Plight of the Forsaken - Part 2

This is a 100% true story of my Life. This and the episodes that follow will lead the world through the abuse I have endured. This is my personal story of struggle and triumph. If you are weak, or faint of heart, please avoid this story.

Foreword:

I know this chapter is out of order, but as you saw in the previous Webisode (chapter 3) there is a lot of abuse that wasn't physical, but rather emotional and mental. My parents were never right for each other, but they stayed together till the day my mother passed.

Chapter 2

Foster care

My experience in this foster home was incredible! They had horses, other children whom I became friends with quick because we had all endured some sort of abuse. Even though at the time I did not know that abuse was what made us such friends, I see it now.

This is also where I learned that there was other music besides country. It didn't take me long to learn to enjoy R&B music. The soulful heartfelt lyrics infected me from day one. To this day I am still very much into R&B. Growing up my mother and father only listened to country. My favorite song back then was El Paso, by Marty Robbins, and I had no clue that there was any other type of music.

During this brief period of relief from my mother and my life, I learned there is joy and happiness in this world. Unfortunately it seemed it was not meant for me.

My mother came to visit me only once while I was in foster care this time. When she saw how much fun I was having she immediately pulled me from there. I was happy to go home, since I loved my mother dearly, and quickly packed and went home. Soon after leaving foster care we also left Arizona to go back to my father. For years afterwards my sanity was linked to the memories of the joy I felt in that foster home.

We came back to California where we once again were living with my father. My father was living in Long Beach where he was a maintenance man for the Silver Arrow. It was an old apartment building and the owner was a little old white lady named Selma.

We lived in a small apartment and my dad spent most of the day repairing the old building and maintaining the property. I had a lot of friends in the neighborhood pretty quick, and soon school was starting. I attended Robert Lewis Stevenson elementary. I went to kindergarten there, as far as I remember, and that was only for a day.

I attended 1 single day of kindergarten. I was 6 years old but at that time the schools required kindergarten. It was short lived however because by the time I was 4 I was reading the news paper and novels. So to be in a class with children who still took naps, finger painting, and some still wetting themselves was hell for me. Nap time came and I refused to sleep. I was not allowed milk and cookies because of it but I just didn't care. Finger painting came and I refused to dip my fingers in such a mess. I still have a real problem with gooey stuff, or grease, on my hands. When the teacher tried to reprimand me I became adamant. This infuriated her and she tried to belittle me. This angered me and I became obnoxious. I told her simply, "I am not a baby I don't take naps. And I am not putting my hands in that shit!" I was sent to the principal, my father and mother came down, we had a meeting, and it was decided I would start first grade the next day.

Over the years my father fought hard for me when the schools tried to do me wrong. Where my mother tore me down mentally, my father always encouraged me to be more. Over the years I believe my father saved my life many times. If not for his love and encouragement I would probably have given up before I ever had a chance at life. His death in July of 2010 was the greatest loss of my life. Not a day goes by that I don't miss him and fight to understand how to live without him. But that is yet another tale.