Finding Her Place

Trigger Warning: abusive fathers, alcoholism, abuse, mention of rape.

Read at your own risk.

Ever since I was able to remember, I've been bouncing in and out of foster homes; I guess you could say that I've become a stereotypical "foster child" from a very young age. Out of every foster parent I've had the joy of meeting, not a single one of them had ever considered adopting me out from my parents'. My social worker, Katie, once had tried to tell me that I'd never be adopted out because my birth parents cared that much about me to fight for my custody.. but I never believed it. If they cared so much, why'd they always do the stupid shit that sent me back in the first place? Katie was probably just coming up with some elaborate lie to make me feel better about the fact that nobody ever wanted to claim me "for life". It took me seven years to finally learn that the real reason why my parents would fight "so hard" for my custody is so they were able to look good for the neighbors who lived by them. They're the type of people who wanted to look good in the eyes of everyone they came across, despite the truth about who they really were.

If you were to ever get close enough to enter the world that was our crazy life, you'd only ever get a chance to peak at the side of the curtain my parents wanted you to see. Right away, you'd see a happy father who had a wonderful job that supported and spoiled his family, a beautiful housewife smiling from ear to ear as she took care of her family, and a young child who got the chance to grow up having the most perfect parents in the world; a family you'd fall in love with the very second you laid your eyes on them. My parents wanted to be that one family that made every other family wish they could be just as perfect as us.

But what you didn't know was that as soon as you closed our doors, the real family would be revealed. The father with the great job who would support and spoil his family? Doesn't exist. Instead, we had a father who had been forced to marry the high school sweetheart he impregnated because it was the "right thing to do". Of course he did have a job. He worked full time for some retail gig just so he was able to put food on the table, but he always used to let his frustrations out every night. The beautiful housewife that you saw smiling from ear to ear? Well.. at one time, she did exist. My mom used to smile all the time, but as the years went by, her smile began to lose it's definition. She used to tell me that a small smile would help a stranger feel more welcome in our lives. No matter how many times my father struck my mother, she never stopped smiling; the smile just became more and more fake through the years. The older I've become, the more I mastered my mother's technique. No matter how much you were dying inside, smiling always seemed to make others believe that you were happy. So I used it to my advantage.

Now, for that child you'd believe was so lucky to have the most perfect parents in her life? She was clueless. She tried so hard to watch her parents' from the eyes of the bystander. She wanted to see them through the eyes of the innocent so bad. After watching her father beat her mother to her mother crying whenever the father wasn't around, that young child never was able to comprehend just how they always managed to keep the perfect act up for so long. That child always loved when strangers would look in; she felt as if her parents had been normal for a bit. She felt as if she had belonged to a normal little family for a change, instead of feeling like the burden who caused her parents' pain.

By the time the child turned four years old, the father began to realize that striking his wife wasn't giving him the same effect as it used to. He tried to drink away his frustrations, but it still didn't seem to work. Soon enough, he started to take notice in his daughter. His daughter seemed like the perfect decoy; she had already looked exactly like a mini version of his wife. He never let out his frustrations on his daughter the same way he did his wife, though. For his wife, he had no shame. He did it out in the open where his daughter could still see him. For his daughter, he wanted to keep it a secret. It was probably because of how close his wife felt to her child, but he never allowed for her to see the pain he was causing to that little girl. He only ever would let out his frustrations on his daughter at night.. alone in her bedroom.. away from the wife. At first, that little girl was scared. Terrified, even. But eventually, she would actually begin to get used to it. She even started to learn the sound of the squeak the door would make so she could brace herself for her fathers actions. After a while, this little girl had already began to convince herself that it was just some crazy nightmare she had every night; she'd even start to refuse to open her eyes anytime she'd hear her father stumble into her bedroom.

On her fifth birthday, the little girl managed to work up enough courage to tell her mother what her father did to her every night. She felt relieved to finally get it off her chest and began feeling safer in her mother's arms. But that didn't last. Her mother confronted her father the second he came back home from work and he responded by striking her across the face. After, the father grabbed ahold of her and started to yell, "You skank! I should have known you'd go crying to mommy about our nights together!"

Just as the little girl began to regret ever saying anything, her mother pulled her from his grip and ran into the kitchen. "Stay away from us," She yelled back at him!

He stormed over to her, which caused the little girl to pry herself out of her mother's arms and run into a cabinet located below the counter. She covered her ears to block out the angry words coming from her fathers' mouth.

When my eyes did open again, a lady was crotched in front of me with a soft smile inching across her face, "It's okay sweetie.. you're safe now."

I just stared back at her in silence.

"Did your parents hurt you?" She asked me in a soft, kind voice.

I remained silent.

"Do you want to come out of the cabinet?" She held out her hand, "Don't worry, it's safe. You can trust me."

I crawled out of the cabinet, staying behind the kind woman until I saw my mother. I tried to run back to her but the sweet lady held onto my wrist. "You can't go to her," He said to me.

"Tyler," My mom spoke out to me, "Mommy will be back for you as soon as she can." She had mascara lines staining her cheeks, along with a black eye and bloody lip. The lady walked me outside where I spotted my father in the back of the cop car; he stared back at me with his hand pressed up against the glass. I wanted to run up and press my hand against his, but a part of me just told me to keep following the lady towards a silver car.

Once she opened the back door and helped me in, she crotched down and smiled once more, "My name is Katie. What's your name?"

I just stared back at her in silence.

"I'm going to take you to a family who-"

"My family is here." I finally spoke.

She smiled, "I know. But while your parents are figuring out what the problem is.. we'll just take you somewhere else where you can be 100% safe. I promise to make sure you can see your mom and dad again soon."

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not going."

"You have to."

"No," I screamed out! I ran over to the cop car and tried to pry open the door. "Daddy!" I began to shout, "Let my daddy out! He didn't mean it!"

Arms wrapped around my small torso as the person tried to pry my hands off the door handle, "Everything is going to be okay." I recognized the voice as the lady from before and untangled myself from her grip before running back inside the house towards my mother.

"Mommy," Tears had began falling down my cheeks, "They're trying to take me away."

She knelt down so her eyes were leveled with mine, "She's not taking you away."

"Yes she is. She said-"

"She's only going to take you to a safer place for a short while."

"I don't want to go anywhere else without you, mommy."

"I promise you that I'll work my hardest to make sure you come back as soon as you are able," She held out her pinky for me to wrap mine around before giving me one of her famous big, beautiful smiles, "It's only for a little while." She walked me back over to the lady's car and helped me back in before closing the door and mouthing the words "I love you".

That was my first encounter with a foster home and sure enough, my mother had me back in her arms a month later. I never saw my father again for another three months. My mother never said anything about it, but I really enjoyed seeing how happy she was while he was away. It was almost as if I had met a whole different person; even her smile started to become more genuine again. As soon as my father came back into our lives, our lives went right back to the way it was before. He went back to letting his frustrations out on the both of us, my mother's genuine smile began to lose definition again, and I had to continue watching from the background as cops were getting called and taking me away again.. and again.. and again.

By the time I was eight years old, I was starting to convince myself that a foster home was just my own twisted form of vacation. My foster families either consisted of cute, young couples who wanted to have kids of their own to spoil, to older ladies that just wanted a grandchild, to those strict couples that probably only wanted to have a foster for the paycheck and free labor. Katie did always manage to make sure I felt safe though. I should at least give her credit for that; if I was feeling somewhat unsafe in the home, she always would come the very next day to take me to the next.

By thirteen years old, I was starting to get frustrated by my parents. Nothing was changing. Things had actually started to become scarier. My father began to stop feeling ashamed to let his frustrations out on me instead of my mother. He began to come into my bedroom at all hours of the night, rather than just at night, while my mother drowned all sense of hope out with alcohol. I even began to notice how my mother was starting to smile less and less with each bottle she consumed.

My longest occurrence in the foster care system was when I was fifteen. One year. One whole year spent wondering if my parents had finally given up on getting me back into their custody. Not that I was mad about it. A part of me was actually hoping that they'd finally gave up. The main reason why I had gone back into the system this time around was because my mother came home drunk off her ass and started to accuse my father of cheating on her, which led to him throwing what I've just decided to call his tantrums by now. I ended up calling Katie myself to get out of there before my father even had a chance to let his frustrations out on me that night. She probably called the police that night as well, but I didn't care. I just wanted out. But sadly, I was back home by my sixteenth birthday. My mother welcomed me back with open arms and tons of presents the second I walked through the door. She had the biggest smile plastered across her face as she said the words, "Welcome home, Tyler." She pulled me into the biggest hug as my father just stayed on the couch, not even acknowledging my existence back into his life.

"Hi dad," I said to him but only got a groan back.

"Don't bother your father while he's watching his show." My mom informed me before pulling me over to the table to "chat".

My father never even acknowledged me or the fact that it was my birthday at all until later that night. He had argued with my mom in the afternoon which resulted in her locking him out of their bedroom for the night.. of course leaving me to be the idiot that never thought about ever locking my own bedroom door so that he had no other option but to stay out in the living room all night long. He stumbled into my room at around 3am, a bottle of whiskey in hand, and wobbled over to my bed.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart."

I kept my eyes closed, hoping he had finally grown a heart and let me sleep. of course he didn't. Why would he? After he left my room, I just stared up at my bedroom ceiling the way I did back when I was four, when this happened for the first time. How did I allow this to happen all these years? I jumped out of bed and threw some clothes and a few basic necessities into a suitcase Katie had given me for my travels to the foster homes after my sixth placement, before throwing on a plain t-shirt and pair of jeans and walking out the front door. I was finally sixteen. I am finally hold enough to officially give up on this family.

Goodbye old life.. You will NOT be missed.