|
Foster Kid
|
|
Thank you. I do not know if I can say it enough. Like Christ, you were there for me, without judgment and with open arms. You saw me at my worst, yet I always felt loved and accepted. My faith is strong to this day because of you. You did not criticize me for being broken or coming from a broken family. I fell–many times–but you offered a hand to lift me up every time I was ready to stand again. This is the first place I felt I could be my authentic self (and I felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable). I was never asked to pretend to be someone I wasn’t. The phrase “it takes a village” comes to mind. The community at Bible Baptist Church embodies integrity, kindness, and love. Their deeds changed me and memories of what this community did for me live happily in my mind even now, so many years later. One such memory was spending time with Ed and Tammie Sundquist with the bus ministry. We would go out every Saturday to ensure the children would come Sunday and we’d wake early to pick them up Sunday morning. I remember singing songs together and getting to know each child on our way to church. I also enjoyed the youth group with the Boyers. They always went out of their way with their hospitality, seeing that my needs were met. They even opened their home to me for a nap or a meal (which truly helped me so much). I, too, value the friendships I made at youth group and was able to feel like a “normal” kid among my peers. I even made friends with those older than me, like Laurie Orozco; we laughed and cried together. Then Pastor and Mrs. Nolan allowed me to live with them in their home when I had nowhere to go. I can tell you they truly practice what they preach. When I went off to college and had nothing, the church helped prepare me. They ensured I had a flight, school supplies, and a job and place to live on campus. The church community, too, tried to reach out to my family, going above and beyond in their efforts. I had always been so protective of my siblings, and I felt peace knowing the church family would be there for my siblings when I left for California at seventeen. I know without a doubt that if I showed up on the doorstep of The Bible Baptist Church today, that I would be met with love and open arms. This community gave without ever expecting anything in return. Some of my fondest memories include worshiping together in service. These memories and more fill my heart and inspire me to be a better person and to help others in any way I am able. To this whole community I say: I don’t know where I would be without your guidance and support. Always, you stuck by me and reminded me of His unconditional love. Because of you, I have kept the faith. Because of you, I have trusted God’s plan for my life (even when it was so challenging, and I thought my suffering would never cease). Because of you, I had a cathartic place to feel, break down, and cry. So, thank you for everything you have done for me: the memories, the friendships, the support, and the love. I can only hope I’ve been able to give back a fraction of what you have given me. And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and good works, not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another. And so much more as you see the day approaching. Hebrews 10:24-25. 
1 Comment
If you judged me only by my exterior, you probably wouldn’t think I looked too bad. You’d see my brick exterior with blue siding and a chain link fence to perimeter the yard. But often, things aren’t as they seem from the outside, and that is the case with me. If you walked into my front door, you would not see the typical family residing within. Let me tell you what I saw… I saw Pollyann as she walked in the door after a long day of school followed by an eight-hour workday. She looked tired and overwhelmed stepping over the threshold. I could see the questions swirling inside her exhausted mind: “Are my siblings, ok?” “Is dad home, and if so, is he drunk or high?” She could hear the music and chaos inside my walls well before walking in. She would quickly hand over food from work to the inebriated addicts partying inside. Then I would see Pollyann retreat to her room. I would hear her thank God for blessing her with another day and watch as she took Nyquil (again) to aid her in staying asleep amidst the late-night parties. Some nights Pollyann could fall asleep, while other nights suicidal thoughts ran through her mind as she tossed and turned, unsure of whether or not she could survive another day. While I am technically a shelter, Pollyann did her best to stay outside of my walls. A day that filled me with great sadness was when I witnessed Pollyann’s father filling a large McDonalds cup with alcohol and telling her to drink it in order to “heal” her when she complained of feeling ill. Pollyann drank the supposed “healing drink” and became inebriated. This young teen rolled around the dirty subfloor naked with random onlookers who did nothing to help. For hours she rolled with anxiety wishing for the sweating and sickness to subside. I remember seeing Pollyann’s sister being dragged by her hair up the stairs by a drunk uncle. Pollyann tried to help but could not do anything to the strength and rage of the grown man. This same sister brought home a baby at sixteen, and again Pollyann felt helpless that she was hardly able to care for herself. Again, Pollyann felt helpless when she could not console her brother, who lost his best friend, Bruno the dog. He was emotionally wrecked for weeks from the dog’s murder and yet again, Pollyann longed to comfort but found herself unable to. When Pollyann’s sister’s best friend died, she wondered helplessly, “does the pain and suffering ever end?” Then there was the day the phone would ring incessantly. Fear filled the eyes of Pollyann every time she answered it, and someone threatened her on the other line. When she would confide in her father about her fears he would laugh in her face. She would say to herself, “my own dad, the one who is meant to protect me could care less.” While her father did not protect her, Pollyann would try to protect him. He would ask her to sign NA sheets, posing as an NA facilitator. Poor Pollyann knew this was wrong, but fearing the consequences signed the dotted line. Then there was the awful day when she did not think her, and her siblings would overcome. It was a late night after work she drove up to the driveway, she heard her father yelling like never before. She was petrified but cautiously entered. Her younger sister flushed his cocaine stash down the toilet and Pollyann wondered if any of them would survive. Like the threatening phone calls, the cops, too, were a constant presence. Pollyann would do her best to gather the children in the basement to protect them and comfort them from the fear of what might happen. Several times, they came for Pollyann’s father who be hiding. In a ball of nerves, the young girl hides herself and hoping she is not forced to give her father’s location. Once, a SWAT team entered looking for Pollyann’s cousin and shot out all my windows. Would I even be a home after this? Then there were the times the prostitutes would come to get funds for the abortions which left Pollyann with an overwhelming sadness. Inside my walls, drugs and alcohol were heavily consumed. Junkies took refuge and ragers (both the party and anger forms) were commonly heard. Unfortunately, children also called my unkempt quarters home and fear and anxiety radiated from them. Never be fooled by what you see on the outside, because the inside is often a different story. If you judged me only by my exterior, you probably wouldn’t think I looked too bad. You’d see my brick exterior with blue siding and a chain link fence to perimeter the yard.  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  In fourth grade, I was called out of class to meet a social worker. When she told me that she would return to the school the next day to take my siblings and I to a safe home, I was elated. I recall telling my siblings that night how “tomorrow would be the best day ever, because we were going to a safe and loving home.” I was explicitly told not to share this news with my mother. Unfortunately, the joy I felt from my idealistic vision of our foster home was short lived. I still regret filling my heart (and my siblings) with hope that our pain and suffering was over. I would be lying if I told you that my experience in foster care was all daisies and lollipops. I also choose to avoid sugarcoating my experiences; as an adult, I have the strength to speak about my experiences and I use those words and that strength to help others who have experienced similar circumstances. Shortly after settling into my foster home, I knew something was wrong. Every morning my foster father would ask me to take off my pajamas and twirl around him. With time, this turned into him coming into my room at night. My foster mother was not physically abusive, but she was not a protective parent either (for instance, she didn’t ask me to remove my pjs and twirl, but she was in the room when I did). Having your ill parents abuse you is one thing, but it is so much worse to experience abuse from your foster parents (who were supposed to be your safe haven from abuse). I can still remember the hatred I had for my foster parents. It took everything in me to look at or speak to them. I would choose to suffer in pain than ask them for help. They were an older couple and lived in a trailer on some land in Washington state. I think about how on the outside they must have appeared to be such ‘good’ people. Afterall, they took in foster children and took in three at once (one thing I am grateful for is that me and my siblings were not separated). On the outside, these people probably seemed pretty great, but unfortunately there was darkness hidden from view. During my time in foster care, I did see a therapist. Nowadays therapists will protect the rights of the child and tell them these meetings are a “safe place where they can be open and honest.” After my sessions, my therapist always wanted to speak to my foster mom and would shut the door, with me on the other side. I was too scared to reveal anything I was experiencing at the risk of getting in trouble with my foster mom (I didn’t think the therapist would believe me over a foster parent and would write me off as troubled). In 2020, 213,964 children entered foster care due to traumatic events. These children are thrown into homes with strangers who are then supposed to be their ‘new family.’ Some of the outcomes are positive and others are traumatic due to abuse. Unfortunately, foster children are a demographic that is preyed upon because they are vulnerable and often don’t have anyone. Just because something looks good on the surface doesn’t mean that it is. I like to use the example of my toenails: while painted, they look normal; but when I remove the paint, you can see my blackened nails from my training. If something seems off, get curious, you never know the difference you could make. Until Next Monday…  We can learn so much from the experiences of others. I often glean motivation in quotes that inspire me to keep going, keep growing, and keep showing up each day. This week I want to share some of my favorite sources of inspiration. In the comments I'd love to hear which quote speaks to you, in this moment of your life; or I would like to invite you to share one of your favorite quotes with me. We can connect into the wisdom and words of each other and learn more about ourselves in the process.
"The moment of surrender is not when life is over, it’s when it begins." Marianne Williamson "Become the change you wish to see in the world." Mahatma Gandhi "Everything can be taken from man but one thing: the last of human freedoms-to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way." Victor Frankl "You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore before you decide to be happy." Nightbirde "You can choose courage, or you can choose comfort, but you can’t choose both." Brene Brown "You have to enter into someone else’s world in order to lead them out…" Tupac "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." Maya Angelou "Everyone comes to a point in their life when they want to quit, but what they do at that moment determines who they are." David Goggins "A good life is when you assume nothing, do more, smile often, dream big, laugh a lot, and realize how blessed you really are with what you have." Zig Ziglar Until Next Monday... |
AuthorPollyann Keller Archives
October 2024
Categories |
RSS Feed
