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."