My mother was a beautiful, cunning, manipulative, abusive, alcoholic with a hatred for me.
After my parents divorced when I was nine years old she made it crystal clear she couldn’t stand me because I was “My Father’s child.” I was not allowed to be with her in public because I “embarrassed” her, and during her drunken nights with the neighbor’s wife (In which she eventually had an affair with her husband) I recall more than once that the reason I wasn’t sent away to live with my father is that I was giving he,r her “play money”, with the child support my father was sending in every month.
She had a love for gambling, and several times a month she would leave for Boomtown, Nevada for nearly a week (or until her money ran out) and I would be left alone in the house doing what I could to go to school, eat, and stay out of trouble.
I had an older half-brother (out of the house), who was the cherished son. My mother would remind me that her and him were together (in the worst of times, living together in a car) and that they shared a bond I would never have. I was not allowed to speak my brothers name to my mother or in public, as “I was not good-enough” to do so. That “rule” stayed in place until the last time I communicated with her in 2009.
Growing up in an environment like that leaves an impact on you. You learn quite early how to take care of yourself and understanding consequences. You begin to be resourceful and have alternative plans to things if the original plans do not work out. It also inhibits your emotional response, and retards emotional growth. I can remember nights I found my mother collapsed out on the front porch and I drug her in. Nights where I showered my own mother due to being covered in vomit and putting her to bed while she called me disgusting names and saying disgusting things (two I remember vividly was that she was going to wrap me up in my sleeping bag at night and kill me or pay somebody else to do it and that she was going to call the cops and tell them I beat her and they will believe her over my “punk ass”). One time in particular, I remember I was 11 years old and got a phone call on the house phone from a paramedic saying that my mother was having an emergency at a bar and that they were transporting her to the hospital. I knew where the spare key to the car was (I used it often) and so I drove to the bar I knew she was at, followed the ambulance with my mother to the hospital, and waited until she was released and drove her home. Again, this was at age 11.
The Shift Into Profiting From Other Children
Somehow her brain realized that having a child in this manner was profitable, and decided to get into foster care.
My mother met up with the director of a foster program (this program has since been shut down) and immediately they began a sexual relationship. This man would come over and I would have the privilege of hearing my mother have sex with him (this was whenever the neighbors husband wasn’t sneaking over).
It wasn’t long until I had 3 new siblings. However, I learned quickly that these children were not ordinary. All three were males with severe mental handicaps and heavily medicated. These children were in bad shape, malnourished and unhealthy, rotten teeth, poor eyesight and development (drug babies) and emotional unstable.
I’d grown accustomed to my broken environment that I was able to manage by doing my own thing as long as I stayed away from my mother, but I now had this chaos.
See, a typical day in my mothers house was to be a ghost. She wouldn’t leave her bedroom until about noon or so everyday. She would grab something from the kitchen or leave and get cigarettes (she also smoked in the house for what it’s worth) and booze, come back, make sure she displayed her feelings about me and disappeared back into her room. The only other engagement I got from her was screaming from her room if she heard me. I had to be as quiet as a mouse at all times, and lord help me if she heard me in the kitchen getting something to eat. On that note, I would go into the kitchen very early in the morning when I was pretty sure she was passed out, or when she was having sex, and I’d load up on whatever I could find and smuggle it outside or in my room so I could eat throughout the day and not get caught. Of course I would still get yelled at because food was missing, but at least I was full and I got very good at hiding things.
It was a horrible system and way of life, but I made it work. I just had to be a ghost.
With these new additions I was now on the radar even more. However, my mother actually solved this problem. The medication these children were on were very strong, they were almost like zombies all the time. She developed a schedule in which she would leave her bedroom around 3 times a day to medicate these kids, and as long as she put in that much work and there was a television and a couple Gameboys, we were all pacified.
That was life. Medication. Cartoons. Pokemon. Occasionally dinner or McDonald’s cheeseburger if they were on sale (I think back then we had the 29 cent Tuesdays or something).
The director continued to come to the house and have “private meetings” with my mother. There was never once a check on the children, not even questions besides the condescending “See you all again soon!” after he got done with my mother, who just stayed in the room afterwards.
Before long we had our fourth sibling, just as damaged and medicated as the rest. My mother never skipped a beat with her drinking and gambling outings, the only real change is that we had a babysitter as a few of the children were younger than myself. Having the sitter was a luxury in all honesty, we got attention and we got fed. Just a little bit of interaction went a very long ways, but sadly the turnover was high as it seemed my mother was difficult to work with or the sitters realized what was going on and didn’t want any part of it.
Sex Makes Any Story Better, Right?
After about a year of this I was around 12 or 13. Life was the usual, mother making money off me in child support, making ridiculous money on the most damaged children she could get, the director still getting his “cut”, and honestly I was able to get out of the radar even further due to one of the children becoming too much of a “headache” for her…so for a time he became the scapegoat.
However, that all changed with child number five. A female.
This new child was I believe around eight or nine, about the “median” age of the others as I was the oldest by about a year.
This little girl had a troubled sexual history from family members as well and events in other homes, and was very much sexually active. It wasn’t long until three of the boys were engaging sexually with the girl in mother’s house, under her”watchful eye”. Now, there was no secret that putting a sexually active female in with troubled boys (some with sexual histories themselves) was probably not in the best interest of the child. However, since my childhood home was basically a brothel for my mother, it was just a different twist on the same thing I have dealt with most my childhood.
Now, this is just a summary of my world with five foster implants…it got ever more outrageous when there were a total of sevenchildren and my child support checks stopped coming in…
But that will be covered in Part 2