I am going to be 22 in 3 months. To a senior citizen, that might seem blissfully young. To a pre-teen, that might seem tragically old. To me, it's just ... twenty-two. Another year gone by.
In the last nine months, I have finished my second year of college, sent our adorable foster twins to a wonderful new family, finished my first novel, watched my adopted brother get shifted from one home to another, gained about twenty pounds, helped my sister out with her day home, welcomed two new foster kids into our home, gone camping with my family, made it through the tenth anniversary of my best friend's death, supported my mother through her dear friend's passing, got a job at my local library, and watched as two boys who we opened our home and hearts to destroyed my mother's life.
A month ago, my mother was a well-respected, awe-inspiring foster mother; a life that I was thrilled to be a part of. Now they're telling her she's not fit to be a foster parent, because they took the word of a sad boy and a sociopath over hers.
Twenty-two years old, in just three short months.
You know what I thought would be going on in my life when I turned twenty-two? I thought I would graduate from RDC with a diploma in Early Learning and Child Care, be living in a cheap apartment or townhouse that allowed pets, and be working in a day care or preschool, while volunteering at the women's shelter. I thought I would be dancing around my home to blaring music, making appointments for getting tattoos while watching the latest romantic comedy on TV. I thought I would be spending all of my downtime on my computer, writing fanfic and dreaming of publishing my first novel.
You know what I'll probably be doing when I turn twenty-two? The same thing I'm doing right now: trying to get myself and my mother through the next day.
Tonight (or technically last night, since it's after 12:00 am) was my day off of work, and since I got paid yesterday, I decided that me and mum would go do some shopping, go see a movie ... keep our mind off of things. I found some good work shirts, bought some movies and books and a really nice bookshelf at Value Village, and then went to Carnival. The first movie we watched was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2.
When the first Harry Potter book came out, I was six years old. My mother read me each chapter as she recovered from our car accident, making me fall in love with each character, desperate for more. She fostered my love of reading and writing.
When I was six years old, I had absolutely no interest in growing up. I didn't care much for an adult's perspective of life. To me, hard work was sitting still in my desk and not mouthing off my teachers. When I was six, I thought five dollars made me rich, and I couldn't wait to spend it all at the convenience store down the street. I couldn't comprehend the hardships that my mother had to endure, raising myself and my brother by herself.
I was not a pleasant child. Sure, I had my good moods. I had fun, I smiled, I made other people laugh. But, I could also pull a Jekyll/Hyde swap faster than you could blink. I don't know how my mother managed to raise us and not lose her sanity, but somehow she managed.
In August of 2001, when I was eleven years old, my dog became very sick. He had cancer. He was in a lot of pain. I didn't really comprehend what cancer was back then, even thought my Aunt had died of lung cancer. All I knew of cancer back then was that my Auntie Marion smoked cigarettes, and then she died. When the vet told us George had cancer, I blamed my mum. I don't believe I ever told her that ... instead, I secretly hated her for it, because she smoked. 1 + 1 = 2 back then, so obviously she must have been to blame, right? George was in a lot of pain, but I wasn't ready to let him go. So, what did my mum do? She told me that she was going to make an appointment for him with the vet. She said they would be back. She had my coach and mentor stay with me, who encouraged me to say goodbye to my dog. I didn't understand, so I didn't say goodbye. I thought I would see him again. When my mum came home without George, I hated her for it. I didn't see that she had saved me the trauma of watching my dog be "put to sleep". She held me while I cried, and gave me my space when I needed it. She gave my Baby George the relief that he needed when I couldn't, and I never thanked her for it.
When I was eleven years old, the Winter before my twelfth birthday, we had to leave my hometown for my mom's work. There was nothing left for her in Brooks, but she had a job down in Red Deer. I was not happy about it. I told her that I hated her, that she was ruining my life. I thought the world would end if I couldn't see my friends every day, if I had to leave the house I'd lived in nearly my whole life. I blamed her for everything back then, because I was a child and I was mad. I dug my heels in. How did my mother respond? She worked it out so that I could stay on my Ringette team, and come back for games on the weekend. A three-hour drive almost every weekend. I don't know how much money that she spent on gas so that I could spend a couple hours a week with friends that I had grown up with. And when my school in Innisfail went on strike for three weeks, she worked it out so that I could go back to Brooks and take my old classes for a little while. I was thrilled to be back with my friends. I don't know that I ever sincerely said thank you. I didn't care about the sacrifices she was making for me, all I cared about was that I was getting what I wanted.
Hard work for me back then was keeping in shape for ringette. Hard work back then was getting Cs in school and not picking fights on the bus - I didn't succeed in either very often. Growing up, then? What a stupid notion.
When I was seventeen years old, I graduated from high school. My mother rented a red, mustang convertible for me. I secretly pouted that it wasn't silver, but loved it all the same. I had a wonderful grad, laughed with my friends, and used my absentee father's grad ticket to get a friend of mine into the grad dinner with us. My favorite aunt and uncle got to see me graduate, my mother and sister smiled and cried, and I didn't even trip walking down the aisle. It was a wonderful evening. I danced with the boy who would, a mere four years later, destroy my mother's life, and didn't even get a picture with my mother to commemorate the evening. She never complained.
When I was nineteen, we had to find another place to live. Our landlord wasn't going to renew our lease, and nowhere in Red Deer that we could afford would allow pets. It was our second move in two years. My mother had lost her own dog and favorite companion in that house. Though it probably broke her heart to say it, she suggested that we send my dog, Copper, to live with someone else for a while, until we could get back on our feet and find a place that would allow pets. I refused. I screamed. I told her that if Copper went, I went. I told her that I would move in with my brother, and never speak to her again. What did she do? She agreed to look outside of Red Deer, and let me pick a house in Sylvan that allowed pets. I never thanked her.
When I was twenty-years old, our 9-year old foster boy was taken out of our home. He was violently aggressive, would constantly abuse my mother, threaten other children in our home and in our lives, would break his and our property, and scream bloody murder if you so much as looked at him the wrong way. My mother put her heart and soul into making him feel loved and secure, and "they" deemed that our home was not safe for him. We had one day's notice that they were taking him. We were allowed to visit him for a couple months before they cut off all contact with him.
The hardest thing about my life back then? Re-alphabetizing my movies, working out time to go see movies with my friends, and figuring out a schedule to balance out all my favorite TV shows.
Seven months ago, my adopted brother was sent to a residential treatment home that was supposed to work a program around his behavior. He is a boy diagnosed with ADHD, ODD, undiagnosed FASD and Shaken Baby Syndrome. He is a sociopath. He destroys everything in his life that he touches.
Two months ago, hard work for me was watching our two and three-year old foster girls while my mother drove back and forth from Calgary and Sylvan to visit my brother, and try to assist in his treatment.
There was no treatment going on. He was shuffled from house to house, never getting proper supervision, never mind treatment. He was constantly going awol, verbally and physically abusing other youth and staff in the programs, running around downtown Calgary in the middle of the night, coming back boasting about drinking alcohol, with hickeys on his neck. A thirteen-year old, sociopathic boy, at-risk to be a sexual offender is wandering around Calgary in the middle of the night, and coming back with hickeys. The staff at the program had little to say for their lack of action, and my mother was growing evermore frustrated with the situation. But, what could she do? It wasn't safe for him to come home, and he was getting worse where he was. Rock, hard place, etc, etc.
Life sucked, but it was about to get a hell of a lot worse.
A little less than three weeks ago, the foster boy made an allegation against my mother. The boy who kicked and punched and bit and spat on and screamed at my mother told his social worker that my mother whipped him with a belt. The social worker believed it. She went to my adopted brother, who had always threatened that he was going to destroy my mother. He's told her for years that he's going to tell people that she's beating him up so that he can go back to his biological mother - the same woman who drank and did drugs while she was pregnant with him; the same woman who shook him when he was a baby; the same woman who couldn't be bothered to get out of bed to feed, dress, and care for her children; the same woman who faked a brain injury when it suited her; the same woman who nearly slept through her son trying to burn down their house with her in it; the same woman who let her son run back into a burning building to save his cat. My adopted brother told the social worker that my mother indeed whipped him with a belt.
My mother got paid $1.08 an hour to be a foster parent. She received little-to-no support from Children's Services, went through hell and back to adopt and care for my brother, did everything in her power to see that he got the help that he needed, even when her family members told her that it was time to give up - something she doesn't know how to do.
Children's Services has to take every single allegation seriously. I understand that. They took our two foster girls when they started their investigation two weeks ago. They said they'd be gone for a few days. My mother stopped getting paid as a foster parent, and they cut off her Child Tax Credit. None of the people in a position to help her at Children's Services were allowed to talk to her. My sister reached out to people who would know what to do, and told her to get a lawyer. Could you afford a lawyer on $1.08/hour? She got in touch with Legal Aid, who told her that she doesn't qualify, because she makes too much money. She made too much money because she could pay all of her bills. She paid all of her bills because I loaned her $440.00. She explained this to them, and still they told her they couldn't help her. My mother had to face this allegation with no legal representation, and no help from anyone in a position of authority within Children's Services.
Last month, my biggest priority was spending my student loan money, and not missing the season finale of True Blood. Since then, I've gotten a job at my local library, dropped my practicum so that I could keep that job, and spent every free moment trying to stave off my mother's depression.
On Friday, they finished their investigation.
Let me make one thing perfectly clear: My mother is not perfect. No one is. You show me a perfect person, and I'll show you an amazing con artist. While she is not perfect, my mother is not violent. She has never, and would never whip a child. We were confident that they would give her a slap on the wrist for a few spanking incidents, and everything would be fine. How could they take the word of two violently aggressive boys over hers?
We were wrong. The boy who promised to destroy my mother, so that he could go back to his birth mother who broke him, did exactly as he promised. They've decided she can no longer be a foster parent. My mother gave up her entire life to care for my brother, and other children like him. My mother, who has supported herself, myself, and every child in her house on a measly $1.08/hour, has been told that she can no longer be a foster parent.
I've never really had to grow up. Sure, I've been mature for my age for a long time, but mature for my age isn't exactly "mature". I don't drink, I don't do drugs, I don't sleep around, I don't go out partying. I make good grades, I stay out of trouble, and I don't waste my time on people who would only bring me down in the long run. I met a woman recently who couldn't believe that I was only 21, because I seemed so much more mature and "together" than that.
I don't want to be mature. I don't want to be a grown up. I want to yell and scream and break things. I want to storm up to Children's Services and bitch-slap them until they come to their senses. I want to walk up to my adopted brother's biological mother and rip her heart out of her chest for the pain she's caused my family.
Unfortunately, I can't do that. Every waking minute that isn't spent at school or work is being spent on keeping my mother from spiraling into depression.
I love my brother with all of my heart. I want him to get better. I want to wrap my arms around him and squeeze all of the hate and sickness out of him. I love him, but if I knew seven years ago that he was going to do this to my mother, I would have told her to let someone else take him in. Let someone else suffer at his hands ... she's my mother, and she doesn't deserve this.
When we walked into the movie theatre tonight, my mother looked at the Harry Potter poster and said, "Can you believe it's been that long? We read the first book when you were six years old."
Six years old, and my biggest troubles were learning how to skate, and earning enough allowance to buy 1-cent candies at the corner store.
How did we get here? More importantly, how do I make it stop?
