In previous posts, I describe how I lived with my mother and that when I was in fourth grade, my siblings and I were placed in foster care with less-than-savory guardians. When I was eleven or so, my siblings and I were reunited with our father who worked HARD to gain custody of us. The joy I felt when I learned we were going HOME is indescribable, I was simply ecstatic. Once again, I thought our suffering was over.
My father put in so much work to gain custody of his three children, and I was so proud of him. He became sober, took all the necessary classes required of him, obtained a job, and a house. The judge granted custody on the condition that my grandmother would help with our care–she had a small house and modest income and couldn’t take us fully. Some of my happiest memories came from this time when our family was together, and my father was sober. Unfortunately, these days did not last. Within the year my father relapsed into his old habitats. My father was no longer a reliable or emotionally available caretaker, and our dwellings became a cold basement with minimal comforts found in any real home. We referred to this place as the “brick house” and I resided here until I left home at seventeen. I remember the mattress I slept on had no sheets and springs poking out the surface. I can still recall the cold cement and freezing on my way to take a shower in the morning during the harsh Washington winter. During this time, my dad was focused on his girlfriend and satisfying his addiction. He was never abusive physically or sexually, but just like my foster mother did not protect us. I have vivid memories of my father’s girlfriend’s oldest son terrorizing me. I felt so miserable and helpless. Several months later, my father’s girlfriend and kids moved out. We remained in the “brick house.” Though the home quickly became a haven for other drug addicts. My siblings and I were left on our own to fend for ourselves. If it were not for the love and support of my grandmother, I do not believe I would have survived those years. My grandmother would come over every morning with clean laundry since we did not have a washer or dryer. I vividly remember her sweeping the beer cans left from the wild parties the night before. She would be there to play cards and help me study with flashcards after school and ensured we were fed, even if it was just potatoes. She was a little slice of consistency, and her presence always brought me comfort. At my high school graduation, she was my only familial attendee, and she even made me a dress, so I had something to wear for the special occasion. She was my protector. From the age of eleven to seventeen I resided with my father. My next several posts will explore this time of my life in greater detail. Like many chapters of my life, this one was challenging, at times scary, and unpleasant. Looking back on this chapter of my life can be difficult. But acknowledging my experiences, choosing to heal from it are important. I want to share my story to spread awareness and to connect with others who may have similar circumstances. “Trauma creates change you don't choose. Healing creates change you do choose.” -Michelle Rosenthal
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October 2024
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