I entered the foster care system at 3 years old with my one-year-old sister. Like a lot of children who were in the foster care system during the early ‘80s, I entered the system because my mother had an issue with drugs. I didn’t understand what was happening. My aunt’s boyfriend took us to the Bureau of Child’s Welfare (BCW), currently known as the Administration of Child Services, on a very snowy day. I remember him leaving us at an office building. Later, a woman drove us to what became the very first foster home we were in. Although I’m not sure how long we were there, I remember a woman would scream at me because I would pee in the bed.
We eventually landed at what would become our permanent residence. From that time on, I became the “weird middle child” and, what I would always say, just another check. My foster mother didn’t really raise me. She only cared that I didn’t cost her any money. Her daughter-in-law who lived with us did, and I thank her so much for actually caring. My sister and I weren’t the only foster kids living there. My foster mother’s biological kids, who at this time were already adults, lived there as well. That made it very easy to be ignored unless I did something to cause some issue for BCW.
I was never abused, but also was never loved. It never bothered me, but for some reason, it bothered my foster mother. I was constantly told I was “cold-hearted” or “lacked emotion” because I didn’t ask for anything, or just didn’t care about being “loved” by her. A friend’s mom told me what I really was: a check, and I never forgot it.
My foster mom used to do a lot of grandstanding or showing off, especially to the other women on the block I lived on. There were three buildings that were connected so everyone knew each other, and many didn’t approve of her actions. She would use us as a way to go on lavish trips and do excessive food shopping. We were never on the trips, but she would have huge BBQs or make sure all her kids would have something to basically tease other kids with. One of the other kids just so happened to be my best friend at the time, so I spent a lot of time with his family. One night, his mom (who really hated my mom) decided to tell me the truth about her and the foster care system, something I really didn’t have any real knowledge about. I was around my early teens and was known then to be very smart, so she knew that I was going to listen and take heed to it.
I already knew about what she was saying because of how I was treated. But when I actually heard it, it was very easy to piece together. I was a bit dumbfounded. From that conversation, I started being less involved with my family. I always had it in me that this really wasn’t my family, but now, it was an absolute to me. The older I became, the more things changed and became obvious. I wasn’t of any value anymore, especially after I was officially adopted. It led to a future falling out with them, and I just stopped communicating with them as a whole.
Due to these experiences, I isolate myself as an adult, don’t trust anyone, and don’t rely on anyone. I am very comfortable being alone, am a bit naive, and love very hard. I play the role of Superman to my own kids, don’t have any family bonds, and am always seeking out motherly figures. My ambition is no longer focused on my survival. I have no history of my upbringing and no relationship with my own sister. I have buried two mothers and am over-reliant on myself. I’m still learning the effects my foster care experience had on me.
I promised myself from an early age that no matter what I had to do, my children would never experience anything I had to endure in my childhood. My first born was super spoiled and was just a far better version of myself. Being his blueprint was very easy because of my own upbringing and commitment to always being a part of his life. I unfortunately lost him to cancer when he was a teen. My second son is the greatest thing I’ve ever done. Because of losing his brother and his experience with autism, I’ve mentally bubble-wrapped him. I love the fact my kids know and knew how much they matter to me. I know personally what having a “me” in a child’s life can mean for them. I’m glad I gave them the upbringing I never had.
