My Story

I have thought long and hard about writing my life story. It was a hard decision to make. I sought out information on the computer about foster care. I came across a newsgroup alt.support.foster-parents I realized there were more people who did not understand how the system works. I guess I was a little ignorant my self. I assumed everyone should be able to see the suffering CPS brings into people's lives. I don't want my story to be one of pity. My only purpose in telling my life history is the hope that it will bring awareness to others and perhaps give someone else the courage to tell theirs. I believe that to talk about our experiences with CPS, is perhaps like a rape victim, If we continue to remain silent the rapist goes free. Only when we speak out can we make others aware of the danger and only then there will be hope for change.

I was two when I was removed from my home. I have no memory of that day; I can only imagine the emotions I must have felt. I was placed in one family's care for a few months; then removed and placed in the home were I would spend most of my young life. My one salvation, my four older brothers were placed in the same home with me. Parts of my past I have blocked from my memory. When I try to think back to my early years (4&5) I only have feelings of fear. I can't recall specific details only that sometimes thinking back the fear is so overwhelming, I have to take a deep breath and remind my self that I am safe and in the present. I have some memories of the abuse, but I have never been able to define them to an age.

One of my earliest memories; was of my brothers and I playing cowboys in the backyard. My brother went to throw a rope over me, I fell and broke my arm; of course at the time I did not realize my arm was broken. I walked around for a few hours in pain, afraid to tell my foster mom. I knew how angry she would be. Her children had all come over for lunch and we were to stay outside and play. You know the old saying "to be seen but not heard". Well I had to go to the bathroom, so I tried to sneak in, but her son saw me and called me over. He asks me about my arm, I guess I was holding it funny. I told him it was fine, and tried to walk away. She saw the commotion and wanted to know what was going on. Her son said he thought my arm was broken. She thought everything was fine and I was just trying to get some attention. Upon insistence from her oldest son I was taken to the emergency room. As I had feared after everyone left I was verbally abused and was made to sleep on the floor for a week.

I also remember my brother playing with matches and she caught him. She took him in the kitchen. I heard her yelling "this is what happens to little boys when they play with matches", I may never get his scream out of my head. When he came out of the kitchen his arm had been burned. I remember he would hide under his bed for weeks after that. He still carries the scar. When it was reported to CPS, our foster mother said he burned his arm while playing with matches. I think this was my first realization, no one was going to help us. I didn't have any memories of my father so up until this point I had fantasized about my father riding in and saving me.

My brother and I were locked in closets for hours on end. There were occasions when she would forgot she had placed us in one and we would have to stay in them over night. One form of punishment was to make us go with out food. There were times my brothers and I were so hungry we would sneak in to the chest freezer down stairs and eat the frozen honey buns. My brothers and I were not allowed to leave the table until we had finished eating. One morning my brother found bugs in the cereal and we were made to eat the cereal anyway.

The abuse continued on and on my older brother found some papers explaining why we were in foster care and the money she got paid for housing us. The papers talked about money set up for our clothing and allowance. She came down stairs and caught my brothers and I. She picked up the fire place poker and proceeded to hit us with it. I got hit on the top of the head and shoulders repeatedly.

As I got older (I believe I was six at the time) she had my brothers and I go out a night. There was Goodwill box at this little country store. My brothers and I would have to go the store at night to steal from the Goodwill box. My brothers would hold my feet while I reached in to the box and got out clothes. If we got out stuff that would fit us she would keep it. When my brothers and I brought back anything that didn't fit us we would have to take it back during the day so it would look like she was making donations. My brothers and I didn't get to celebrate birthdays, I only have one memory of Christmas. Under the tree was full of presents, It was all for show because the next day I woke up and only had one toy left.

My cousin and her husband were going to take my brothers and I at one point. My brothers and I went to their house and looked around. They told me which room would be mine. I don't think I had ever been so happy. The caseworker approved the move. My brothers and I were set to go. Then a few weeks before the move we got a new caseworker and she denied the petition. There are more stories I could tell and many I don't have the courage for now (maybe some day) but the question still remains were was CPS.

The fear I lived with was overwhelming at times; I became more withdrawn. When we were not physically abused it was verbal abuse. There was no way to judge her moods. My oldest brother at thirteen decided he had had enough, he took a baseball bat and beat the kitchen counters, stove and sink. When she realized he wouldn't be controlled anymore she called CPS and he was removed from her care. My oldest brother was sent back to live with my mother. It would be two more years before my next two brothers would leave. Due to the behavior of my oldest brother, they were not allowed live with my mother. They were sent to a boy's home for six months and then returned to my mother. That left my brother and I. the day my last brother left I felt as someone had removed my heart. I was sad and confused; I was happy for him but mad at the same time. How could they do this? Leave me here all alone. A feeling of emptiness took over. As though I was living in a black hole, not really living at all with no desire to live. The next couple of years were the hardest for me. I was alone and that made the abuse harder take. I had managed to survive with some sanity up until this point, but after he left the abuse got worse.

I remember the day her son moved into the trailer park next door, he always gave me the creeps; I could not stand for him to touch me. Her son always called me over to do errands for him. I never liked to go but if I didn't I would be in trouble. There was one afternoon I was playing in the backyard, I heard her son calling me. I remember thinking I didn't want to go. I walked slowly over and knocked on the door. Her son told me to come inside, that we were going to play house. It was then that her son raped me, I never cried or yelled, her son got a phone call while I was there and I never said a word. My foster father called me home for dinner and I was never so glad to be back in that house. After supper I had to take her son's supper over to him. I remember the walk seemed like forever. I prayed the whole way for the lord to just come and get me anything so I won't have to live like this.

I don't recall how old I was when I found the large knife she kept in the bottom dresser draw, but after that I was afraid to sleep. I was never scared of monsters in the closet, my monsters were all too real. I always thought that one night she would come down stairs and kill me. I would cover up with as many blankets as possible and get in the middle of the bed. Then I would pull the covers around me so it would be hard to tell were I was sleeping. I would lay in bed and pray. The blankets came in handy because I slept in the basement. It was a cement basement and at night she would let the fire go out about eight o'clock. It could get very cold down stairs at night. I had a heat duct in my room but if I were caught opening it I would be punished.

While I was in school I learned how cruel kids can be. They learned to label me as different. When my foster mom would come to school to talk to my teachers she would make sure to address me as her fosterchild. I don't know if that's how the children in school learned I was in fostercare but it's hard enough just to go to school and fit in. Once you have been labeled all hopes of every fitting in are gone. I never thought to tell the neighbors or people at school or church I just wondered why know one seemed to see her as I did. . I try to think of the best way to describe her. The only thought that comes to me is that there was a doll made many years ago. You could turn a knob and her face would change from happy to sad. This reminds me of my foster mother because that is how she looked. If we were in church or the social worker stopped by her face would change. It became softer looking. I don't know how to put it into words it was just a look, almost like a different person. We knew when we were alone again the monster would come out. Everyone seemed to buy into the act. Everyone just went own about how nice it was of her to take in those poor children. What a strong and Christian thing to do. No one seem to notice that we were standing right there. Perhaps we were just foster children, but we still had ears and feelings to. I wondered sometimes if people even knew my name or if they would always just call me that foster child. It makes me think of the book the scarlet letter. How the adulteress had to wear the A on her clothes. I didn't have an F on my shirt but it seems I might as well have.

People must be wondering where the CPS workers were. They would come about every six months. Something to really look forward to. She had a sitting room, which were never allowed in until a caseworker showed up. Then my brothers and I would go in and sit on the couch. Our foster mother would always be present and I would sit on her lap when I was younger, as I got older I had to sit beside her. This was so when the caseworker asks the tough questions such as how did your brother get burned? Or how did you get that bruise? My foster mother would pinch my leg so I would not forget what she could do. My foster mother never had to threaten. My brothers and I learned very early their was no reason to tell and if we did tell we feared no one would believe us and of course their was always the belief that their would be a punishment when the caseworker left.

I was returned to my mom at the age of fourteen. That was a hard transition for me to make also, up until this point the only memories I had were of abuse, and although I saw my mom every three months for the day, I still didn't know what to expect. It took a long time for me to trust that when I did something wrong I was not going to be beaten. Although the judge ordered counseling by the state I never received any. I never fully understood my mom until I became a mom my self. She married at a very early age and had five children all less than two years apart. When her husband decided he no longer wanted to be married or have children he walked out on her. With no means of support, and no food in the house, my mother sought out the help of social services. It was not long after my mother came to them for help that they decided my brothers and I would be better off in foster care.

I don't know what my life would have been like had I remained in my mother's care, but I can say with out a doubt that CPS DID NOT do their job. A few years after I left foster care I read that my foster mother had received an award for foster mother of the year. Seems only right that she gets some compensation for all the years of hell she put my brothers and I through.