That Was What Hurt Me the Most Page 4

I was fifteen when my parents placed me into foster care. I had become my father’s worst nightmare. I wore makeup, tight jeans, smoked cigarettes and dated boys. My father would ’ground me’ and I would sneak out. My friends and I drank alcohol a few times, and each time I was caught. My father would hit me, call me names and ground me. I would smirk at him and he would worsen the punishment. A one week grounding would turn into two months within a matter of seconds. I didn't care.
My parents did explore other options before giving me up to complete strangers. My father tried to have me committed into a mental hospital. My parents and sisters sat in the waiting room as I was interviewed by two psychiatrists, a man and a woman. I wasn't afraid. It didn't matter to me whether I was committed or not. I just didn't care anymore, I had no fear left in me. I answered all of their questions truthfully. It actually felt good to say it out loud. If felt good to not be judged or criticized. I told them everything. I wasn't sure what they were thinking because neither of them had any reactions to the things I had said. They just continued to ask questions and write in their notebooks.
At the end of our conversation they thanked me for being honest and asked me to wait in my seat. They went to the other side of the room and whispered back and forth. The woman then told me that they would bring my family in to discuss what should happen next. This gave me the impression that they were bringing my family in to say good-bye before they strapped me into a straight jacket and threw me in the rubber room. I sat in silence in that wooden chair in the middle of the room, all alone.
My family filed in through the doorway quietly and took their seats. The doctors followed them into the room, notebooks in hand. After a few moments of an uncomfortable silence, the doctors spoke. They told my father how he made me feel like an outcast when he did such things as introduce me to people as ‘the black sheep of the family’. They told my mother how I just wanted to be loved and feel safe in my own home. They told my parents that I was just a teenage girl who had been acting out and that I was definitely not crazy. They suggested we move forward with family counseling. I could almost see steam rising off of my father as his anger grew. He finally could not hold it in any longer and he blew up. He jumped out of his seat, his face the reddest I had ever seen it. He pointed at the doctors and yelled at them. He told them how I was a manipulative bitch and they were morons for believing my stories. He yelled at us all to get up, we were leaving because these doctors were idiots. My father stopped in the doorway and told the doctors he would make sure that they lost their licenses because of this. The ride home was quiet.
It wasn’t long after that that my mother, my father and I were sitting in a room at children’s services discussing my future with a social worker. She agreed that I should leave the home but I would have to consent to it because we all came there voluntarily. My father signed the papers first as he was quite eager to prove to me that he was not going to back down. My mother sat there holding the pen over the page and cried. I knew there was no way my mother was going to sign me over to complete strangers. Yes, she was cold and crazy but she was my mother, she would not give up her daughter. My father yelled at her to sign the papers. She did. I couldn’t believe it. My own mother gave me up. My father smiled. He was winning. I was handed the pen. It was my turn to sign the papers that would tear me out of my home and into the lives of strangers. I was the last one to sign the papers so once I did then that was it. I lifted the pen to the page and my mother sobbed. I looked up at her. Was this the moment I had been waiting for, when my mother would finally protect me from him? The hope displayed in my eyes was unmistakable. My father looked down on me and smirked. He knew he was about to win. I could not let that happen. I took a deep breath and slowly began signing my name with the full expectation that my mother would stop me. She didn't say a word. That was what hurt me the most.