I was ten years old when I was placed in foster care. I remember the day as though it were recent. My little sister was only four years old. She was having tubes put in her ears that day. I wanted so much to take care of her when I got home from school. That nurturing would never take place. The previous day I told my friend what kind of things my brother and step-dad were doing to me. It was already common knowledge in the neighborhood that I was frequently and severely beaten by my mother. This was the early 80's and most people still looked the other way when it came to a mother's choice of "discipline". I tried telling my mom what they were doing but she ignored me. It didn't help that she had a never ending supply of pain pills to keep her happy in the day and sound asleep at night.

The night. I still fear the night. That's when they would come. Shortly after my mother's wedding the visits began. I remember his word's, his breath, his calloused hands on my young skin. He said that he never had a little girl before. He asked if I liked him. I said I did. What else would a four year old say? I was not sure at the time if I liked what he was doing. He said that I was his special little girl. That much I did like. His visits were often and progressive. I wondered why my mom had this man who smelled like beer and chewing tobacco in our new house. I was beginning to not like him so much. He was starting to hurt me. He would always tell me not to say anything to my mom.

I was six when my little sister was born. I feared for her. I did not want anyone to touch her the way that they had touched me. I promised her that I would protect her. I held her little grasping fist, kissed her tiny face and told her she would always be safe. I felt it my duty in life to keep her innocent and happy. I wanted to run away with her. I often wished that we had different parents. My child's mind thought anyone would be better. How wrong I was.

It was not until I was 7 that I discovered how to use his vileness to my advantage. I had come to the conclusion that this was my life, my secret, my weapon. I started demanding special things from him. I wanted candy. I wanted nail polish. I wanted whatever my mom said I could not have. Maybe subconsciously I wanted him to have to explain to my mother why he was giving me things that she clearly did not approve of.

My young mind was once again outsmarted by this pedophile in my life. He brought home a kitten for me. Tenderfoot was his name. He was mostly white with patches of tabby. And he would disappear if I did not keep my mouth shut and my demands to myself. Yes, I was learning a great deal about human nature at a very young age. I learned that someone could say something horrible and cruel to you with a genuine smile on their face and satisfaction in their heart. I learned that love can be used against you. I learned that mothers will not always be there for you when you need them. I discovered that I was capable of hatred.

My older brother would also make visits to my room. I still to this day do not know if one knew of the other. I often wonder if something happened to my brother as well. I may never know. I may never have the courage to ask him. I grieve for him. He has destroyed his life. A destruction from which he will never recover. He is the living dead.

I became a 'problem child'. I was sure my mother knew what was going on and chose to ignore it. I hated her for it. My anger was so strong that I grew numb both physically and emotionally. When she would beat me I would not cry. I would stare at her in the eyes and tell her that it didn't hurt. I would not let her have the satisfaction that she sought.

My poor mother. Later in life I would learn that her childhood was a lonely, cruel existence. My grandmother was a raging drunk. My mother was worked mercilessly as a maid for my grandmothers several rental homes and record store. She was beaten and her medical needs were ignored, including a broken clavicle that thankfully healed properly. She was not loved as a child and subsequently was not a loving person. She was very distant with her three children. My mother grew up on the west coast of Washington state. She spent any spare time on the beach, alone. She had a great love for the ocean.

I hated my mother for not protecting me. I hated her for choosing my brother and step-father over me. I hated her for trying to get me to say that I lied about what happened so that it would all just go away. I hated her until I was without her. I was always angry with my mother but I always missed her. I wanted to be home. I wanted my step-dad and brother to go away. I did not understand why I was being punished for what they all did to me. I never felt that I was the problem. My brother and sister were never removed from the home. My brother should of had counseling and my step-dad should have been put in jail. Instead I got eight years of hard time in the Florida foster care system.

I was pulled from class by the school officer. So many people wanted to hear what I had to say. Over and over again I was asked to tell my story. I was taken to a new home. My first of many foster homes. I wanted my sister. I wanted to call my mom to see if she was o.k. after her surgery. Nobody would let me. I wanted to take care of her. Who was going to protect her if I was not there for her? I promised! I cried. My 'new mother' held me. She cried with me. I loved her instantly. Her daughter did not like me. She was very mean to me. What she did not realize however was that I was impervious to her weak assaults. I made her suffer greatly with my little angry fists. I was promptly removed. The 'new mother' that hugged me and smelled so good was ripped from my life in an instant. I was put in a 'facility' for foster kids with no place to go. It would also be the first of many. I met other children like me, hurt, angry, cold, traumatized, disposable.