I put a lot of thought doing this blog…maybe too much thought. I went through many sleepless nights thinking of every possible scenarios in my head of the consequences should I decided to share my most darkest secrets growing up as a foster child as well as my life there after, for the world to see.
I thought about my younger brother Timmy and how he would feel. I always wondered if he ever sat down with his two children, and shared with them his experience growing up in a foster home and what he had seen as a young child inside the very home that was supposed to save us from a life living in an orphanage.
I wondered if he would keep the secrets to himself, and spare his children the painful memories of the abuse he had witnessed upon his brother, by the hands of the man we called Dad. I also thought about the members of that foster family who have families of their own, and wondered had they ever told their children about the foster-brother they once had.
Well, I didn’t have to beat myself over the head on that one, because I know they had no choice as their children gotten older and saw me a few times at functions that could never have been avoided. I was not only considered the black sheep of that family, but I knew of the lies that were told about me to their friends for many years, and to be honest, I never gave a shit either way.
So, it was pretty obvious that I was going to be doing this blog and not really care much of what they would think or if they ever told their children about me and what their grand father had done…because if they didn’t, they do now. Shame on them for not telling their adult children in their late twenties, the TRUTH what happened my years living with them as their foster-brother.
I know they got a heads up from either a very close friend or a family member that I posted a blog sharing not only my time living with her family, but my life before and after them as well. This is not an easy thing to do I can tell you that. To lay it all out there for all to see makes you feel not only vulnerable but naked as well.
I posted a story recently about how I was punished and forced to stand in the corner of the kitchen naked with just a towel to look like a diaper when everyone else was eating breakfast…..that’s exactly how I feel doing this blog. But, I am not going to hold back from telling my stories or to submit to anyone’s feelings just because the overwhelming guilt they now feel.
I am sure they never had a second thought about me and the life I lived the day I walked out of that house for the last time back on that snowy day in December of 78. So, there is no reason on earth why I should give a damn what they feel now. I lived a life that most teens my age would have committed suicide before the reached their 18th Birthday.
I actually attempted in a pathetic way by throwing myself down a long flight of stairs…get this…in a hospital. After visiting a friend who was in a coma from a car accident I was sick of my life and as well as homeless with no place to go, and decided to do a Peter Pan right off the top of the steps as I was coming down from the second floor.
I was totally air-borne hoping that I would have broken my neck on the way down when I hit the pavement. Instead, I was just banged up and ended up in a Psychiatric Ward when they found a suicide note in my jacket pocket…I was 17. Well, the only good thing that came out of that embarrassing attempt is that I had a place to stay before I decided to just walk out of that nut house two weeks later.
My point is this. I never lived a perfect life. I never had a good life. I never had anyone in my life for guidance. I never had anyone to turn too when I was spiraling out of control. I was alone and damaged goods….I was a broken. Nothing I did was going to change the fact that I didn’t have a place called home, and no one to love or care for…I was alone at 17 years old.
So alone that I made a desperate phone call from my girl friend’s house and begged my mother to take me back and promised if they did they wouldn’t regret it. I don’t think I ever cried so hard the way I did, but I could her husband in the background whispering, and I knew he had his head against the phone listening to my plea.
By the sound of her voice, I could hear her crying herself, then silence. What seemed like maybe she was going to say yes, instead she said this….”I’m sorry Michael but we can’t”, with that being said she hung up. So I end this story with one last thing.
I was considerate enough to wait till after Christmas to share my stories of the beatings and abuse I received by my foster-father. I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s holiday…including the very ones who lived in that house. I made it very clear back in early December of 2013, that those stories would not be told till after this New Year…….Am I not Merciful?