Looking Back (part II)

I thought this was going to be in two parts, but from the direction this is going, will be in three parts instead. Let’s start from the very first day inside the parlor at St. Michael’s Orphanage Home back in 1968. When I saw that family for the first time through the windows of the French doors that separated my brother Dennis and I  from them… I was curious. When the doors opened up and they walked in the room where we were in and introduced…I was nervous.

The day my younger brother and I went with this family to their home for the first time…I was totally scared.Look, I have no idea what my life would have been like had I never left St. Michael’s Orphanage Home, or what my life would have been like growing up there or any group home for that matter. But I do know living in the foster home where I was placed from the age of 6 till 16 should have been better childhood experience than the life I knew from the projects and the orphanage combined.

It should have been a good childhood…not a perfect one, hell, wasn’t asking for a great one…just good would have been fine with me. Through those years living with that foster family I learned not trust anyone…period. I carried my trust issues all the way into my adulthood which I was fine with. As far as I was concern, anyone who entered into my life at one time or another was full of shit one way or another. I also had anger issues (thanks to my foster father), which wasn’t a surprised considering I grew up getting my ass beaten from the age of  7 till I was 15 by him.

I know there there’s a member of that family who will dispute some if not all of my stories, who I describe totally  both “delusional” and down right in “denial” what took place inside the house I grew to hate more than anyone will ever know. I don’t understand why I was treated the way I was by my foster father, but I am sure in his demented mind he justified himself.  Just because I did some bad things didn’t make me a BAD CHILD. Jesus Christ, they took in two kids from a broken home and they didn’t think that the oldest (me) wouldn’t have any issues?

Ok, so I took a couple of watches as a child and lied about it…I was fucking SEVEN and TEN YEARS OLD people!!! You damn right I deserved to be in trouble and punished, but not to be choked over it or have my head slammed into a pantry door.My foster father became my monster under the bed. He became my monster inside my closet. He became my monster waiting for me in my dreams even to this day.

That is no way to live through life, just ask my wife who has to deal with it through most of our marriage. I grew up hating the man I called dad, and what he has done to me. I hated when I would hear the dogs barked as he walked through the front door from work. I hated dinner time. I hated the sound of his voice. I hated when he would still be in his work clothes on most weekends like Ralph Kramden from the show The Honeymooners.

I grew to hate everything about him, including his existence. If anyone believes he worked hard to give me a roof over my head think again. He didn’t pay for all the food on the table and the clothes on my back or pay my tuition to go to Catholic School…you know who paid for all that…Catholic Charity Home Bureau! When Christmas arrived and my bother and I received gifts, who do you think paid for that?

I learned at the age of 17 by my social worker that my foster parents were receiving checks every month for room, board, clothing, and weekly allowance( which I never saw), for over 8 years, minus the eight months living in the group home, for both my brother and I. Wonder if they took  me back because they missed those checks. Even with all the therapy sessions, I still hold so much anger and hate towards my foster father. I have been in denial for many years and just recently excepted that I have “Daddy Issues”.

I always said that most dancers (strippers) at Go-Go bars have daddy issues, and after meeting and talking with them, they all seem to share the same type of abuse by the hands of their father or step dads one way or another. To this day, I never profile strippers (dancers) anymore. Really, who the fuck am I to ever judge them and the choices they make in life? After this chapter is over, you will read  first hand the bad choices I made after I left the foster home for good.

When I learned of my foster father’s passing over 15 years ago from my younger brother. To be honest, I felt almost a sign of relief. I was told he died alone in the living room while my mother was in the kitchen, or something like that, while sitting in his chair. As my brother was telling me this, I can only wonder what was his final thought right before his last breath? Anyway, I had to go to his wake, but not to console his children or see my mother for the very last time, but to see for myself that he was truly gone. I figure if he was gone, my nightmare’s would have died along with him……I was wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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