They had 99 problems and I was one

I left the children's center after what seemed to be forever away from my family. I went to go live with my primary teacher's family from church. It felt good to be around someone nice that I was familiar with. I remember they had a few children and I seemed to get along with them just fine. It seemed like the only problems I had living there were my post-traumatic stress disorder induced incessant bed-wetting and my foster father.

The impression I had was that my foster parents did not agree to have me in their home, even for a short while. My primary teacher, the mother, seemed to love and adore me, but her husband seemed to be annoyed by me constantly. Maybe it was the tantrums, my hyperactivity, uncontrollable nightly bed wetting episodes or maybe it was that I accidentally broke the control to the television. Whatever it was, I had a strong impression from him that I was not wanted there. I felt the need to cause more problems to get attention from him which, usually came in the form of being sent to a room, being yelled at or spanked. I am sure now that it was the normal punishment for a child, but for me then, I felt like the scapegoat for everyone else. In my childhood, it seemed like everything was my fault and that I was the problem.

In what seems to be the shared story for most foster children, I was sent away to another family after it seemed like my foster father and I had battled our last time. As a child, I immediately felt worthless and unwanted, even if that was not the case. As much as I did not get along with my foster father, I wanted him to love me and tell me everything would be okay; that day never came. I grew up waiting for a loving father to cradle me in his arms, laugh with me, play with me and protect me, but that prayer never seemed to be answered.One would think that going to church as a child and even living with my church teacher, someone would have taught me me to rely on my Heavenly Father's love and protection. This has been a life long journey to trust another father figure in my life; especially one that I cannot see.

At my second foster home I lived with my aunt's family, but it was still a new experience because at seven, I do not recall knowing them that well. This time my youngest brother, at the time, joined me. My aunt had three young boys at the time; I am a month older than the oldest and my younger brother was barely a year old. Now, most mothers will tell you having five boys in the house, at any age, is difficult; there's bound to be fighting and continual raucousness. We were no exception to the rule. I continued my role as scapegoat and problem child because I learned it was the best way to getting the spotlight.

There was one incident in which my younger brother had found his way to the bathroom and started drinking out of the toilet. Upon hearing about this from my uncle I started to chuckle to myself; I thought nothing of it. I was punished for not looking after my brother and keeping him from doing what he did. I was never, to my knowledge given instructions to look after him, but because I was his older brother, it was inherent. I understand that now as an adult, but at seven I did not. I spent my last days with my mother drugged up and sick in bed, serving her food and comforting her. As sweet as it is to have a child to comfort their parents, I actually began feeling like I responsible for them; I was only seven. In regards to the incident, I felt I was being punished unfairly and without cause, so I took matters into my own hand by causing more problems around the house as a way to get back at my uncle.

Doing this never made me feel any better because I never got away with anything. I was only adding to the disconnect between my uncle and I, causing my fear and distrust of men to evolve into somewhat of a monster. My uncle is a good man, definitely different from me, but I know now he has a good heart and tried to teach me something about being a man, but I wasn't ready and I did not know how to tell him or anyone else that. Unfortunately, I spent my whole life disconnected from him and it has availed me nothing in return. I wanted to be respected by him and I have no way of knowing how he feels about me because I shut myself off from him and many others. I found peace in my relationships with women: grandmothers, female teachers at school and church, aunts, female cousins and my imaginary relationship with my mother who I placed on a pedestal, but those relationships can never replace the needs I have for a loving father and brothers.

I remember the day of excitement when my aunt announced she was going to have a fourth child, but I never knew what that would mean for my brother and I. What was, for a short time, exciting news became another announcement later that my brother and I would be moved to another home. I am sure that the move had more to do with space in the home than it did with me, but it was difficult to have to change schools, the few friends I had and my life as I knew it. The positive side of the move is that I learned I would be reunited with most of my siblings at my grandparents home. My grandmother had argued with a judge to allow her to take five of the nine children home with her and my grandfather; the judge agreed it would be for the best. Now I was going to live with people I knew the best, but I quickly learned that it was not going to be what I expected it to be.

I was living in a world where I was expected to act like an adult, yet be a child. When a child is forced to grow up too fast due to traumatic events that include abandonment and abuse there needs to be room for that child to heal. Healing wounds takes precedent over other rules or rites of childhood. It is difficult for a child to express his needs and for parents to meet needs that may remain unknown to them. As an adult, similar to others like me, I have spent my life trying to get back what I lost or never had; it can be an endless journey and it continues on.

I walk a lonely road

By the end of 1978, my mother had six children, was divorced from her first husband, married to my father in a stereotypical Las Vegas chapel and eventually pregnant with me. My father adopted my six older siblings and prepared to have a seventh after one year of being married to my mother. My father was a nontraditional businessman, in other words, he sold drugs in the local malls and sold my mother's artwork and exhibits and county fairs; not exactly the usual 9-5 head of household. My mother was a smart, talented artist who got mixed up with drugs and the wrong people, like my father. In my opinion, she longed to live a life of fame, fortune and extravagance. My parents were known to go to and have parties all the time. They loved to dance and act like they didn't have several children; unless it got them attention. It seems like even now that my father only speaks of me to others when I have done something amazing that he can somehow take credit. I am not trying to paint my parents as self-centered or negligent; they did a good job of that themselves from what I have heard.

My older siblings tell me life wasn't always like this. There were happy times when we weren't left home alone for days or weeks at a time without the proper necessities like real food. As a child, I had no idea families other than mine were not like mine. As I remember, we went to church, we went to school, we had pets, we went on trips and had fun, we visited grandparents and cousins and I felt loved. There were times of great family fun as my siblings and I ditched school to play in the avocado grove nearby and throw rotten avocados at passing cars. There was the house cleaning game my oldest brother taught to us called Tornado that involved us cleaning everything at high speeds. There were the fun times at parks on merry-go-rounds and slides, beautiful beaches, big family dinners, trips to the movie theaters and summer fun at our grandparents' backyard pool. The problem is my parents' love wasn't always real; there were so many acts of emotional and physical abuse and neglect that, as an adult, I have realized should not be normal to families, but was in ours.

Personally, I cannot prove that my mother molested me as a child because as a child I do not remember her ever doing anything violent to me. However, when I tell people that I remember her and I being alone in her room as she snorted what I thought was powder sugar and touched herself while naked with me by her side; they seem to feel I was, in fact, molested. Likewise, I cannot prove that my father was ever violent to me except the memories of being severely slapped or hit for making too much noise, jumping on the bed or touching his penis when he was standing in the livingroom naked. I know I was an excitable child who loved to be loud, be mischievous, curious and center of attention. I feel like a real life version of Maurice Sendak's Max, featured in Where The Wild Things Are. I often did things that got me into trouble like playing with the fire in the fireplace, cutting my sister's hair off while playing barbershop or peeing my pants. I learned that getting attention, even punishment or abuse, made me feel I was loved and cared for by others. Consequently, I also seem to have a distrust of people who are kind to me. These memories and feelings have left me scarred because I am not sure if they are real or not and if they are, why they happened to me and no one stopped it from happening. It has structured the way I view women and men in my life, especially those who have stepped in as maternal or paternal figures.

By 1986, my parents had nine children and the abuse and neglect was happening more often. Our neighbor would took care of us when our parents were absent by making us food, letting us steal stuff out of their garage or patio and giving us money here and there. One night, I remember my mother and siblings packed in a broken down van in a parking lot waiting for my father to arrive with help. I remember my mother taking off in the other car my father arrived in and my father taking us back home in the van. The next morning I woke up to police and Child Protective Services (CPS) surrounding the house and agents taking pictures of our house, our rooms, our clothes and even us. When an agent took a picture of me I smiled because I knew early on to always smile, especially if a picture is being taken.

My father was arrested and taken away and my siblings were split up into different police cars headed to a children's receiving center. After a long ride to the center and not seeing anyone I knew for awhile, I grew upset at the absence of my parents and my siblings. I don't know of one time anyone from CPS or the police told me everything would be alright or comforted me in my time of need; maybe because they didn't know how to.

After some time I was slightly reunited with my siblings. We were all divided by age and so there were rare times we ever got to be together unless it was on the playground separated by bars. At one time I got into some kind of tiff with another boy my age and he threw sand in my face. I cried for help to no avail, no brother or sister; nobody. I recall, even at seven year old, suddenly feeling so very alone in the world. That feeling of loneliness has never left me entirely.

At the children's center there were limits unlike life with my parents. There, I could only have one sample box of cereal, one hamburger for lunch and a very simple dinner; it all seemed like prison food, except the times we went to McDonald's. At home, it seemed like we always had lots to eat but that's because I would eat anything like dog food, butter, syrup, raw hot dogs or uncooked rice. Believe me, I had it better at the center, I just didn't know it; I was found by CPS very malnourished.

The worse part to me living at the children's center was that we all had bunk beds and the living quarters were so tight; there was no where to really run around like at home. Possibly worse was the toys situation; I was given a toy to play with that I had to give up when I finally left the center to live with my foster parents. Nothing felt like it was really mine anymore. I felt I had no real home, no real parents, no real identity and no real life; almost like I was imaginary or invisible.

For a long time I tried to figure out what I did wrong as a child to deserve being taken away from my parents and put into what seemed like such an awful situation. I always pictured my parents as loving and I don't think anyone ever told me that I did nothing wrong; they just assumed I knew. Eventually we were all put in temporary foster homes away from each other. These homes began to develop my fear of men in my life and my inability to have my needs and wants go unmet. This is what I know; I was abandoned and left to fend for myself. In a world surrounded by others, even my family; I grew up feeling that I walked a very lonely road. And for the most part, I probably did.

"I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known. 

Don't know where it goes, but it's home to me and I walk alone."

On my own

The innocent eyes of a small, five-year old boy were wide open before what seemed, at the time, to be a monstrous and dangerous downhill driveway. I was on my Knight Rider Big Wheel and wondering if I would make it to the end of the driveway, at the bottom of the hill, alive and unscathed. I looked around and took a nervous breath of Santa Ana's warm desert-like air. Imagining I was Michael Knight, in hot pursuit of some villain, I took off and pedaled as fast as my little legs could. Racing down the mountain to the end that led to the Ausmans, our neighbors, driveway. I wasn't supposed to ever go further than that. In my imaginative mind, I caught the bad guys and saved the day just in time for dinner.

When I visited that house on Elevado Hill Drive in Vista, California, there were bittersweet memories. I  couldn't help but to remember the day my siblings and I were taken away and led into police cars in that same driveway so many years before. I had conquered that driveway in my Big Wheel, but I have yet to overcome what happened in that house.

To be fair, to a little kid like I was, not everything that happened was horrible. There were many moments of happy adventures. I don't recall feeling like I was neglected or abused. The reason for that, though, is because I have older siblings who looked out for me despite what they faced. Still, I felt hurt, afraid, and angry when I was taken away from my parents because I didn't realize it was for my own safety and well-being. Without intervention, I am not sure where I would be today.

This all seems like ancient history, but there are times it feels I am trapped in a capsule of the past. In many ways, I have become an archaeologist of the soul, searching for answers and treasures. I have uncovered clues here and there, but like Indiana Jones, a hero I grew up with, there is always something out there to discover and protect.

Being thrust into foster care with little explanation; not as if I would have understood anyway, was difficult. From that moment, I felt I would have no one to trust but myself and I would always be on my own; I was seven. Months later, I ended up living with my maternal grandparents, who I barely knew, who ran a much stricter home than my dysfunctional upbringing. I remember being slapped and sent to my room the first day I arrived for calling my grandmother a bitch. I was a shocked little brat; I guess I got away with shit like that everywhere else or maybe I didn't expect an old lady to hit me. I decided at that point, subconsciously maybe, that I would take care of myself, at whatever cost. Though not literally, I did feel and still do, alone and on my own.