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.