July 5th, 1978 my life would change forever. On this day my social worker came to remove me from the foster home I knew only as home. “Mommy don’t you love me anymore?” I asked this a few hours before the real event was to be. She was the only mommy I ever knew.
Her answer was, “I don’t know anymore.” There were horrific things that happened to me in that home. The sheriff had been there, but they couldn’t do much with the lack of evidence. DNA I don’t think was even a possibility back then.
I was going to a new place and we had to get there in a hurry. The social worker said if it was after hours I would be placed in Juvenile Detention. We were like an hour and a half from the city. I was emotional and tearful the whole ride up there.
The city was a culture shock itself, me being from the rural area. Though as any child, I could be bribed with a cheeseburger from Jack in the Box.
My beloved bluffs were no where in sight. I could still talk to God and ask Him where He was. Maybe I was so bad, even He gave up on me. I cried many hours for 3 days.
The swings outside became my new place to talk to God and just cry. How was it that I ended up in what I felt like was jail and the real bad man get to be free? The worst to me was having to call these strange women mamas. They were not my mama.
I had a few them call me by a different name too, Willie. There’s more to this, but I didn’t even put it together back then.
About this same time a news story was playing live. I had no clue who the man was in relation to me. I won’t be revealing that either. Suffice it to say some of the people said he was related to me at that time. There’s still no proof yet.
They quickly turned off the tv. I learned at a young age, some answers you get by hearing people talk and pretending you’re writing or drawing pictures. They also got some of their answers this way.
There was a mama who left my report book out on purpose, when she discovered I had no clue who anyone was in my family.
My first hard word at 11 years old, was pronouncing Schizophrenic. They labeled my biological mother with this diagnosis. I didn’t know the reality of it until later in life.
I somewhat settled in and tried to adapt the best I could. I took it from this and many other instances, the reason why I thought I was easy-going and could adapt to anything. People have since corrected me and said I am not so easy-going.
After review of my life I agree and disagree both. Considering the hell, I went through they were damn lucky I wasn’t some freak of existence.
Though, I certainly felt like one and never understanding why I didn’t know who my own biological mother was. If she had visited me; why I didn’t I remember?
There is more to reveal and soon I will meet the lunch lady.
Thanks for reading!