Partially completed homes dotted a newly paved street. Some houses were roofless, whilst others were shells surrounded by skids of building materials. Burly workers, arms loaded with materials, peppered the various active building sites. Spiking away from Gauvin was a dirt road surrounded by empty lots, cement holes, and partially erected skeletons. Confusing was the presented spectacle of housing mayhem. There were no lawns, trees or shrubbery to pacify my expectations. Would one of these violated monstrosities be my new home? Answering my fears, the farther down the street we travelled, the more complete the dwellings. Just as Margot turned into the sunken driveway at 859 Gauvin Street, Doreen announced our arrival.
Exiting the vehicle, a cement walkway granted a narrow path from the driveway to the front door. Unadorned with sod, the barren dirt yard would require another two months before warmer weather invited the laying of sod. It thrilled me when the sod truck off-loaded its payload of fresh green turf. Within one afternoon, our yard transformed from a muddy mess into an emerald-green lawn. Funny how innocuous events can become valued; I will always cherish the exciting metamorphosis from brown to green.
Occupying the centre stage of our front yard, a scrawny Red Maple swayed in a light breeze. Unkind with my appraisal, I deemed it was an illegitimate candidate for shadowing the home. Google Earth imagery confirmed, fifty years later, that my assessment was ill-considered. Slightly closer to the house, two Silver Birch trees clung to life. Belittled by the brilliance of the Red Maple, the Birch appeared as an afterthought. Scavenged annually by leaf miners, I admired the resilience of the Birch and championed their underdog cause. Dwarfed by the home, the juvenile shrubbery inadequately fulfilled the role of a cosy adjunct. Oddly enough, the single welcoming part of the experience was the cement stairs, landing and wrought-iron railing. I often wondered why battleship grey paint became the defunct cement coating to jet-black wrought-iron balcony railings.
Conformity never appealed to me; I would be the gaudy neighbour splashing a rainbow of colours about the property.
Entering the home, I was pleasantly surprised to discover a beautiful, well-equipped abode. Doreen guided me to my bedroom, and then we unpacked my brown leather valise. Everything is its place, a place for everything. My trusty suitcase always gifted me comfort. When I think about my attraction to that old carrier, I realise the neatness did not attract me as much as its role as a faithful partner. Beyond anything I owned, the old suitcase was my most dependable friend. Living with constant change, it is natural for a lost child to afford great value to long-term belongings.
Immediately after entering my new home, Doreen and I enjoyed two hours alone. It would be late afternoon before the Dos Santos children returned from school and Martin from his day of graft. Toys and teddies kept me company while Doreen busied herself in the kitchen. Left to explore my new surroundings, I soon arrived in the fenced backyard. Unlike the sterile front yard, the lack of sod did little to hide the playtime potential of our spacious backyard.
Have you ever wondered why backyard is a single word and front yard is two words?
Centre-left was a beautiful Weeping Willow that would eventually grow into a stately giant. Framing the rear of the property, a straight line of five handsome poplar trees towered. Strong, svelte and trimmed, the Poplar trees reminded me of dependable sentries guarding our home. Dotting the yard were smidgeons of shrubbery, while a big leafed Maple finished the array of backyard flora. Pleasing, as it was, to have time alone in the yard, my reprieve soon ended when Marty, Cathy, and Debbie raced home from school.
Excited to see me, they lavished attention, but I shrivelled with fear. Wisely, Doreen urged a slower, less frantic, welcoming approach. Arriving home, Martin was excited to give me a big hug. Unfortunately, his deep baritone voice and imposing stature provoked me to scurry with fear toward my bedroom. I was pleased to note no one followed to offer me solace. Doreen visited an hour or so later. Towing the aroma of a scrumptious dinner, she was a welcome sight. Enrapt by the tantalising smell, I was easily lured to the dining room for a hearty dinner.
Playful banter, love, and warmth enjoyed during the evening meal did much to break the ice of my apprehensions. Years later, Doreen reminded me of how it took about two weeks for me to warm up to the family. Unfortunately for Martin, it would be an additional three or four months before I stopped flinching every time he loudly spoke or reached to offer a hug. Being a proud man, Martin would brood and puzzle over my unfounded fear of his presence. Adjustments to my new home were slow but steady. Like the newly sodded lawn, we were growing together.
Legacy of Abandonment
Reacquainting myself with Doreen and the entire family proved an awkward ordeal. Being reunited with a family who had abandoned me was a very disquieting experience. One would suspect I should quickly embrace them, but such was not the case. Seeing Doreen at the airport had triggered in me post-traumatic stress from her earlier abandonment. Consuming my inner peace were images of the frantic moment Children's Aid Services removed me from Doreen's home. Doreen and I wailed in unison as the care worker dragged me out of the house. Pouring additional fuel on the flames of my anxiety was how the sight of Doreen at the airport terminal had revived painful memories of my dear Tatty. Clawing at my restless heart were recollections of my ultimate dream of family life. The same dream that had been hideously transformed into an inexorable nightmare.
Perhaps the most burdensome challenge preventing me from adjusting to the Dos Santos family was the trauma I endured over the six months before arriving in Quebec. Fostering records defined my seemingly unstoppable decline into the bowels of childcare Hell. Moving to over fifty different homes within the short span of half a year had destroyed what little self-esteem remained. The foster transcripts can be read, but words will never articulate the psychological destruction of serial abandonment.
Defining my emotional state, fear is the single word tapping me on the shoulder for attention. Most people would be incapable of understanding the impact of fear on my childhood. Without the context of experiencing my life, how could anyone adequately frame my sullied psyche? How do you describe the debilitating fear of abandonment to someone who never walked in your shoes? Comprehending the entire range of pain suffered by children who endure multiple foster placements is impossible. Like an onion, we can peel back many layers of the child's personality before identifying what resides at the core.
Touch your childhood memories. Do you recall the emotional cadence of an average day? Like most children, you probably failed to appreciate the many beautiful gifts bestowed by your loving family. Each morning, you awoke to two nurturing parents. During the day, you must have felt safe, loved, and appreciated. Your bedroom was likely similar to a pair of old slippers. Strewn about the floor of your room, I can envision toys, teddies, games and countless reminders of your wonderfully stable life. Seated at your dinner table, I see smiling faces and the smell of your mom's cooking. Gifts of love must have been everywhere throughout your beautiful home.
Laying your head to rest, you probably never once thought how wonderful it would be if your family were still there in the morning when you awoke. From my perspective, your greatest gift was being a natural-born son or daughter. The beautiful legacy of a united family. The safe haven where children thrive in the bosom of a loving nest. Healthy children experience fear as singular events like a scary movie, bicycle falls or a lost baseball glove.
Growing up, I coveted the good fortune of friends. In my world, almost everyone had a mom and dad. Some children I knew had lost their fathers to divorce or death. But everyone I knew had a mother. Waking in the morning as a foster child on the move to a new home left me with hollow, empty feelings. Strange faces replaced the mom and dad I desired. The bedrooms I slept in were borrowed; bereft of personal history, they resembled Motel rooms. Children inhabiting the new foster homes were not my siblings; they were transients passing a few days acting the role of my fraudulent pseudo-family. My experience of a backyard, neighbourhood and friends was a sterile, lifeless imitation of what entitled children enjoyed.
Shuffled to two foster homes a week created a world of instability and falseness. My life unravelled like a scone of wool batted about by a cat. Puzzle pieces that never meshed were incapable of producing a coherent family image? Wool scones that never find a needle knitting a warm cardigan. Worthless and shallow was the pantomime of pretending at the ideals of a happy family. Falseness, walking on eggshells, fearful my words or deeds would expose the Devil within. Of course, in the end, the Devil always has a say. Inevitably, I would forfeit the game, and the government would dip into the shrinking list to find me a new home.
Fear is experienced by healthy, well-adjusted people as a fleeting emotion. The average Joe sees his fears as unsavoury guests whisked out the door after an evening meal. Spared from inconsolable grief, trauma or tragedy, emotionally healthy people have difficulty picturing how their fears could become full-time companions. Fear was not just an emotion I could discard; it was a tangible entity. Inescapable as a nemesis, my fears followed me like shadows. Spawning from the loins of my fears were demonic pixies named Anger, Hate, Self-Loathing and Greed. Buzzing about my head, the pixy offspring formed a surrogate family controlling my thoughts and actions. Gnawing, they persistently nattered unpleasantries into my ear. Most children experience guilt, hate, anger, and envy as passing psychological speed bumps along the smooth road of sound mental health. Damaged foster children encounter fear, chaos and anger as a way of life.
My demons were inescapable.
Ubiquitous, omnipresence, omnipotence, my fears became my God.
The psychological heritage of serial abandonment elicits challenges far too complex for any child to comprehend or manage. Dealing with serial abandonment is an impossible ask of any innocent. Incapable of distancing from my fears, my salvation was unapproachable. Somewhere in the backyard of my brain, a deep hole was dug. Buried within the pit was the total of all of my fears. Renting prime real estate in my chasm of fear were Tatty and Doreen. I knew the pit dwellers well. Daily, I shovelled out the cavity multiple times, then supped on the iniquity. The extensive fostering difficulties of the previous six months led to my emotional frailty. Meeting Doreen at the airport invoked an onslaught of Tatty memories. Stinking in the pit was a swirling melange of unbearable chaos. Never had a new placement upset me so profoundly as the renewal of relations with Doreen. Trapped in the courtyard of foster care, I had no choice but to play the survival game to the best of my limited abilities.
The Open Door:
Pushed to draw a concise perspective of foster care, I would design metal government gears grinding children through a sterilised machine. Ever-changing environments teach the foster child to value and appreciate stability. Approaching the six-month anniversary of Doreen's care, I was physically and emotionally thriving. Walking past the kitchen calendar reminded me of an imminent visit with my CAS worker. Entirely predictable was the quarterly assessment orchestrated by pleasant CAS professionals. Expected were the planned interview questions and the smiling face of the attendant care worker. Routine allowed me to derive success in playing the foster game.
Assessment meetings included an afternoon off school, a burger lunch, and a milkshake. Underscoring the pleasant treats was the seriousness of being tested. Failure to pass the exam surely would find me unceremoniously dragged from the Dos Santos home. Resolute with willpower, there was no damn way I would give them cause to rip me from Doreen again. Observing my care worker fill his pad with notes reminded me that life-changing results could arise from our cat-and-mouse review.
Gather information, Christopher, and play the game to win.
There was more to winning the foster game than keeping my valued place in the Dos Santos household. Significant attention I paid to parsing truth from lies. Early in my life, I learned obstruction and lies were the currencies adults gambled in their service to my well-being. People always quiet their misdeeds with inventive justifications. Describing me as a good boy when I knew myself to be devilish was their way of keeping me safe.
Irrespective of their motives for deceit, obstruction and lies, their actions appeared to me as reasonably assembled rules. Rules were not altered mid-game. We all were consistently fake, ultimately disingenuous. Seeking to probe the details of my birth parents' desertion, the prospect of speaking with my care worker excited me. Suspecting the truth about my parents was being hidden, I was determined to unravel their illicit story. Digging for nuggets of my past was as unproductive as panning for gold in a raging river. Desperate to unearth a historical treasure, I probed any crevice I thought would yield a profit.
Consider being a little boy disheartened by an inability to ferret out the story of your birth parents. Would you not demand truthful, undiluted responses to satisfy your inquiries? Remarkably, within the stories painted for my appraisal, not one brushstroke of my checkered past was revealed. Children's services workers could easily have explained my fostering situation, but they evaded my pleas when I pressed the topic. Instead of truth, they chose denial, concealment and circumvention. Ontario CAS policies ensured my past remained a mystery. Considering their unaccommodating responses damaged my psyche, I dispute the soundness of their choice to conceal my history.
Parents often cannot comprehend a child's capacity for astute reasoning. Availing themselves of vibrant imagination, we find simple living serves children well. Immersed fully in fantasy or playtime, the child easily remains seated in the present moment. Contrarily, we adults tax our hearts in regret of lost opportunities. When not winging over the past, adults beg the future to answer unfulfilled desires. Thriving in the present moment, children embrace a carefree attitude.
Adults might better assess the emotional needs of children if they were to spend time in the child's sandbox. Relating better with how children experience their world might teach adults that lying will never protect the child. Underestimating my potential to assimilate distressing news, care workers hid details of my birth parents. CAS regulations intimate children are incapable of handling the truth. Whereas I advocate that honesty must be a prime CAS directive. Possibly, the sweet spot of responsible care lives somewhere between full disclosure and the utter hogwash they shovelled my way.
Abandoned children deserve your honesty!
Please tell us what happened!
Memory suggests my age was five when I initiated the challenge to learn about my birth parents' disappearance. In the light of child development models, probability dictates I vocalised my concern shortly after my inaugural abandonment. Impossible it is to imagine a forsaken child would not wildly fret over lost parents. Answers to my birth parents' queries were scantily portioned, trite, and short-sighted replies. Considering my emotional stability teetered precariously in the balance, I cannot fathom why their deceptive stance persisted. Weighing the devastation caused to me by their subterfuge, it is inconceivable the CAS would find just reason to advocate a nondisclosure policy. Adding insult to injury was their dismissiveness. Cruel were the many flip responses tendered by care workers and foster parents. Several of their replies stick firmly with me today. By recollection, I paraphrase a typical exchange.
Christopher, your parents loved you very much, but circumstances forced them to foster you.
Did my mommy and daddy not want me anymore?
Of course, they wanted you; you're a wonderful boy.
Everyone loves you, Christopher; we have your best interest in mind.
Look forward, and do not reach for the past. You are happy with the Dos Santos family, right?
Always remember, Christopher, you were not to blame.
Can you imagine dealing with similar drivel as official responses to why your parents are missing? Satisfying a child with such vacuous nonsense highlights an impossible agenda of desperate officialdom. Unfettered by obstructive adults, their deceit only further dedicated my resolve to learn the truth of my fostering history. Determined was my investigation, so much so that I eventually reached a landmark discovery. Accomplished espionage is a requisite tool for any foster child wishing to sift truth from a sack of lies. Searching for ways to unveil my past, I soon realised accurate information was a rare and powerful commodity.
If you can't see past their lies, Christopher, you will lose the game.
Hovering over my laptop today, I share clear memories of a shocking revelation unearthed by my proclivity for spying. Clandestinely attending a private conversation between my foster mother and the CAS care worker, the proverbial locked door of their silence was left partially ajar. Sitting on the steps leading to the basement of our family home, I had positioned myself to eavesdrop. Eagerly consumed were the crumbs of their conversation. Blessed with a modicum of good fortune, breached was the subject of my birth parents. With bated breath, I strained to capture every syllable.
Panning my stairway hideout, noticeable was the contrast between the avocado-dyed semi-shag stairs against the beige pile carpet of the landing. For good cause, details of the carpeting strum memory chords. Our vacuum was too bulky for Doreen to use on the cramped stairs. An affront to Doreen's high standards of cleanliness, the unattended dirt proved irksome. To solve the problem, Doreen assigned me the weekly job of cleaning each stair by hand. You can imagine how tedious was the hand brushing task; pure relief when the sixteenth step surrendered to my probing fingers. Doreen insisted all family members contribute to sprucing up our home; we willingly answered her call to action. Duty aside, I found cleaning the stairs a most despicable chore.
Tarnished was the wrought-iron railing securing safe passage from the stairway descent. When spying on living room conversations, the intricate railing design was a welcome distraction during my silent attendance. Painted powder blue, my foster parent's bedroom abutted the hallway to the living room about twenty-five feet distant. The kitchen entrance was roughly ten feet left of my secreted stairway position. Book-ended on the right by the vestibule and left of the dining area, the living room remained comfortably accommodating. Point of note, hidden from my view, was Doreen and the CAS worker seated in the living room.
From the top of the ninth stair, if I stood on my tiptoes while holding the railing, I could glimpse the coffee table's edge. In this position of reconnaissance, the living room was entirely out of sight. Standing upon the seventh descending stair, my little face warmed the wrought-iron railing. Painting a portrait of my spying would have you illustrate my head five inches above the hallway landing. Mimicking a satellite dish, my open ear strained desperately to capture intelligence.
Velvety soft was the floral-patterned love seat and settee proximal to our teak coffee table. Proudly, Doreen would tell visitors the table originated from her homeland of British Guyana. Occasionally, a smile would crease my chops as the plastic settee cover awkwardly moaned under the shifting weight of Doreen or the care worker. Quaint was Doreen's penchant for refusing to remove the plastic protective wrap adorning our newly purchased couch. Speaking of a time when a new furniture purchase signified a significant event, Doreen's plastic penchant warms my heart. Have you ever noticed a plastic-clad couch decorating a 1960s living room? If so, perhaps your heart warmed as is mine.
Millennial children wishing to share a loving moment with their grandparents need only ask them about plastic-covered settees. If engaging in a conversation about the protective covering, allow me to furnish an interesting aside. Research exposed how local furniture manufacturers used plastic to cover the new sofas. Apparently, back in the day, manufacturers used twelve-gauge, heavy-duty, clear vinyl protective sheeting. Designed for showroom applications, the sheeting proved a competent fabric protector. Conscientious purchasers, like Doreen, would insist the vendor deliver the couch with the sheeting perfectly intact on the seats, backs, sides and armrests. Who knows how common was the demand for clear vinyl sofa covers? However, I will attest to seeing the penchant displayed in many homes throughout the sixties and early seventies.
Speaking of armrests, I remember Martin's mother, lovingly known as Do Do, had crocheted beautiful armrest covers for our matching sofa and loveseat. Four intricately designed covers, an esteemed Christmas present to Doreen in recognition of the exciting news of our new sofa set purchase. Compelled to grant the covers their rightful home, Doreen toiled with the uncertainty of how to best proceed. Vexed was Doreen that the covers constantly slipped off the unaccommodating vinyl. Deepening her anxiety was the reality that, considering the vinyl cladding, the crocheted gifts were redundant protectors.
In the end, Doreen buckled under her sense of appreciation for Do Do's toil and loving consideration. For many years I watched a provoked Doreen suck her teeth as she straightened the covers anew. Doreen's choice to prevail in the face of logic taught me a valuable lesson about honour and respect. By the way, do you remember crocheted armrest covers and sofa backs? If not, ask your grandma about similar traditions. Given the opportunity, she can still teach a lesson or further a smile.
Caught in pleasantries of the past, I have digressed. If you indulge me, we will return to the espionage at hand.
Doreen and my care worker exchanged obligatory pleasantries. Soon after, their interview evolved in earnest. As near as I can recollect, their discussion accordingly follows. Banal updates of my behaviour encourage the conversation to crawl at a snail's pace. Doreen's tendered evaluation offered a mixed bag of sweet compliments spiced by a few salty concerns. Apparently, I was getting along well with her natural-born children. The natural-born descriptor always proved a barb to my tender heart.
Was I unnaturally born?
Chris is sleeping and eating well. He finally stopped wetting the bed, and I happily discarded the plastic mattress covering. Doreen's concern aroused as she remarked upon my fear of water. Perturbed, she lamented the need to bathe me in the kitchen sink with a hand towel. Martin's powerful presence still causes Chris considerable anxiety, she flatly stated. Doreen paused as if attending to the worker's suggestions. When advice was not forthcoming, she rambled along. Doreen happily asserted how my stable behaviour should endorse September's kindergarten attendance. Stimulated by the excitement of Doreen's revelation, I ballooned with joy.
Picking at the green woollen loops of shag carpet, I nearly lost hope the interview would yield news of my obliterated past. Resembling an old slug crossing a garden path, the conversation sauntered along. Undoubtedly, the slug was worth following, but I desperately wanted it to arrive at its destination. With my hope almost entirely dashed, their exchange steered toward a favourable purpose. The following paraphrased conversation, flowing from clear memories, is likely accurate enough to earn quotation marks.
Chris persists with questions about his birth parents. What do you suggest I tell him?
Just keep giving Christopher a positive image of his birth parents.
Let Christopher know they loved him.
Please don't go into any details about their history.
I really don't think he will let this issue drop. Admonished my foster mother.
All Christopher requires is a little more time to readjust to your wonderful family. The more Christopher feels your family is his future, the less likely he will reach for his past. Christopher's behaviour is progressing amazingly, Doreen. You should be very proud of your many accomplishments.
Confirming suspicions Doreen was towing an official party line, I felt cheated, angry and confused. Powerlessness is a feeling I believe most children deal with regularly. However, in that horrible moment of deception, I felt more like a pawn than a person. Transformative to my character was the shock of learning the people I trusted most were liars. People who said they loved me were hiding why my birth parents gave me away. How could they steal the memory of my parents? Knowing the details of my past, Doreen schemed to hide my history. How many times had she danced around endless questions about my parents? Doreen coyly brushed me aside by acting like she never knew the answers. How could I ever trust her again? Processing the deceitful conversation left me heartbroken. Silently braving the situation, warm tears dampened my cotton dinosaur tee shirt.
Don't provide details about his birth parents, Doreen!
What bloody details were they keeping from me?
Quickly, as the conversation steered toward my birth parents, it returned to dullness. For the next ten minutes, their exchanges droned. Captivated by internal chaos, I idly picked at the brown corduroy highway of my Kmart pants. Wiping away the steady flow of tears, I was careful to not sniffle or give away my secreted position. Oblivious to the balance of their discussion, I slipped into a trance-like fog. Agonisingly, I stewed at the disagreeable prospect of knowing there was no one I could trust.
Snapped from my stupor by the collective groan of shifting plastic, I assembled my lost senses. The meeting concluded; the care worker prepared to take his leave. Scurrying down the stairs, I launched onto the old settee and curled into a tight protective ball. Perhaps two or three minutes later, the heavy footfall of my foster mother spiked my angst. Slightly moaning, the bannister railing announced Doreen's imminent arrival. Grasping my building blocks, I pensively awaited the changing cadence of her steps. Her footfall moving from stairs to landing betrayed her arrival in the basement. Fearing I would reveal reddened eyes, I pretended to be sound asleep. My foster mother paused upon seeing my blushed face. With absolute stillness, we both tended to the moment with caution. Loving was Doreen's pat on my warm forehead. Without so much as a whisper, Doreen retraced her way to the staircase. Holding intact my breath, I listened as the bannister rail and stairs creaked under her weight. Pondering the moment, I knew my blushed face had betrayed eavesdropping wiles.
Clasping hand to mouth, sobbing lightly, I held my breath until the bannister creaked no more.
Two Plus Two Equals Three:
Armed with confirmation the adults were lying to me, I confronted the dubious task of reconstructing my past. Lying in bed that fateful night, my favourite faded blue horse print flannel PJs kept me company. Perplexed by the undesirable revelations of the day, logically teasing the knot of my original abandonment, I tried my best to understand the enigma. Irrespective of how hard I tried, I could not solve the story of why I had no birth parents. What details had the CAS been keeping from me? What could be so horrible that a lie would protect me more than the truth? Care workers lied all the time, but Doreen always spoke the truth. What could have compelled her to betray my trust? Compiling the scant evidence available, I synthesised the intelligence into what I determined were the facts. For many months, often repeated, care workers and Doreen always assured me of two specific truths.
First, my parents loved me dearly.
Second, my parents had no choice but to get rid of me.
In my mind, this quandary was not too hard a puzzle to piece together. Adding two and two, I confidently arrived at three. Inconveniently obvious was the answer to the most important question of my life. After teasing the dilemma until my head hurt, I decided only one of two scenarios could be possible. Either someone stole me from my parents, or the government took me away because I was a terrible boy. Considering the CAS was complicit, the abducted child theory seemed extraordinarily unlikely. Bitter was the glaring truth that screamed for an immediate reckoning.
My unacceptable behaviour left the government no choice but to take me from my birth parents.
Sitting up in bed, I reached for a memory of Doreen describing how my unruliness had forced CAS workers to place me in countless different homes. From what Doreen told me, the six months before moving to Quebec, my average stay in a foster home was only three days. Adding up the carnage of the first forty months of foster care, I realised the government had taken me from well over one hundred foster placements. Foggy memories reminded me of how my unruly behaviour had provoked the need for care workers to find me a new foster home. Armed with such a checkered past, could anyone fault me for arriving at a mistaken explanation for my abandonment? My birth parents had never abandoned me; the government had taken me from them. Saddled with this heavy burden, the agonising trek of irrational rationalisation persisted.
Solitary and savage was the evening of impassioned accountability. Drowning in a sea of disturbing memories, I watched imaginary films of Christopher wreaking havoc in various foster homes. Punctuating the shows were vignettes of disgusted foster parents hovering over me with fingers wagging. The killing dagger was always the mental movie of Doreen crying whilst the worker dragged me from her Quebec home. Looking into my heart today, I revive the inconsolable pain of stewing over my newfound truth.
No one to blame but me. My abandonment had always been self-inflicted.
With greater regularity than the garbage bin, they deployed me from the foster home to the curb. Sublime was the cold truth that if potatoes were served the day I arrived at a foster home, the odds were good that I would be in a new foster home before the potato peels were curbside trash. Even though Doreen loved me, it would not be long before my behaviour would demand the government take me from her loving care. Knowing my destructive behaviour forced the government to steal me from my birth parents, how could I ever expect to be anyone's forever child? Identifying behavioural chaos and bearing witness to my well-documented history of inevitable failure, tears further stained my flannel PJs. Sliding into a pit of grief, I curled into the tightest little ball and then sobbed.
From that night forward, I was too afraid to ask why I became a foster child.
Maybe it would have been best if I refused to consume the fruit of my espionage. Ignoring my ugly identity would have been much easier than dealing with the beast. Suspicions rejected could have fed the deniability of my newly defined character and circumstance. Hiding from the truth would have been easier than accepting the blame for systemic abandonment. Should I face my demons or run away from my dysfunction? Either action would forever alter my identity. Dutiful children deserved loving birth parents that I did not. Martin and Doreen had three proper children, each far more deserving of their love than me. The writing was on the wall; I needed to quickly mend my disgusting character. Left to my accord, destructive thought forms inevitably contributed to my self-appointed status as a worthless human. Throughout the lion's share of my childhood, I waited for Doreen to step into my bedroom with chilling news.
Don't worry, Christopher. We love you, but we have to give you away.
It's just the way things are.
Please, dear child, remember it's not your fault.
Reflecting upon that pensive evening, two questions picked at my craw. How could anyone imagine lies would serve a child better than the truth? Why can't CAS policymakers realise the value of disclosing the unedited story of foster children's histories? Obscuring the past erodes the foundation of trust needed to support the child. Denying children their history will encourage them to fabricate a new version of reality. To the Canadian Children's Aid Society, I quote Doreen's wisdom.
"Put that in your pipe, then smoke it."
Describing the development of my false identity underscored the root of my psychological dysfunction. Portentous was the night I conjured images of an unworthy boy. Sewn as a tiny seed, a mighty Oak of self-loathing would grow. For CAS workers advocating obscuring the truth, consider how sharing the truth would have prevented my descent into self-deprecation. Deceitful adults forced me to shoulder the blame for serial abandonment.
Their lies, fertile soil for the planting of weeds.
Every journey incorporates a single first step. Each tree is born from a tiny seed. Spying on Doreen's conversation led me down a woeful garden path. Sprouting within my heart was a dark, false identity. Seeds of self-loathing would assuredly thrive. Flourishing weeds and invasive species were planted in my garden. Eradicating the pests would require a lifetime of dedicated effort. Complete was my departure from self-love, and inevitable catastrophic crashes followed.
Free the blood, paint the gutter red with despair.
Self-loathing is a most wicked companion.
Part and parcel of the human condition might be the affliction of an inner voice. Like termites taxing the foundation of a stately old mansion, my hateful mind consumed my spirit. Good fortune could have invited love to check the infestation of my foundation; unfortunately, that ship had sailed into the black night. Embracing unworthiness, the love gifted me remained untouched. My foster family tried in vain to share their loving sentiments. Well-intended as these gifts were, I never learned how to access the balm. Parents should stay connected with their children's emotional state. Good communication can ensure children fully welcome the love liberally dispensed by parents. Regretfully, a lack of psychiatric guidance prevented me from realising I was worthy of love.
Often, I have read about how the loss of a single parent can destroy a child. Common knowledge implies the first five years of a child's life are critical to their emotional development. By the age of three, I had lost both my birth parents. Before my fifth birthday, I thrived with the love of Doreen and Tatty, only to have them both stripped from my life. Distilling Doreen's stories, over one hundred foster families abandoned me before the age of six. Psychiatrists have assured me each departure from a new foster home added another tier of trauma. Layered are the psychological wounds. Like descending stairs, they lead me to a dungeon of horrors. Revolving doors of abandonment utterly destroyed any chance I might have had to lead a life of normalcy.
The psychological rigours of my past compel me to wonder if there is a way to spare other children from a similar fate? Knowing a cure-all elixir cannot eliminate the problem, we still must ask if we are doing enough. Today, I would love to tell you I have answers to this dilemma. Unfortunately, insurmountable is the task of breathing love into all foster children. There seems to be no path the CAS can chart to prevent the cycle of serial abandonment. Institutional residency of children is not a viable solution. Nothing can replace the wholesome dynamics of family life or replicate the loving bonds created by a nuclear family. Regardless of how tall is the mountain of superior foster care,
Citing my case study, I am convinced that psychiatric guidance would have helped immensely. If only a professional voice was there to guide me from the skid of self-depreciation. How my life would have changed if I knew myself worthy of the love everyone so liberally gifted. Psychological profiling would have identified my social obstacles. Healing pathways could have been laid for me if only I knew the truth of my abandonment. Seeing the beast that consumed me, a psychiatrist could have empowered me to release my false persona. Unburdened by the weight of being responsible for my birth parents losing their son, I might have had a chance at a better life.
If afforded a luncheon with the head of the CAS, I would first inquire why I never received psychiatric counsel. Canadian tax dollars invest billions toward meeting the physical needs of foster children, yet they dedicate very few resources to address the mental health of these lost souls. Having read their websites, I know the stated CAS mandate illustrates a desire to strive toward excellence.
Why is psychiatric guidance not the cornerstone of the foster care program?
What would it take to ensure all foster children knew they were worthy of being loved?
How can we better communicate with foster children?
Hindsight makes it easy for me to lament the shortfalls of my childhood. Images of what could have been are still occupying my attention. My regrets urge me to challenge parents to equip their children with the knowledge they are deeply loved. Telling our children we love them does not guarantee they will feel loved. Tilled with a tainted plough was my emotional garden; a similar fate does not have to befall future foster generations. Flourishing weeds of my self-hate drove me toward chaos; we can strive to teach foster children how to grow flowers. Termites liberally fed on my spirit, but we can teach the next foster child self-love.
The I Am Reckoning:
Bantering crickets kept me company as menacing Octopus arms, formed by the branches of our old weeping willow, cast grim shadows upon my bedroom wall. Interrupting the cricket din, a crotchety black cicada hurled a loud shrill. Responding to the insolent cicada, both the crickets and I retreated. The ensuing silence left me entirely lost in thought. Inhaling the moment of peace proved satisfying. Restless with the stillness, the gabby crickets soon regained command of the starry night. The late summer evening was possibly a little too warm for my flannel PJ ponies, yet I was verily comforted by their prancing presence. Two days removed from my tortuous spying mission, I struggled to come to terms with my new identity.
The bedroom closet door, slightly ajar, caused me endless disquiet. Undoubtedly, those nasty resident gremlins were busy plotting my demise. Every boy knows an open wardrobe door is a portal connecting the netherworld to the monster staging ground under his bed. Having constructed their camp, the ghouls will begin preparation for the brief journey to the waiting neck of a child in slumber. Most nights, sleep would not come unless I mustered sufficient courage to secure, then gremlin-proof, my closet door. Ominous as was their presence that desperate night, in the grip of self-deprivation, I hastily demoted closet monsters to the role of backseat tyrants. Enrapt by the chore of puzzling out my new identity, there were more troubling concerns afoot than paying cotton to the dues of octopi, ghouls, or gremlins.
Like a fat old steer chewing his cud, I ruminated over the many revelations of the previous day. The shifty commentary secretively shared between Doreen and the CAS worker did not inflict the fatal wound. Curled up in my PJs, rerunning the conversation through my mind, guilt pressed most upon my leaking heart. Life-changing and irreparable was the psychological damage caused when I understood that my wretched behaviour was responsible for the government taking me from my birth parents.
Crossroads of consciousness, the birth of dysfunction.
Lying in bed, tracing my finger over the faded blue pony patterns, I stewed like a soggy carrot in Doreen's crock-pot. Termites gnawing in my mind left a sawdust residue pointing unmistakably at my new identity. Somehow, my brain sold its false bad-boy narrative to my heart. Soon after my deeds became common knowledge, the co-conspirators visited the print shop. Boldly stated in brash lettering, gauche as circus banners, the great I AM reports for this sad-sack six-year-old read as follows;
I am a bad boy!
Everything is my fault!
Nobody loves me!
Does every child experience a realisation so profound it changes their identity? Alone, curled up on the bed edge, my self-esteem quietly and uneventfully spilt onto the bedsheets. Processing these newly minted emotions of self-loathing proved physically distressing. Drawing memories near enough to taste, I easily recall the pain of ruminating on ugly thoughts. During that fateful night, waves of dispirited affirmations began pecking at my sense of peace.
You're not good enough, Christopher!
You don't deserve a real mommy and daddy.
You're bad!
You're just like garbage!
No different from making a stew, the longer I allowed I AM affirmations to simmer, the more potent the broth became. Vigorously stirring the cauldron of self-hate, I discovered it was becoming difficult to breathe. Reaching for a metaphor to help you better connect with my experience, images of a drowning boy would suffice. Desperation, fear, hopelessness, and shame were blended emotions that created a whirlwind of despair within my heart. Smothering were the thoughts running roughshod over my sense of self-worth. Looking back, I see why breath was so hard to find. Within the revelatory moments, guilt began consuming what remained of my innocence.
Guilty as charged, your honour; this boy ruined his family.
Foster children shuffled between multiple homes receive care, not love. No one would expect a foster parent to love a child placed in their care for one week. Pushing foster parents to their limits, I could almost taste their dislike. Natural-born children have parents who love them unconditionally. I knew the road from disliked to loved was an impossible journey. Only good boys deserve love. Emotionally charged affirmations, like plastic bags wrapped around my head, suffocated the old Christopher.
Through the window of my imagination, I was drawing my final breath.
Pushing back the covers, I jerked myself upright on the bed. Chest heaving, tears sufficient to float a popsicle stick. Sweaty, hot, and scared, I did not know a new Christopher had just been born. Slowly, my breathing returned to normal, and my racing heart calmed. Sweat and tears I wiped clean with the aid of the little blue ponies. Collecting my senses, I heard the bedroom door creak. Due to a lack of bedrooms in our home, my foster brother and I shared the bed until Martin could construct a basement bedroom for young Marty. Rarely was I awake so late; obviously, I had been chewing my cud for quite some time.
Holding the covers to my neck, I attended to the inevitable rush of cool air. To this day, I love the sensation of cool air filling the vacuum created by covers briskly raised and then lowered. Marty soon surrendered to the Sandman; I softly exhaled. Wonderful was my big brother sleeping next to me; monsters never came after me when he was by my side. Distracted and comforted by my brother's gravity, my mind stilled. Auspicious as was the night. Having solved the dilemma of my past, sleep did quickly arrive.
Waking the morning after my epiphany, having further supped on my destructive insights, I feared my tenuous place in the family had become brittle as an eggshell. Slinking toward the breakfast table, I secretly reflected upon how significantly my identity had changed. Idly gazing at my toast and eggs, I felt scared and ashamed. My newfound truth was inescapable, my guilt assured. Reaching for the focus button, I will now attempt to articulate the intensity of those dirty feelings. Hobbled by a lack of words, I expect I will fall dreadfully short of hitting the mark soundly enough for you to feel my pain.
How do I describe to you my broken heart?
Hoping to benefit you with a better glimpse into my emotional tenor, a descriptive metaphor might serve me well. Drawing your attention to a dog whose misadventures invoke stern reprisals from his brutal master, I ask you to look into the dog's eyes. Within the metaphor, you more than recognise the look of the dog's fear. You taste the foulness of the beast's dread. Undoubtedly, like any compassionate soul, you feel for the unsettled animal. Few of us find difficulty connecting seeds of causality to the demeanour of an abused animal.
Similar to the abuse rendered upon the dog, the seeds of my psychological deflation were well and truly sewn within my spirit. Held by the chains of an impossible choice, the dog and I will always cower and flinch. Branded by the legacy of our past, the lost mutt and I submit under the demon's spell. Quietly cowering at the breakfast table, I felt like the entire family knew of my filthy secret. Desperately, I wanted everyone to stop lying. If only Doreen would point an accusatory finger my way.
You are a horrible child, Christopher!
It is your fault the government took you from your loving parents!
How could you do that to your parents?
Lit by truth and with my evil behaviour known by all, maybe I could breathe again. Riding the wake of my nasty boy epiphany, magnified were fears of my perpetual abandonment. Images of a little boy carrying a tote bag of hidden fears will always haunt my serenity. Battered, the bag has earned the well-scuffed look of a soldier's drab green duffel. Within the sack, I carry a load of insecurity clawing at mouldy seams. Filled, the shabby green duffel overpowered me with the weight of diminished self-worth. Reflecting upon my youthful posture, I see how my body shrunk and curved under the significant burden of emotional baggage. Heft a fifty-pound sack of sugar, and then you can relate to the weight toted by the broken child.
Further to the framework of personal strife, I notice how people struggle to maintain a positive identity. Even blustery sorts bathing in confidence have self-worth precariously teetering in a balance. Answering the chatter of our inner voices, is regular self-appraisal not a common habit of all people? Appraising our worth, do we not all open the box with a hammer? Irrefutable evidence confirms how all humans are adept at manufacturing chaos.
People fortunate to live relatively free of mayhem will still contrive fear-biased false narratives. The voice in everyone's head barks. Heartily consuming their fears, people fail to notice how the chaos they dread rarely finds cause to darken their doorstep. For this confused foster child, doubt and fear were well-acquainted companions invoking an inevitable psychological transition. From the crumbs of a continental breakfast, I always managed to scrape together an emotional banquet of fear?
Midnight Moon, we see the little boy wearing Billy boots and PJ ponies. The child is busy tending his garden.
Preeminent weeds, like the realisation of not being worthy of love, the understanding I did not belong, or the bad boy persona, were identities heartily owned by my childhood psyche. Reviewing the extent of my psychological damage, there were two barrels to the emotional shotgun. I loaded the more familiar barrel with boomerang shells. Each box of shells comprised nasty events uncomfortably replayed from memory. Daily, I shot myself with memory reels confirming my wickedness. Triggering the vignette would be an event, a stern rebuke, a loud noise, or a fast movement. Most often, emotional flagellation was the endgame of my recurring memories. Bedtime proved the demon hour; the memories attacked with ferocity. Alone in my room, I would self-deflate. Sufficiently agitated, I would rewind a movie for my false identity to consume. Greedily feasting upon the popcorn of my past evilness, I would reaffirm my unworthiness. Crystal-clear memories repeatedly played until I emotionally bled to sleep.
I loaded the shotgun's second barrel with invisible ammunition.
Absent of the tangible memories that striped like a whip, the invisible ammo was seemingly benign, but the damage caused was far from minimal. Ammunition, like the tragic loss of my birth parents or the mental and physical damage inflicted by foster parents charged with my care. Caregivers who left scars that would never be supported by ugly memories. Would it not be unduly naïve to imagine that all foster parents capably dealt with a dreadfully unmanageable child? What happened behind the closed doors of my foster homes? What emotional price did I pay for carrying the burdens that never etched pathways into my memory banks? Supporting the supposition of occulted abuse, Doreen often remarked upon my visceral childhood fears that she viewed as signposts of abusive trauma.
Tearfully, Doreen described me as the most scared and broken child she had ever fostered. Almost anything would make me wince, cower, cry, or scream. My fear of water was so intense Doreen had to give me sponge baths in the kitchen sink. Loud noises would send me into hiding for hours. Fearful of making me cower, Martin had to manage his deep baritone voice. Fast movements within the periphery of my vision always made me flinch. Never would I know how impactful was the invisible ammunition. One afternoon, I asked my psychiatrist what he believed was the more damaging barrel. Formed in a simple observation was his flat reply. "Does it matter?"
Deeply buried trauma, roosting in the back forty of my mind as an insatiably feeding psychosis.
Trauma, whether recalled from memories or untouchable horrors of which I cannot even guess, I am sure each scar was another brushstroke painting my emotional development. Steady doses of chaos, nurtured by unabated insecurities, created the inevitable tapestry of my social dysfunction. Often, we sternly judge when witnessing an unruly child exhibit destructive, abusive, or sociopathic behaviour. Rarely do we take a moment to consider their deeds and carriage could be beyond their control. Gifted with the capacity of clear thinking, how easy it is to judge the chaos we witness others spew. Living free from the disgrace of psychological disorders, mentally healthy people rarely grasp the causal process of the delinquent's outburst.
Referencing my childhood, the best Google-aided self-diagnosis I might conjure would identify a case of mild disruptive behavioural disorders with symptoms of borderline sociopathy. For me, the most debilitating issues were low self-esteem, chronic insecurity, distrust, trauma re-enactment and antisocial behaviour. Most who knew me would believe I had a conscience. However, in my heart, I knew my conscience was entirely self-serving. If I appeared contrite or penitent in the light of a heinous act, it was more in service to mitigate my penance than profound remorse or even idle regret.
Not having the skill set of a psychiatrist, I can only relate to personal experiences of psychological dysfunction. Behavioural delinquency, clinically defined as a malaise of human psychology, was an entirely academic consideration that a little boy would have no prayer of grasping. From my simple perspective, I could only relate to the feeling of being broken. How different my childhood might have been if a psychiatrist sat me down to explain the causality of my destructive behaviour. What if you asked me to identify the most irksome part of childhood? What response would you expect? Would it surprise you if I emphatically pointed at my inability to control the regularity or outcome of my unruly episodes?
I did not know why I did nasty things. They just hatched out of me.
Broken, hanging onto a thin thread, what sordid future awaited this sadly dysfunctional six-year-old boy? Carting a wagonload of guilt, incapable of self-control, would love miraculously transform this defective child? If well-adjusted living was not in the cards for me, what tragedies would the storms wash ashore?
