| |
My grandmother was a beautiful woman as a youth, I've been told. I would not know. I finally met her a month ago and all I saw was an empty shell of a woman, wrapped in a dark shawl as if to hide away from all who draw close to her.
I remember when she looked up at me, the pain in her eyes drilled deep into my heart. I was a man and I was not supposed to cry. As a man, I am not to show feelings. I am to be tough yet all I could do was stare back, tears falling from my eyes to drop onto her leathered hands. She asked for forgiveness, I gave it all to her. I walked away knowing I'd never see her again. He would never allow it.
Yes, even after all these years, my grandfather refuses to acknowledge me. He refuses to acknowledge he had a daughter. My grandparents have moved about 30 times in the 36 years they have been married. Why? To keep the wolves at bay…..
My grandmother was powerless to stop the abuse. I understand she tried several times to leave with my mother only to be returned back by the very police who promised to aid the innocent and place the guilty in jail. But my grandfather was powerful. And his fingers were everywhere, manipulating and lying to all.
~Mark looks over as the door opens and watches several people leave. His counsellor had warned him some would not listen to his story. Still, it grabs his heart in a vice grip to see them leave and to realize, they probably believe he is lying. He reaches down, rubs the power stone and continues on.~
I was taken to a hospital and the story of my birth made front-page news. My story was retold on the TV news and many people scampered to the hospital to adopt this orphan, this sad baby of the streets.
I had a tough time. Born too early, filled with drugs and tainted with dirty blood, I struggled to stay alive. A few months ago I located my primary nurse. She told me I refused to die despite the massive infection that swept through my body from the dirty scissors my mother had used and the dirty shoelace she had tied my cord with. She wiped away many tears as she explained how I would scream, tremble and fight as the drugs wore off and left my system. She told me of the circus that followed my story and how my mother's family refused to acknowledge both my mother and myself.
At the age of one year, I was released from the hospital to live with a good upstanding family. Social workers continued to search for my family during this time. I was told one social worker in particular believed I'd be better off with my real family than a foster family. I was one, I wouldn't know.
By the time I was three, I was growing into a very energetic boy who couldn't seem to get his act together. I seemed to always do things wrong. I would try so hard. I remember trying so hard and not understanding why everyone was mad at me. Now I understand, I had no attachment to anyone from birth as I lay in an incubator protected from the germs of the world and struggling with drug addiction. I now understand that my brain was damaged, not in a major fashion but in small, hidden ways from the drugs.
I didn't understand or know that then. Nor did the people who cared for me.
But they tried. And one day, my world changed again when those caring people were killed in a car accident. I wasn't in the car. Because of my behaviours, I had been left with a baby sitter.
I was moved to another foster home. I was angry, confused and very scared. I remember that. I remember believing I had done something really bad and made them all go away. No matter how much the new family tried to love me, I fought them. I killed their cat. I destroyed their home and I threatened to stab them in their sleep.
I was only three years old but I knew how to hate. Only, I didn't understand what hate meant. I only knew that I was hurting and scared. I was scared to care and be thrown out again. So I lashed out and hurt all around me.
~A gasp falls over the room as Mark's words come out strong and loud, tainted with pieces of anger. Mark stops, feels his power stone, takes a very deep breath and continues on.~
By the time I was 6 years old, I had lived in 12 different foster homes. I was labelled a "problem child" and had gone through 4 different therapists. I could smile sweetly at you as I kicked out the chair you were sitting on. No one understood why. I didn't know why. Until one day, in grade one when a public health nurse and a social worker came into my class.
They gave us a talk about safety. They talked about "good touches" and "bad touches." I remember shivering even though it was very warm in the room. I felt so cold. I couldn't breath. When the memories hit, I fell hard onto the floor and was unable to move. Apparently I had a seizure despite having no history of epilepsy. I never have had a seizure since.
I had been sexually abused in that fine up-standing home - the first one I had lived in as a baby. My foster parents hadn't touched me but those who had come into their home had. As the nurse and social worker talked, it all came flooding back and totally overwhelmed me.
Just another notch to place upon my broken tree - another piece of history I had to struggle against as I grew up.
~Two women run quickly out of the room, sobbing and unable to breath. One of the facilitators of the conference follows behind to ensure their emotional well being. The other nods at Mark to continue on.~
~2001~
|
Help Us Stop Plagiarism -
Nearly all works at PnP are original. However a few people choose to plagiarize.
To check, choose a phrase from the work, then either drag and drop to the search box or copy and paste.
click on search and works at Google will be shown which match. Just to be sure, please do this before
you recommend or rate the work highly...
|
 |
|
|
|
Select a Random Book
|
|
Welcome !
