Life In Prison

I've come half way in my journey to find normal; I've come half way in unearthing the bits and pieces of me that resemble other beings. This excavation is tough, for the earth is unyielding and my tools are dull. But the rewards are great. Burdens are being lifted, the fog in my mind clears, my soul unfolds and the ice in it begins to melt. It may be 30 days of rain/tears, but, much like this coming spring, I will soon have the internal climate allowing for blossoming, and when I bear that fruit, I will share it with you as I have shared the persistent desolation that has plagued me. The desolation of tragedy, the desolation of fear, the desolation of life in prison.

Yesterday, in Taken, I described my entry into foster care. It was from the eyes of a 7 year old. Things seemed to happen without reason, or much fanfare. It seemed incomplete, and was incomplete, because in my mind at the time pieces of the story were missing - and pieces that were there were interpreted by a mind without the tools to comprehend such adult matters.

We had been shuttled to an elderly couple who would care for us over the next two years. From the beginning, I knew things would be horrible. We were split up. My youngest brother was given a bedroom on the main floor, while my other brother and I were sent to sleep in the basement. It was a dry well finished basement, but it was lonely, and cold. Worst of all, my brother wasn't with us.

After a few days, we had our first visit with our mother. She came into the agency looking like a broken woman. We cried when we saw each other. We hugged, we held, we held on so tight, we held on to become one with her again, we held on to alleviate the grief - to share the sadness - to heal the wounds. She tried to explain, in her best adult voice, fighting back tears, why we couldn't be together. We spent our hour well, coddling each other, and when it was time to go, all of our hearts sank. We left first; we piled into a car with the woman who would care for us from now on. There was traffic, so it was slow moving. I looked around, and I saw her, my mother - stumbling down the street, clutching concrete walls, tears flowing down her face - and my heart exploded with tears and sobs I can't reproduce this day, but try to - because they come whenever I remember this vignette of loss. The woman who was to care for us looked in the direction where I had my attention focused, then she looked at me, grabbed my chin, and said, "Don't you dare cry for your mother!" I was stunned. Eventually, we began having visits without the woman.

Watching my brothers run to my mother crying out "Mommy!" as she walked through the doors to the agency hurt me as much as being away from my mother. It was my fault we were there. It was all my fault. To make matters worse, we were actually being abused at our foster home.

My 5 year old brother who was about to turn 6, was told to memorize all 50 states. When he couldn't do it he was told to tear a thin branch off of a tree and he was beat with it. Our new caretakers had teenage grandchildren who would come, tie my brothers to chairs and duct tape their mouths while I looked on feeling helpless in that cold lonely basement. Once, the woman of the house beat my brother down the flight of stairs leading to the basement. I watched him tumbling, tumbling, down all those steps and I cried. We weren't allowed to take baths or showers unless it was the day before a visit, other than that we had to use a sink to wash up, which I had never done until then. I didn't know the word then, but I know it now, it was humiliation I felt.

I reported these things to my mother, and she gathered evidence, my soiled underwear, bruises, scars, and she reported the woman. On that day, when we arrived back to our temporary home, the woman met me in the basement, "How dare you tell them I hit you and that you don't bathe!" She snatched me up by my throat and I dangled like a rag doll in her hand. I couldn't breathe. She said more, but I couldn't hear anything except the sound of my heart racing. After a few more seconds she let me go and went about her day like nothing happened. Later that night, I was abruptly moved to a finished room in the attic. Now I had no one to share the long nights with.

Every night, every single night, without fail, for 2 years, I prayed to God. I didn't want to spend my life in this prison. I prayed to be returned to my mother. I prayed that God make our family whole. A few months after my 9th birthday, He did.

This experience, truly prepared me to deal with my nieces situation in Temporary Housing. It's why I couldn't sit back and let them be subject to strangers, who may have hurt them as much, or if not worse, than their parents. I knew what it was like to be in a prison, and I wanted them to be free. . .

Tomorrow, Stalked. . .