed angry; I was more concerned.  We have come far together and I do not want old habits to interfere.  See?

Please come to your appointment on Friday, so we can discuss this.   If you want to call, I am free later after 4:00 PM.  Otherwise, I expect to see you Friday. 

Oh and LT, write it down and put it on your wall, …other parts of you have been very active this week.  Bye.”

.

i didnt call….

… and no wonder i have no clue what i did the past couple of days…and am so dam tired…

…i wonder which of  my parts called  MY therapist….

.

my relationship with Dr. Val … goes up in smoke

i sort-of fucked up.  i did a dumb thing.  it didnt seem dumb to me at the time, but i guess it is dumb in the eyes of my ex-therapist, Dr. Val.  i dont know why i did it, it just seemed like an answer to my problems at the time.  it seemed to me exactly what i needed at the time.  it seemed alot better than other ideas that occurred to me.  my great idea backfired…

.

based on the many parent-child relationships in my life…

.

i feel…

.

despised and rejected

hated and dejected

.

alone and unprotected

forgotten and unconnected

.

broken and defected

lost and misdirected

.

unwanted and neglected

violated and disrespected

.

worthless and detested

suicidal and disconnected

.

… is it possible that my feelings will never be corrected…

… until the day i end it…

.

why do people adopt hurt kids?

I have been having a hard time the past couple days.  I dont really want to go into why, but it has alot to do with the concept of the parent-child relationship, that I have been struggling with recently.  As i was laying around today trying to find something productive to do with myself that was not harmful, i became fixated on the question:

Why do people adopt “hurt” kids?

I know people adopt healthy newborns and even international infants because they want to be parents.  Maybe some have fertility issues…. maybe some simply want a rainbow family…maybe some truly believe that there are too many kids who need a family, so instead of making their own biological kids, they adopt.  ok.

These types of adoptions cost a shitload of money.  I have seen adoptive parents list prices ranging from $25,000 to $100,000+ for ONE baby/infant. But, I guess people get their perceived “blank slate” to parent and a baby/infant to bond with.

I get this.  It makes sense.

So… that leads me to thinking about kids like I was… a “hurt” foster kid.  The low-kid on the totem pole in the world of adoption.

Much cheaper than a healthy newborn or an international infant.  Right?  In fact, in some states, “hurt” children still bring a paycheck once they are adopted — the parents get a subsidy and medical expenses paid — so they are like income.  But…

Are we REALLY cheaper in the long run? 

.

…  all the pain and suffering it seems that many adoptive parents claim to experience when adopting a “hurt” child?  All the annoyance, frustration, disgust?  The toll it takes on your lives, your family, your friends?  YEARS of “putting up” with the behaviors of the “hurt” child.  “Hurt” children do badly in school, do badly with relationships, do badly with self-care, do badly with …. well almost everything.

And in many cases the “hurt” child grows into a “hurt” adult, because years of hurt take along time to heal…so surprise … more problems into adulthood.

Why do you do it?

I find it hard to believe that in the 2000′s that someone would claim that they did not know how a “hurt” child would behave, react, respond, grow, etc; especially coming from a foster care situation or an orphanage.  On freaking TV, they always show foster kids as fucked up, runaways, screw-ups, etc.  Is this one reason people adopt kids that “ruin their lives” or “cause so many problems” … because they didn’t know?

Savior complex?  … but then when the “hurt” child ruins your life or you realize you are too old, have too many other children, don’t want to do what it takes … and you throw them away or feel so much anger and hate towards them ….. who did it save? .

Because you actually wanted to? … before the “hurt” child ruined your lives?

Because money was an issue, and you couldnt afford the healthy white newborn or international infant?

Because you were hurt once too …. and get it?

Why?

Why do people adopt “hurt” kids?

There must be a hierarchy of acceptable “hurt” because my skinny, blond, blue-eyed “hurt” self was never adopted.  Nope.  If I was being “test-driven,” I crashed somewhere early on in most foster homes and never made it to the finish line…never adopted.  My body and mind screamed out “hurt.” I had physical scars on my body which made it easier to see that there was “hurt,” so maybe literally I scared people away.

I want a family so badly, one that would have wanted and understood the “hurt child.”  Are enough of them truly out there?  Maybe I was lucky in a sense, if so many people who adopt “hurt” children simply feel they “ruined their lives” and feel like they had to make so many “sacrifices” to care for the “hurt” child; maybe it was better that I never felt that hate and disgust and burden from what was supposed to be a forever family.  I already felt that enough from so many other people.

.

In my ideal, uneducated mind, I guess I would want to believe that people adopt “hurt” children because they love children, believe everyone deserves a family and a home, and that they want to walk the healing path with the child… all FOR the child.

..but I am beginning to think this is NOT true for most people …

.

ode to cake

.

I ordered the cake that was my dream,

It was covered and filled with sweet buttercreme.

It arrived as promised, I was so relieved,

This is the very FIRST package, I have ever received.

.

I opened my package and what did I see,

My dream cake was sitting in front of me.

I stared at the cake, as it called out my name,

I grabbed my fork to dig in, but suddenly felt shame.

I looked at the cake and knew what to do,

I grabbed a knife and cut a slice, then two.

.

Dr. Val, my therapist, got the first slice,

I tell her she sucks, but she is really quite nice.

The slice that I gave her was very slim,

She preaches “moderation” to be healthy and trim.

 

.

The second slice went to my only friend KC,

Who is funny and smart and kind of spacey.

Her slice was gigantic, she can pack food in,

She eats so much, I don’t know how she stays thin.

I used to believe that I could eat a ton,

Until I met KC, she’s a bigger glutton.

She enjoyed the cake and she critiqued each bite,

I listened to her babble, she was in pure delight.

.

When I ordered my dream cake, it wasn’t meant for three,

The whole dam thing, was supposed to be for me.

But my life has been filled with being different and alone,

Sharing joy and experiences with others, virtually unknown.

My dream cake is gone, eaten by three,

It tasted much better, than if it had only been eaten by me…

if she dies… i won’t make it. the end.

I had therapy today.  I did not feel like going, but I forced myself.  My cake came and believe it or not I did not eat it right away.  I did open it, drool,  and cut a small piece for Dr. Val.  She practices “moderation” so she does not eat alot of sweets, but I still wanted to give her a piece.  I decided to save my cake for after therapy, when I could sit and soothe myself with a sugar high.

As usual, I arrived at therapy late.  I walked in and heard Dr. Val talking to her colleague down the hall.  I sat down and stared at the plastic container holding my cake … I mean Dr. Val’s cake.  She laughed and I heard her walk down the hall

DR. VAL:  “Hey LT.  On time as usual.  Come on in”

I made a fake laugh and got up.  No eye thing today.  She used to make me look her in the eye EVERY fucking session before I could enter the office, but now we do it 2/3 of the time.  Instead, she tries to do it during the session when I am talking or mumbling.  “LT, look up here.” — “LT, I need to see those blues” or other stupid comments.  She once told me she can tell when a different “part” of me is out because of different levels of eye contact.  Pardon my digression, but that is strange.

I walked in her office and put the cake on her chair, then sat down in my chair … next to the door.

DR. VAL:  “Hey, what’s this?”

ME:  .. my cake.  i ordered it from the computer with KC’s credit card.  it came today.  thats a piece for you.  i didnt eat any yet.  is it ok for you?  i mean… did you want one smaller or bigger or … ?

DR. VAL:  “LT, it’s perfect.  Thank you.  That is very sweet of you.  I almost find it hard to believe that you would part with a piece of cake.  I think I will eat it for a snack later… ok?“

ME: … yup

DR. VAL:  “You were a little later than usual today.  Bus extra late?”

ME:  no

DR. VAL: “Oh.”

ME:  … didnt feel like coming.

DR. VAL:  “Because of the cake delivery?”

ME:  no.  i almost dont care about that cake.

DR. VAL:  “That doesn’t sound like the LT I know… not caring about cake? “

ME:  ….<sighing as i stare at the floor…>…. dr. val?….Moonlight got old…. it’s like, right in front of my eyes… and …. <starting to cry>…

DR. VAL:  “Oh LT, I see.  You mean you just noticed that Moonlight has aged?”

ME:  yesterday… when i looked at her, she  looked old.  i… i…. i didnt see it happen.  i mean, i did, … but yesterday i SAW it  <crying>  …. i dont want her to get old… to be old. … i …. <sobbing>

.

DR. VAL:  “LT, I am sorry, I know how special Moonlight is.  LT, we all get old, it’s part of living.  And unfortunately pets don’t live as many years as people.  I wish that were different, so you would have Moonlight for a really long time.  LT, that connection and love that the two of you share won’t go away.  You will always have it in your heart.”

ME:  … i want her with me forever.  <sobbing>  i never saw anyone or any animal grow old.  i want to stop it…

DR. VAL:  “That’s an interesting point you made.  Growing up like you did, you never saw parents grow old or grandparents get older.  Normally, children see their parents get older, grandparents get older, pets get older, brother or sisters get older, people that are constantly in their lives age, but you were not exposed to anyone you cared about getting old…you weren’t around long enough.”

ME: … i dont care about people.  i care about Moonlight…people suck.

DR. VAL:  “I wish I could stop it for you LT.  I want Moonlight to be with you forever.  But unfortunately that is not reality.  She is doing ok right now, right?”

ME:  <sniff> <sniff>…. yeah, but she is old. … if she dies, I wont make it.  The end.

DR. VAL:  “LT, you will make it.  I will be here and I am sure KC will be here too.  She cares about you and the dogs.  I care about you and the dogs alot.  You will make it… Moonlight would want you to.  She’s tough, like you.  Let me tell you something I learned from having pets… Enjoy every moment with them as they grow old, try not to focus on the end, but focus on being in the moment.  Build memories, keep the connection.  Don’t spend the time focusing on the future, focus on the now and the love and connection you have.  .. Easier said than done, though.”

ME:  …it’s not fair… nobody ever stayed in my life, everyone left … don’t i deserve at least one creature to stay with me…. just one?

Stop the clock … I need time to stand still

Today was a beautiful day where I live.  It is supposed to be winter, but it is more like summer.  I didn’t have to work and I didn’t have therapy, so I decided to take my dogs, Moonlight and Shadow, to the park.  We love to hang out and watch the clouds.  I tell them stories based on the shapes I see in the clouds and they listen; until they get bored and fall asleep or decide to run around in the grass.  I love to pass the time watching clouds.

I grabbed a blanket, some water, and their leashes.  As soon as Shadow heard the leashes, she was up and at my feet, prancing in excitement.  She knew it was time to go somewhere.  I bent over to hook her leash to her collar.  As I stood up, I looked for Moonlight.  She wasn’t standing there waiting for her leash.  In fact, she wasn’t there at all.  I walked away from the door and into the main room, where Moonlight was laying on her bed.  I held up the leash, jingled it, and said “Comon’ Moonlight, let’s goto the park.”    I jingled the leash again.

I stood there staring at her, watching to see if she was breathing.  She was.  I jingled the leash again. With that noise, she turned her head towards me and slowly got out of her bed. At that moment, as I stared at her, I realized “she’s gotten old.”

I started to cry.

I am crying now as I write this.

It’s not like I don’t realize that years have passed since I found her and she found me.  It’s not like I don’t realize that she has a chronic condition that requires lots of medications, special food, and special care. It’s not like I don’t realize that she has slowed down.

But I didn’t realize she’s “old”. … not until that moment.

Every day I look into my pets eyes and tell them that I love them.  Harbor, my cat, is the hardest…he is not too into attachment I guess.  I hold Moonlight’s snout and rub the sides of her face as I gaze into her eyes.  I’ve written numerous times about my connection with her.  It’s much deeper and stronger than what I feel when I stare into Shadow’s eyes.  You know if you read my blog regularly that she stopped me from killing myself when I looked into her eyes.  I was holding a loaded gun that day.  Today when I stared into Moonlight’s eyes, I saw cloudiness… a sign of being old.  Her snout and side of her face is whiter… a sign of being old.

Please stop the clock….

…because time is running out for both of us.

sugary shame

So today KC came by to hang out.  I don’t understand why she did not have college, but I guess it’s not like highschool where you have to go everyday.  Whatever.  The days she doesnt go to class, she has this overwhelming need to come and hang out in my apartment and sit in my new chair, and control the TV.  I guess because she lives at home, my place is like her “getaway pad.”  But I have an old fashion, shitty, small TV, compared to the big, flat thing she has at her parent’s house.  I guess I don’t get it.. . I would rather be at her house in a heartbeat..

Since I never had a real friend before and I never had an apartment that was “acceptable” until now, I guess I am not used to people just dropping by.  I don’t care, but I think it’s funny that KC just shows up.  It’s even funnier that I am normally there sitting on my ass.  Hm…  

So, KC was watching TV cartoons in my new chair and I was sitting on the floor with my dogs.  She was eating my new bag of doritos (in my new chair!)….

ME:  … hey, did you bring your credit card with you?

KC:  <munching on my doritos> ……  Yeah, it’s always in my wallet… emergencies you know.  Why do you ask?

ME:  well…ah..

KC:  Well what?  ….  <munching>  Spit it out, goofy.  <munching>

ME: … i have an emergency…  ok, not really a REAL emergency…. Hang on…

I got up off the floor and turned my computer on.  I searched my “internet favorites…”

ME:  …come here a sec….  i’ll show you my emergency..

KC hoped out of my new chair, holding the doritos and came over to look at my computer… She looked at the picture and burst out laughing….

ME: .. i need that …..i  really need that ….

KC:  LOL, LOL, omg.  LOL.

ME:  does that count as an emergency need…. to use the credit card?  

KC continued to laugh.  I was smiling.  We both were looking at this….

My dream cake.  Last year I wrote a blog post about sweets.  If you have not read it, please do… I actually think it is a really funny commentary on my favorite food group: Sweets.  I ended the post by saying that if I ever got money, I would buy this cake for me and eat the whole dam thing.

Well… I got some money.

.

…and on Friday, I will get my cake.

.

After I ordered it, I felt really ashamed that I spent money on that cake.  I felt greedy and wrong.  The only money I have spent from the settlement is on that chair that KC sits in, some toys for my pets, and regular bills, but my work pay covers many of them.  I am more afraid of the money than most people.  It is controlled, but there is money put into my account monthly… but I don’t spend it.  I feel weird having money.  KC tried to cheer me up after we ordered it.  She was surprised that I went from “my dream cake” giddiness to “my dream cake” depression.  I told her how  I felt and she was shocked because she said “LT, you don’t own anything, no offense.  You could have taken that money and decked out your apartment in brand new stuff, gotten a cool car, new clothes, cell phone, all kinds of stuff.  Bought your best friend a new car….you know?  LOL …. comon’ …Seriously… You NEED to be more greedy… especially at our age.”

She said I could give it to myself to make up for all the cakes I never got, for my birthday.  Then she said..

KC: “Forget that LT.  Sometimes you just gotta buy something for yourself, just because you want to.  You had alot of shit happen last year, you deserve that cake. “

But I still feel like it is selfish and wrong.  It seems greedy.  It seems like a waste…  I don’t deserve to buy something for myself, “just because” I want to, especially something that is “ridiculous” like a dream cake…

As KC left, she said “I’ll be by Friday to get some cake. LOL”

I think she missed it when I said “buy the cake for me …and eat the WHOLE dam thing”

what was my mom doing when i was in the womb?

So, some wonderful responses on my last two blogs… that focused on parent/child relationships.  I read all of them and many were very thought-provoking and interesting..   I’m very consumed with the topic of parent/child connection right now because I feel so disconnected.  I have no true parent-child relationship.  While KC’s family is fabulous and very kind to me, the reality is… they are not mine.  I went to their house for dinner on Sunday.  I was already struggling with this issue in my thoughts, but it got harder after that dinner.

Why?

Because they talked about memories.  Memories of things that they did as Mom and daughter, memories of things they did as Dad and daughter, and memories of things they did as a family….   THEY HAVE A LONG-STANDING CONNECTION.

Dr. Val tells me that attachment between mother and child starts when the baby is in the womb. The CONNECTION starts that early.  Today we were talking more about parent/child relationships….

 

ME:  …..so… what was .. or is.. wrong with me that my mom didnt connect to me.?   <pause>  … like is it because, um, im a bad egg? 

DR VAL:  “Does that make sense, LT?  That something might be wrong or bad with a very tiny baby that is just growing?  Unless you were in your mom breaking the law or getting in fights, I find it hard to believe you could be “bad.”"

ME:  … yeah

DR. VAL:  “Yeah what?”

ME: ….  yeah.   my mom said i was bad.  …

DR. VAL:  “Oh really?  When you were a little baby in the womb?”

ME: …. yeah.

DR. VAL:  “Bad? …. in the womb?  Really?”

ME:  … yeah.  that’s what i just told you.  are you going deaf?

DR. VAL:  “Well, I guess I am just wondering how a baby can be bad?”

ME:  because… um…  because…  she said, like… i was  bad…  because…. <pause>  …. because, ah fuck… because i made her sick all the time…  she said.

DR. VAL:  “Oh, LT. ….. Many women get sick  … it’s not because the baby is bad.  “

ME: … how do you know?

DR. VAL:  “LT, it even has a name.  Morning sickness.  In fact more than half of pregnant women experience morning sickness… usually in the beginning, but sometimes throughout the entire pregnancy. 75% have it in the beginning… So LOTS of women have it. “

ME:

DR. VAL:  “It’s almost natural for women.  So, what would that mean if you weren’t bad.  Maybe it wasn’t YOU that was the reason your mom did not connect?”

ME:  no it was me.

It was kind of quiet the rest of the session. Dr Val trying to ask me questions and me staring at the floor.  I didn’t really want to hear her or respond, because it confuses ALOT of stuff.

Oh my way home on the bus, I was thinking…….On the VERY slim chance that there is/was nothing wrong with me….

It makes me wonder, what the hell was going on that my mother didnt want to CONNECT with me when I was inside her?  I don’t know.  Was she doing what she was always doing; drugging, drinking, running away, probably hooking?  Did she not care that I was in there?  How can you ignore that there is a baby inside you?  It’s not like you can hide a baby?

.

Dr. Val tells me that normally the CONNECTION gets stronger when the baby is born.  Um… what the hell was going on that my mother didnt want to CONNECT with me when I was born?  Obviously I don’t have memories of being a baby, but what I remember from living with my bios…. even simple things like dressing and trying to take care of me, my brother did or showed me..  I remember trying to “need” my mom, trying to ask things, trying to get “safe love” but it did not happen.  She would mostly look at us in disgust or stare at us like she was dead inside.  She would walk out the door when my father was hurting me.  How? After a while, it was like I was dead inside.

NO CONNECTION.

.

Everything  in my heart screams that it is my fault, that it is me that is so bad.  Afterall, I never CONNECTED with any of the foster homes or friends or teachers or… anyone growing up?!  I don’t really remember any of the foster homes being really sad that I was leaving (except Ms. Liz because she was a true healer at heart)…. in fact in most cases I sensed relief.  “Thank god, she’s gone!”

NO CONNECTION.

I guess it is me afterall.

 

 

we are more than trauma … mamas

This could be my last blog, not because I want to stop blogging, but because I might slightly slip into “controversial” territory to many of my readers.  I don’t mean offense by this post, but it is something that has been “confusing and bothersome” to me, for quite awhile and falls along with the parent-child relationship “thing” I have been struggling with for days…

The topic:          The self-proclaimed title of “Trauma Mama.”

I hate it.

It confuses me.

And I have thought long and hard about this, as even some of my favorite bloggers that I do respect for their excellent parenting of hurt children, use it to define themselves at times….

Why?

Are you parenting trauma?  …….or …are you parenting a child affected by trauma?

This label seems to be used as a “badge of pride”…  is it really? …. that the child you are parenting has endured trauma and pain and responds accordingly?  Or better yet “Trauma Mama x 55″ covering all the trauma kids one has mama’ed over the years.  I am feeling a better “badge of pride” would be that mamas helped 55 hurt children to heal to their potential.  I had lots of people “foster mama” me …. how many helped me heal?

Is this how you see your child …..and thus want to define yourself and your relationship by it?

CafePress has a selection of “Trauma Mama” items; t-shirts, mugs, water bottles, etc.  Imagine if your kids saw you walking around in this t-shirt or drinking from this water bottle or coffee mug…

Fuck!  There is even a throw pillow for your couch!   “Thanks kid, you are driving me insane and even the hospital is like a vacation…because you are such a pain in the ass.”   Even if this is meant to seem “humorous,” it sends a message to your child.  It sends a message to me…. I can imagine what all those “foster trauma mama’s” thought and felt as implied in the above — “LT, you are making me sick!” — and lo and behold, I was dumped by them all.

In psychobabble, Trauma is defined as an emotional response to a terrible event like an accident, rape, abuse, war, or a natural disaster.

Are “Trauma Mama’s” experiencing an emotional response to a terrible event?  … parenting a child that you choose, and is affected by trauma —  A TERRIBLE EVENT?

Dr. Karyn Purvis says — “Kids yearn to connect. However, the most tender-hearted kids, when not able to connect, become most aggressive and are worst behaved.“   “We always say, Sad kids act angry and scared kids act crazy.  I’ve never seen a child who can’t come to profound levels of healing – never.”

“I’ve worked in a number of countries around the world and all points U.S. and I have never yet seen a single child that doesn’t come to dramatic levels of healing in an environment that is informed for how to help this child heal and willing to make the sacrifices.”

WE are more than Trauma……

Mamas…

I’m sorry I don’t get it.

It seems very negative to me…

How about:

“Hi, I am LT’s Mama … and I am parenting a child affected by trauma.”

are foster/adoptive kids loved differently than biokids

Today I was thinking about the concept of love, mostly family-type love and more specifically love between parents and children.  Then  I started wondering if people love foster/adoptive kids differently than their bio-kids?  I don’t mean “parenting” methods but — I mean love.  I am not really sure how to define parent-child love, because I don’t think I have ever felt it.

My bio-parents never loved me, I know that… and I never felt loved.  I never felt safe or special or cared about or like I mattered… I never felt protected or comfortable or calm or understood or wanted or important or …. do those define love?  I honestly have no memory of my bio-parents EVER saying “I l-ve you,” …unless I was being used as a fucktoy…and we all know that when men are getting their rocks off, they say the weirdest crap … it’s more like they love you for getting them off.   Was I loved for being a whore?  Many days, that is what I feel like.  I guess that is the closest to bio-parent love I get.

.

I don’t think I was capable of feeling love when I first entered foster care because I was too damaged and too hurt.  Mostly what I remember feeling was confusion and fear and shame and pain and… I was wrapped up in my feelings and had no use for others, nor could I trust that they were sincere…my life taught me otherwise.  And then years later in foster care, when perhaps I could have felt love, I don’t think I was loved in a parent-child sense.  I really don’t believe that any family loved me then.

.

.

Do you love your adoptive children the minute you bring them into your family? or your foster children?  How do you know?  Is it the same love you feel for your bio-kids?  Can it be?

Does being able to claim the child as “yours” help that love?  Whether “yours” through adoption or “yours” through biology … compared to a foster child who is not “yours?”

Do you know if you don’t love your bio-kid right away?  Do you know if you don’t love your adoptive child right away?  Do you know if you don’t love your foster kid right away?

I have read some blogs of people who write that they don’t love their adoptive child “yet” — in some cases, it may be a couple years after the adoption.   I think to myself, “doesn’t the child feel that?… that you don’t love them?”   Is that really any better than where the child came from… ?  Being unloved by bio-parents and  unloved by adoptive parents would seem to create more harm.  I feel worse knowing that my bio-parents never loved me AND also that many other foster parents never loved me either.  Being constantly unloved tells you that you are unloveable.

.

What defines parent love of a child?

and

Can you ever really love a foster child?

Sign posting for me and KC…

.

I am really tired tonight….

But if you need a good laugh….

This sign was made for me and KC.

My first time, her millionth time…

Today was probably our last time…

No-one ever said we couldn’t stay all day….. 

…now they did…

.

*The sign is from google, but the message fits the looks we got today…

AWE-some … foster care firsts…

Today i opened my refrigerator and looked inside and it was empty…. not even a beer.  Completely empty.  I closed it, counted to 5 and opened it.  Guess what?  Still empty.  Staring at my empty refrigerator bought back memories of AWE-some foster care firsts…

Let me share..

1.  Food in the fridge. 

I was 7 when I went to a foster home that had food in the refrigerator.  I don’t mean just an apple or a container of milk, I mean a whole bunch of food in the fridge.  It wasn’t like that before in my life.  Most of the time, when i was living with my bio-parents, the fridge was empty; sometimes broken.  At my foster home, I remember opening and closing the fridge to make sure the food was *REALLY* there.  It was.  Ironically, my little self also noticed the light was ON in the refrigerator with food.  In my bio-home, there was no light in the refrigerator and no food.  So for the longest time, I thought that the light was only on when there was food.  I would check it at night too… and yep, the light was on when food was in there.  It took a couple more homes before I realized that the light and food were not related.

.

2.  Bicycle with training wheels.

If you read my blog regularly, you know I really like to ride my bike… well, at least I did before I got hit by the car.  Anyway, I never had a bike living with my bio-parents.  In honesty, I never really had my *own* bike anytime growing up… it’s not like you can take a bike when you are being dumped by a family and moving again.  That being said, I did learn to ride a bike in foster care.  Sara and Bill taught me to ride a bike.  At 8 I was small and started just like every other kid… with training wheels.  It wasnt until I saw a neighbor kid with no training wheels did I realize those “things” werent supposed to be there.   So uncool when you are a “tough” 8-year old from the hood…

.

3.  Talking…and listening… blah, blah, blah…

I don’t ever remember my bio-parents just talking to me.  They were usually yelling, screaming, or directing me to do something.  Never asked “how are you today,” “what is your favorite color,” etc.  When I went to foster care I remember sitting at the kitchen table with Ms. Liz and her just talking to me.  I was busy stuffing my mouth and pockets with food, but she talked… not yelled, not screamed, not “LT, get my dam beer”… just talked.  Eventually at some other tables in other homes, I talked too… in between stuffing my mouth…. and the foster parents listened.  Amazingly some of them even listened to me cursing them out, telling them “to eat shit and die” or “fuck off,” or simply “goto hell.”  And some didnt yell back or punish me for what I said.  Perhaps those moments of them listening were very beneficial because I learned that I could express myself and not get hurt.  Eventually those foster parents put “boundaries” that I was supposed to respect.  For example, once a foster family said I could express myself without using swear words and they would listen, but if I used a swear, I had to do some chore.  My smart-ass response:  “Go to HECK.”

.

4. Positive bathing…with song.

When I came into foster care, I was hurt.  My first temp foster home was with a nurse.  After that I went to a foster home with Sara and Bill.  The reality when I got to foster care… was that I was not taking my clothes off for anyone at anytime, especially with a “male” there.  In my bio-home, cleaniness didnt matter; alot of times I wore dirty clothes, there was no soap or shampoo to bathe with, etc.  It was not something I “learned” living with my bio-parents.  For me, I bathed to get “it” off me and “it” out of me… the sometimes perceived “disgusting, slimy” feeling and the sometimes real “slimy substance” that came from being used as someone’s fucktoy…Sometimes I would fall asleep in the dirty, old bathtub, hoping to get it “off” me and “out” of me.

Bathing was not something that was positive … it was all negative. 

While living with Ms Liz and Sara and Bill, bathing was reframed from negative to positive… by SLOW steps where I was “in control” (or thought I was).  Initially Ms Liz had to give me sponge-baths because of the injuries, but believe it or not, she did it when I was dressed, by rolling up the areas of clothes.  It took along time, but I was not ever feeling “exposed.”  Eventually I graduated to baths in the tub in clothes …. losing items over time or wearing different items, like shorts and a tee-shirt instead of a sweatshirt, etc.

Although I was 7 when I went into foster care, the use of soap and shampoo had to be “taught” to me.  I never had it consistently when I was living with my bio-parents, no-one cared.  My foster parents tried soaps of different colors, soaps of different smells, soaps of different size…but perhaps the best tool to get me to remember to use soap …..

“I wish I was a little bar of soap,”

“I wish I was a little bar of soap,”

“I’d go slippy slippy slidy, over every little hiney,”

“Oh, I wish I was a little bar of soap.”

To a 7-8-9 year old, this little jingle is hysterical…

…especially when screaming it at the top of your lungs!

 

bike strike 2

Before work today, KC took me to look at bikes at another bike shop in the city.  This is the second time we have gone to look at bikes.  She wants to buy a bike to ride to her college.  She is going to park her car off campus so she doesn’t have to pay for parking and then ride to class. She also wants to go riding with me, but I haven’t rode a bike in almost a year, since I got hit by the car.  I used to ride my old bike all over the place and it was my transportation.

We went into the store and…

She rode.

I watched.

She rode.

I sat down on the ground. 

She encouraged me “to try.”

I shook my head no.

She rode.

I watched clouds.

She rode.

I didn’t.

In a way, I feel like a failure.

.

bathroom reading

.

Bathrooms have become an issue for me.  Not MY bathroom, but other bathrooms.  Basically, I don’t want to use any bathroom, but MINE.  Not in public, not at work, not at KC’s house, not at therapy, not anywhere…  It makes things hard when I drink a supersize soda and am stuck across town… or when I am at work constantly drinking  and don’t/won’t go.  At work, I open the door and look in, but don’t go in.

.

When I spent all those years in foster care, I used all kinds of bathrooms.  Many different foster homes, different group homes, court-houses, schools, etc.  My ass probably sat on thousands of different toilets.  Not all of them were “nice” and clean.  Sometimes the “kids” had a crappy bathroom and the foster parents had another bathroom.  The “kids” had broken things, like seats or mirrors, had moldy walls, ripped floors, holes, etc.  Sometimes they were ok, but never really reflected me with my choice of colors or design… Just another kid passing through.

Living in group homes… sometimes the bathrooms could be dangerous, especially if it was a large group home.  In the large group homes I stayed in, the bathrooms were usually multi-toilet, multi shower style, with a door on both sides to enter and exit.  Although the rules dictated that the doors into the bathroom be kept open, so you basically walked in; all it takes is a group of kids to close the doors, appoint the look-out on both sides, and you could get your ass kicked or raped.  It’s amazing how fast those events can occur.  Smaller group homes usually had smaller bathrooms.  More like a personal bathroom.  I remember them having 1-3 sinks, toilet stalls, and showers.

.

When I aged-out and lived on the streets, I used all kinds of bathrooms; bus stations, fast food places, parks, old abandoned buildings, nature, anything I could sneak into, porta-johns, libraries, subway stations, pay-by-the-hour motels, stores, shelters, more nature, under bridges, etc .  All those years on the streets, I probably peed and pooped in thousands of toilets and non-toilets.  Let me tell you people, there are some pretty shitty public bathrooms out there; and when you are the lowest piece of crap on the planet, that’s what you get to use.  You see many of the restuarants and stores have signs that say “No Public Restrooms – Customers Only” or “No Public Bathrooms.”  Sucks to be crap on the streets.

So, last summer, I moved into this nice apartment.  Compared to any place I had lived on my own, it is like a mansion (Click here to refresh your memory).   So it’s not that my bathroom is big or fancy, its just…  nice … and I really feel like its MINE.  I didnt have alot of money, but I have a green monkey fluffy rug in there and as you know, a couple of my towels have animals on them.  So, its not anything amazing, compared to most.

So…

Why after all the years of living like I did would I now be freaked out of “used/public bathrooms?”  Germs?  Other people? ????  I can’t figure it out.  It started developing slowly last summer when I first moved into my place, after I left KC’s house.  Now, its gotten to where I am not using the toilet anywhere…the only place I am letting it out is in the bathroom with the monkey rug…