This is my story. There are many like it, but this one is mine. I came into the world in the usual way. Well, actually, I was born 3 months premature and weighed a whole 2 lbs. 15 oz. when I was born. I spent 2 months or so in the Intensive Care Unit. I only include this data because I believe this absence from my mother was a template for my future life.

For the first 1 1/2 years of my life, I lived in California with my mother, brother (who is 1 year older then me) and our father. I don't remember but was told by my mother later in life that our father was very physical abusive toward us kids that he would beat us. My mother also told me later, as did my brother, that when I was approximately 1 years old, my mother decided to leave our father. She said she left because he was abusing us kids and also because he was cheating on her. So, one day while my father was at work, she boarded a bus and traveled from California to New York with two very young boys in tow. As I think about it, I think how much courage it must have taken to do that. She chose to pack up and move back to New York because she had grew up here and still had family in the area.

Shortly after arriving in New York, my mother relinquished custody of me to the County and the State of New York. She gave me up for adoption, and I became a ward of the state, a foster child, around the age of 2. After reaching adulthood, I read in some of my old records that her reason for giving me up was because she could not handle me. Actually, my mother told me this herself later in life. My brother remained with my mother. Believe it or not, I am glad she gave me up. In the long run, I turned out okay. But, it does make me wonder just how wild I could have been that she could not take care of me. I believe that my mother and I never bonded, in part due to my prematurity and having to spend weeks in the hospital’s Intensive Care Unit. Either way, I began my journey down the road of foster care at the tender age of 2.

I was placed in my first foster home with a couple. Strangely enough, this foster home was not only my first placement but also ended up being my last placement years later when I was a teenager. This placement also played a role in my life that haunted me for a long time, which I will remark upon a little later. These foster parents once told me that when I first arrived, I would not eat, would cower in the corner, and was afraid of adults. They said it was so sad; I would act as if I was going to be hit and cower.

During my first four years as a foster child and ward of the state, I had eight placements. One of the most memorable was a foster family who lived on a farm. I remember they had animals and lots of land for me to play on. It was here that I learned the importance of nature in my life. One time I remember sitting on a horse. I must have been about 6 years old, and the horse started to run and jumped over a fence and, not surprisingly, I fell off. Whenever my social worker came to visit, the geese chased her. I also remember watching my foster parents sheer the sheep, and we used to go for walks in the fields. I learned to love the woods and nature and this love would prove to be a safe haven for me throughout my time in foster care. Actually, it still is. A couple years ago I bought 10 acres of wooded land mostly to ensure I would always have my own safe spot, my special place where I could be free.

Because of unfortunate circumstances, I had to leave the farm in 1973. It was a tough year for me as a 6-year-old boy because I was moved around frequently and was placed in five different placements during that year. I was subsequently told that the five placements were due to a variety of circumstances such as an unexpected illness of a foster father or another foster father's military transfer. Eventually in 1973, I was placed in a potential adoptive home, my first one. Unfortunately, this adoption failed, and it seemed to set the tone between adoption and me from which I was unable to break free. I was consequently told in a letter by my social worker (later in life) that I had a hard time coping because I had never had permanency before, and that I had a great deal to adjust to. She also said the family had children of their own, and that the dynamics of the family and my behavior was a combination that led to me being removed from the home. So by the age of 6, I had experienced my first failed adoption.

After this, the county placed me in an orphanage. I was told that I had been through enough and needed a break, a rest from the pressures involved in adjusting to a different family. This was a Catholic orphanage with nuns in charge, and I must say that I was not very fond of the place. The nuns all seemed older and as a child appeared so mean all the time. We used to have to go to church all the time and kneel for hours while saying rosary and Hail Mary’s. All the kids slept in a couple of different large open rooms that were filled with beds. The hallways were dark and bleak and filled with pipes along the ceiling. It was like a prison, an institution that was devoid of emotion, where we all just tried to survive and be kids. I felt like an animal and sometimes I acted like one as did the other kids. It was not uncommon at night to see kids urinating on the floor or even on other kids. I remember I just tried to survive each day. This place in particular, as much as my past in general, turned me into a cold child devoid of all emotion. I recall a couple of incidents where I was physically aggressive toward other kids. One time, we were in school and I was doing something and was getting picked on by a kid. I was sitting at my desk and he wouldn’t leave me alone so I picked up my pencil and stabbed him through the hand with it. I remember the point broke when it hit the desk. I didn’t flinch. I got up and sharpened the pencil and kept doing my schoolwork. Another time, I was getting picked on again and was arguing with a kid. I was wearing some shoes recently given to me. They were pointy ones. I kicked the kid in his, well, you can guess. He needed stitches. I felt that I had no recourse. I was a small kid who was picked on a lot, so I had to do something. After that, I don't remember the kids really messing with me anymore.

The sad thing is that no one ever talked with me about either event. The nuns just yelled at me and made me pray or something. I felt so alone. I was a stubborn kid even at the age of eight. There was this time when I was eating breakfast with the other kids in the dinning room. Well, as far as I was concerned, I was done with my food and decided to put what was left of my banana into my glass of milk that I hadn’t finished. Not surprisingly, the nuns yelled at me and wanted me to eat the banana and drink the milk. Of course, I refused and that was the beginning of a power struggle that lasted all day. They told me I could not leave until the milk and banana were both gone. I ended up sitting and staring at that banana and milk all day. Eventually, as night began to fall, I gave in and said I would eat the banana and drink the milk. Eating the banana wasn’t too bad, a little soggy; but the milk, on the other hand, was a different story altogether. I’m not sure if the milk was spoiled by then, but I do know it was really warm and tasted really bad. I drank it, and to this day, I hate the nuns for making me drink it. I was sick because of it. Not all the times at the orphanage were bad, we got to go out and see a movie one time. It was called Watership Down; it was about rabbits. We used to swim in the pool and do recreation activities weekly.

I remember I had my first "glimpse" of a girl when I was at that orphanage. We were in the classroom behind some books, and we started to play doctor. I guess we were just exploring each other. Being 8- years-old and all, I didn’t think much of it. It’s funny, when I think back on it now as an adult, that even in an orphanage you cannot stop nature or biology.

After a year or so in the orphanage, I was placed in my second potential adoptive home. They were a young couple with no kids and were "Christians". This place initially appeared great! I had my own room, all the attention I wanted, and they had a dog. The only downfall was that they lived in the city, and I was a country boy at heart, but I could deal with that. The first six months or so went well. It was great. Sadly, the honeymoon period ended and things took a turn for the worst. By now, I was nine years old, and they sent me to a private Christian school. This may not sound bad, however, I had to take two regular city buses, the RTS buses, just to get to where my school bus would pick me up. It was such a long ordeal, too long in fact, and quite risky for a young boy to do alone. Twice I remember waiting for the RTS bus to pick me up and a couple of guys in a white car asked me if I wanted a ride. I knew something was up. I was uncomfortable and said NO! I am so proud of myself even to this day that I said no.

As I said, the honeymoon period ended, and things took a turn for the worst. I started to act up and do some real dumb things. I used to steal money from my foster father’s wallet and while I was waiting for the bus I would by some candy or a hard role and give the rest of the money to the bums. When I think back on it I laugh, for when I didn’t steal money, I would beg for money at the bus stop. I would flash my big brown eyes and ask the people for money because I lost my bus money. Then I would go into the restaurant at the bus stop and get a hard role with butter. I did it all the time. That bus trip was so lonely for me. I was once kicked off the bus for setting a paper airplane on fire and throwing it up to the driver. I made some really poor decisions as a child. I stole from the store once, and I used to pull the fire alarm on the corner. But, my adoptive parents changed too, they used to have patience with me, but they became so angry, so upset with me. For instance, I used to have a hard time chewing meat like steak or pork chops. We were eating dinner and they began to yell at me to hurry, and I was trying to chew fast, but was having a hard time. My adoptive mother picked up my food and threw it all over my head. I started to cry and ran into my room. My adoptive father followed me and told me to take my pants down and pull my underwear down. I started to cry, but I did it. He went in the other room to get a belt and when he returned and told me to bend over, and he began to hit me with it. But, don't confuse this with a "normal" spanking with a belt, he beat me with it. The belt had metal parts on it. I remember him raising the belt and striking me with it, over and over, and I would scream. I used to grasp the bed spread in my hands and my body would surge forward with the force of each hit. As the belt hit, it sometimes would tear the skin on my butt. I could feel the blood trickle down the skin of my butt cheeks, and my underwear would stick to it as it dried. I became cold again, isolated of my feelings. I remember that each time after he used to beat me, he used to make me hug him and pray with him. Of course, he always told me that it hurt him more than me. No one ever noticed the abuse that was happening. I used to go to school and be unable to sit in my chair. And the people forced me to stand in the corner! Sometimes I would refuse, and they would bring me in the closet and spank me with a paddle with holes in it. No matter where I went I could not escape. At this same time, I used to soil my pants, and my adoptive parents used to make me wash them by hand and sometimes they would make me wear the soiled underwear on my head. Eventually, they started to beat for this. After the first couple of beatings, I would cry, but eventually the tears dried up, and so did my emotions. I just used to take the beatings, the pain, and the blood. I dreamed of being anywhere but there. I spent most of my time in the woods. The thing I hated most was when the blood would dry and my skin was delicate from being torn by the belt and my pants would rub up against it all day when I walked. It was as if I had a constant reminder of it and could not escape it. I can understand my adoptive parent’s anger and frustration, for like I said, I had a lot of problems, a lot of bad behaviors, and I was not the kid they had hoped for. Not all the times were bad. They taught me to ride a bike, and we saw Star Wars, and we made Christmas cookies. They bought me a children’s Bible for my 9th birthday. That turned out to be a lifesaver for me. I would read stories in the Old Testament for hours. I loved reading the Bible. It gave me comfort. I still have that Bible to this day. I don’t know how I managed to keep it all these years with all the moving around, but I did. It’s the oldest possession I own.

Allow me to tell a couple of quick stories about things that happened to me while I was living in this adoptive home. These stories still make me laugh. The first story involves a dog and me. I used to walk a couple of blocks to get to the bus stop to catch the city bus. Well, along the way, there was this big, mean-looking junkyard dog that used to growl and bark at me each and every time I walked by. But, there was one time I was walking past and the dog was off its chain. I was terrified. To my eternal surprise, the dog came up to me and started to, ummmm, hump my leg. I didn’t really know what the dog was doing, but after that I was never afraid of that dog again and each day I would make sure to pet it on the way to school. The other story occurred at night. In fact, it was the middle of the night and I was in my bed. Scratch, scratch,

I kept hearing this noise. Scratch, scratch, scratch. This weird scratching noise over and over. I was so frightened I hid under my covers. Eventually, after what seemed like hours, I had gathered enough courage to jump out of bed and turn on the lights. What I found was unbelievably funny. There was an old-fashioned desk in my room, the kind with a grove in the top for a pencil. It turned out that I had left a marble in the groove. The desk sat in front of a window that had been left open for the night. A stiff wind was blowing through the window and was blowing the marble back and forth, back and forth in the groove. After initially being petrified, once I realized what was happening, I thought it was comical. So did my adoptive parents when they initially came in to comfort me.

When my adoptive mother became pregnant, I was removed from the home. I never told anyone about the physical abuse and no one ever asked. It still hurts sometimes that no one ever noticed the signs of physical abuse--not the teachers, the social worker, the counselors, or the people at the church. I always wondered why. After leaving the home, I was placed back in the orphanage and, as usual, all of my toys and my bike were lost or left behind in the transfer to the orphanage.

At this point, I began to believe that something out there had to be better then what I was experiencing. This feeling fueled my belief in a Heaven and an afterlife. I was only 10 years old, but I remember thinking about this idea quite often. I looked forward to death and was never scared of it. I actually embraced it. I viewed death as a release from the pains of this world, a relief, and to this day when things get tough I still do. But, don’t confuse this with being suicidal. I was not. I was driven by a hope that something out there was better. Now that I am older, I see the value of my life. I learned to believe in a higher power and found strength in God when everything else around me failed, or when I felt so rejected.

My stay in the orphanage this time was quite short. It was soon decided that I would be placed in a residential setting for emotional disturbed kids, a children’s home. I left the orphanage for the last time in the Summer of 1976. I remember while I was walking down the steps to my social worker’s car, he turned and gave me a bicentennial quarter. One of the ones to celebrate the 1776-1976, I thought it was so cool. The children's home was much better than the orphanage. There was a gym, a pool, and a playground. I shared a room with a couple roommates, and for most part, the staff were young and did things with us. They also had a school on the grounds. Things were not always great though. I was a bad kid. I would run away and jump out windows. I even locked the night staff in the laundry room one time. I don’t want to paint a picture of me being innocent. I was far from it. I had anger pumping through my blood and did not care about anyone.

As a result of my behavior, I was often punished. I think I spent more time washing dishes and writing essays then doing anything else. If I talked back or swore, they made me stand in the corner about an inch away from the wall. Most kids only lasted a few minutes, but I was stubborn and would keep swearing and eventually the time would build up into hours, many hours. I remember days when I stood in the corner all day and that is not an exaggeration.

Now, I know I pushed the limits with the staff. I tried their patience. But, sometimes they would yell and scream and throw me around like a rag doll all the while telling me that basically I was a loser. Occasionally the staff would hit me or punch me, but not very frequently. They did leave a mark on my face once from slapping me and the county came and took pictures. I don’t believe anything happened as a result of this incident. For the most part, the staff was nice and wanted to help us kids, to help me. There was one event though that started out real bad for me but turned out rather well. I think I was about 12 years old, and we were all outside in the snow playing before dinner. It was a couple of days after Christmas. It was time to go inside and get ready for dinner and, of course, I was taking my time getting inside. After finally coming in, I was in the locker/changing room taking off my wet clothes when a staff member came in and started to tell me to hurry up. I, of course, started talking back, and he grabbed me by my jacket and started slamming me against the locker a couple of times while yelling at me. He stopped after I told him I was sorry and walked out of the room. As a result being slammed against the locker a couple times, and due to the fact that there were clothes and boots stuffed under the locker that made the locker unstable, it started to tip over. I tried to stop it from falling, but it was way too heavy and too tall. It fell on me and broke my right leg, more specifically my femur. It was a very bad break. The pain was unbelievable. I remember screaming, and a couple of staff came and lifted the locker off me. I spent the next two months in the hospital first having a pin inserted, then being in traction, and then in a fully body cast. It was about this time that I was notified I would have a volunteer. My first thought was what could I do to take advantage of him. His name was Bob, and he was single and educated. This was the beginning of a relationship that changed my life. Bob was one of the best things that ever happened to me.

When I was released from the hospital and went back to the Children’s Center, Bob took me out every weekend. We went to the movies, to car shows, walks in the woods, and camping at his parent’s cottage near the lake. We rode on his motorcycle all day; we’d go for rides that lasted a lifetime in my young mind. Once when I went to camp for two weeks, Bob would send me letters and care packages. He would buy me mystery books and encourage me to read them. Bob opened my eyes to so many options; to so many things. I still ride a motorcycle to this day and nothing brings me more joy then riding on the dirt roads out in the country. I have owned over ten motorcycles in all and actually had my motorcycle license before I had my car license.

Bob was my light at the end of the tunnel. No matter how rough my week was, Bob would visit and take me away from the hell. He was my angel, and he taught me so much. I don’t know why Bob did what he did. No matter what I did, he still showed up. One time I ran away and tried to break into his house, but he still came and visited me. I know the county was initially very skeptical of Bob. They thought he might be gay and that he might try to abuse me. Bob had never married, and I have never heard him talk of a girlfriend, but if he is gay, I didn’t care. He was the father I never had and always wanted. Bob stuck with me. He remains a friend to this day. I don’t know if he really understands the role and importance he played in my life. I can never repay Bob for what he did for me. I wish I could.

I was around 12 years old or so when I was placed in my third potential adoptive home. The family consisted of a son that was my age, three daughters that were older, and a boy and girl that were very young--just little kids. We were all living together. I was tolerated, but in general, the older sisters could not stand me. My adoptive brother who was my age tolerated me. He let me hang out with him but for most part I don’t think he was very fond of me. I actually got the impression that he was embarrassed by me. Initially, the placement went well, but after a while I felt to much like an outcast. My adoptive brother introduced me to smoking pot and drinking. I think I was around 12 or 13 years old at that time. It felt so good when I was high. I felt so free, so relaxed. I was originally put in normal classes but this ended quickly, and I was placed in special education classes again. I then was ridiculed because of that. Eventually, I ended up getting expelled from that school and was sent to a school that was basically for troublemakers or losers. I felt like such an outsider. When I first arrived in this new home, I had a lot of problems. I would urinate in a can in the closet at night instead of going downstairs to the bathroom. I still don’t know why I did that. I was confronted with it and started to use the bathroom at night.

I had some real great times in my new family. I had a paper route with my adoptive brother. I joined the Boy Scouts and had my first real Christmas including presents. Lots of cool presents. I remember sneaking down the stairs on that Christmas Eve and to my delight saw two matching bikes for my adopted brother and me. I couldnÕt sleep at all that night. My adoptive brother and I used to ride all around together at least until I annoyed him. One winter, I went camping with my adoptive father and the Boy Scouts. All the other kids started to throw snowballs at me, and I was trying to get into the cabin. I was yelling for my adoptive father to open the door. He opened a crack but would not let me in. I felt so rejected.

Well, just like with the other adoptive homes, I wore out my welcome. One night my adoptive parents left to go somewhere. I was feeling so bad and lonely. I just couldn’t take it anymore so I decided to run away. I broke into a strong box where they kept their money, stole the money, and then ran away. I was caught and brought back by the police. I remember them asking me where I lived, and I kept lying because I did not want to face my adoptive parents. Eventually, I told the police the truth and was brought back to my home. When the police pulled into the driveway, my social worker was waiting. The police took the cuffs off, and I was escorted into my social worker’s car. I remember being high on pot when I was told that I would be leaving. I cried so hard and so long. I begged for the social worker to please give me just one more chance! I said this over and over, but everyone had made up their minds. I would have done anything for another chance to stay with this family. My name had been changed. I believed that I belonged to this family, that this family was mine, forever. That night a part of me was lost, and it was never recovered, my dreams of belonging to a family were shattered. I felt so rejected. I trusted that they would stick with me but was so hurt that they did not.

Eventually the tears dried up but so did the emotions again. I emotionally shut down. I had to protect myself from being hurt so I decided would not trust again. At least that is what I thought at the time. I was 14 years old and was so sick of my feelings going up and down, so sick of the roller coaster. As in, I would trust and then be rejected. I hated it and swore that it would never happen to me again. I knew that I would never belong to a family again and that if I was going to survive, it was going to be on my own merit. It was all on my shoulders. I was taken away to another foster home and that ended my two-year relationship with them. I went back to using my original name.

Over the next year and a half, I lived in four more foster homes. This was the hardest time of my life to this date. There were times when I was accused of breaking into the candy machines at the local YMCA because I hung out there and was a foster kid. I was a loner and did not really get along with my peers. If I did hang out, I usually would get picked on or end up in trouble. Well one day I was around 14 and was at school when a counselor called me into his office. When I went in I noticed a boy sitting there. The counselor looked at us and asked both of us if we knew whom each other was, we both replied no. He said this is your brother. Neither of us knew what to say we were so shocked. He was 1 year older then me and we did share some of the same physical characteristics. We tried to hang out but our relationship never really developed into anything. My brother has a lot of mental health issues and my frequent moves did not aid us in developing a relationship. I have always felt that the system robbed me of a relationship with my brother and even to this day I have never been able to repair it. We remain distant. Every couple of years I hear from him. I occasionally try to visit or call him, but for most part we just exist in our own worlds.

I was moved to a foster home out in the country. The family lived on a farm and had animals. I did not really get along with the parents or the kids. I was tolerated. I was allowed to go for walks in the woods, and I spent hours there. In the woods I was free, vulnerable, and safe from others ridiculing me. I let my guard down. I took care of the farm animals and had other responsibilities around the farm. Still I was definitely outsider and was always getting picked on by all the other kids who lived in the home. There were at least six other kids, some were fostered and some were adopted. One time in particular they were all picking on me and I just lost it. I couldn't take it anymore. I picked up an ax and threatened them with it. I put it down eventually. It’s amazing how lonely a person can be in a house full of people. I was removed from that home, too. I guess I had again worn out my welcome.

At this point I was placed in a foster home with an older couple whose kids were grown. This was a return to the very first foster home I'd been placed in as I remarked about earlier in my story. This was also the last foster home I was ever placed in. Initially, the foster home appeared great. I was the only kid, it was in the country, they had money, and they bought me things. But, the joy ended there. They were too old to ever do anything exciting with me. After I was there a couple of months, I was sleeping on the couch. I awoke when I felt my foster father touch my penis. I was shocked and frozen with fear. I tried to pretend I was sleeping, but he knew I was not. He took my hand and put in on his private area. I felt so powerless. This was a bad thing. This sexual abuse lasted 6 months, and it forced me to slide into an even lower period in my life. The sexual abuse haunted me for years, and it wasn’t until recently that I have understood and accepted what happened.

For years I struggled with the fact that I did not stop the abuse, I did not run away or even tell anyone. I realized that I enjoyed the physical contact. But, don't get me wrong, I hated the abuse of power and him taking advantage of me. I enjoyed the abuse and what I perceived as love. I was a 15-year-old kid who had really never known any love or any acts of love. To suddenly have the attention of someone was nice even if it was the wrong kind of attention. I also realized that at the age of 15, when hormones are raging, any sexual contact would be biologically stimulating and would feel good. I had to admit that the stimulation felt good. I spent many years fighting that but once I admitted it and realized that it was normal to feel stimulated, I felt like a rock was lifted off my shoulders, and I was not as bothered by the sexual abuse. Of course, it took me 17 years to come to this conclusion. As I think back on the abuse, I realize that I was initially flattered but after that I did not like it. However, at the time I felt so dirty, so full of shame, and questioned my sexuality, mainly wondering if I was gay.

When you look into a child's eyes you see dreams, a kind of sparkle. When you looked into my eyes, you saw a distant stare, darkness. I was 15 years old and had been sexually, emotionally, and physically abused. I had lived in numerous foster homes and had already experienced three failed adoptions. I was a sad, lonely kid who was devoid of emotions. I had experienced so much loss and so many shattered dreams I often wondered what I did to deserve this.

It was the year that President Reagan was shot, and I had a great social worker named Mike. I never told Mike about the sexual abuse. I just wanted to forget about it. Mike did something that no one had ever done before. He asked me what I wanted to do. Did I want to stay with this family until I turned 18 or did I want to go live in a group home? I knew that there was no way I would last in this foster home. Something had to give, or I would end up dead. It was my choice to return to the group home setting. I needed to get away from these people. Mike had finally given me the control that I so desperately needed. Before I left the foster home, I remember breaking into the neighbor’s home and stealing some change. They were away on vacation. I was certainly not a good kid. I made some real bad choices and poor decisions, but the decision to live in the group home was one of the best I had ever made.

The group home was in the country. It had a pool, a German Shepherd dog as a pet, and was coed. The coed part wasn’t really as good as it sounds since I had been sexually abused and some of the girls in the group home had also. It really was not a good combination to have in a group home. I will put it this way. I lost my virginity while living in that group home, and I know that some of the girls did also. In other words, I had sex with the girls at that group home on a regular basis. I know it was more than most 15 years old kids. I would have to say that I engaged in sex in one form or another with the girls at least monthly during my stay at the group home. I am not saying this to brag but to show how messed up I was at the time. I know some guys would think this was Heaven, and sometimes it felt like Heaven, but for the most part, to me it was not about sex but about proving to myself that I was not gay. I had sex with the girls to use them as objects. Each time I had sex I could say that I was not gay, not that I cared about the girls. It really was a bad situation. They were so confused and really didn’t care about their bodies or, like me, were filled with hormones. I really do not know why none of the girls ever became pregnant. I’m not trying to imply that the group home was one big orgy, but I am saying sex occurred way too often, sometimes with the staff right around the corner or right down the stairs. This one time I was in the basement with a girl, and we were doing some heavy petting. I wanted her to have intercourse with me. She began to cry and said her father abused her. She said she didn’t want to. I did not know what to say. I told her I was sorry for trying to have sex with her and for what her dad did to her. Later in the week, I was playing darts and the social worker told me that she wanted to talk with me. I went into her office and she told me that the girl had reported that we had been kissing. She also reminded me that sexual contact between residents was against the rules. I became enraged and kicked the radio. I was mad, but I was also sort of glad that the girl hadn’t told the social worker how far we had actually gone and what all had happened. But I was also confused. I wished that the social worker had explored the allegation more in depth both for my sake and for the girl’s. As far as I know, no one ever found out about the sexual escapades occurring in the group home. I wish they had. Then they would have talked to me about my sexual abuse. I guess we all hid it well. The social worker at the group home never really tried to explore my past, my pain, or my grief in not having a family. I know I pushed her away but I think she gave up to easily. I also think she was focusing on my immediate behaviors most of the time and just helping me survive from day to day. When I turned 16, she actually used to take me out driving. She helped me get my permit and helped me develop my driving skills. I was not the best kid. I was very violent and aggressive at times. I did not care about people or their feelings most of the time. When I first arrived at the group home, I always thought about how they could meet my needs or help me in some way or another. For the most part, the group home staff were caring.

At least, the group home was the structured, consistent setting that I needed to grow and flourish. It was the healthiest place I had ever lived, I think. I always knew what to expect no matter what I did, good or bad. I had some real great times in the group home. I started to become emotionally close with the staff and started to trust them, a little. We had a Recreation Therapist named Dan, who used to come all the time and do activities with us. I remember he used to keep all of the equipment in the back of his pick up truck or the trunk of his car. Dan played a very important role in my adolescence, and he taught me how to respect others, or at least tried to. Dan taught me how to play darts, and I became pretty good at it. We used to play for hours. I think we played hundreds of games during my stay at the group home.

Dan did something that would change my life. A very simple thing that he probably never could have predicted. One day, we were hanging around outside in the yard and Dan bet me a dollar I could not run a mile. I told him he was crazy and that I would do it. Well, I ran that mile and almost died. Dan then convinced me that I should quit smoking and join the cross-country team at school. I did join the team and became very good at running. I became the best runner on the team and the most valuable player. I used to occasionally win a race. I remember one time Dan brought the other kids to one of my races and I came in first place, I felt so proud. It felt so good! Dan opened the world of running to me, and if it weren’t for him making that one challenge, I really do not believe I would have coped with life as well, felt as good about myself , or have been as successful in school or later in the Marine Corps.

Running became so important to me. It gave me purpose and direction. I used to run all of the time; it was my haven. The biggest benefit from running and being good was that my peers at school changed their view of me. I was no longer the Special Ed kid, or the retard, or even a group home kid. I was the kid that could run. I was the MVP. One time, there was a sports rally at the school and the team captains were being called up on the stage to be recognized. Unfortunately, that day I was at a job-training program and missed out. The next day when I heard about the kids at school chanting my name, I was so disappointed that I had not been there. I wished I had heard the kids chanting my name.

While at the group home Mike was still my county worker; he was my social worker at DSS. Mike did another thing that would prove to aid me in my quest to be a "normal" kid. I was in Special Education and wanted to be in normal high school classes. During a treatment team conference with the county, the group home staff, and school, I begged to be given a chance to be in normal classes like other high school kids. Most people at the meeting did not feel it was a good idea, but Mike supported what I wanted to do. Mike gave me control, and in foster care, a kid with control is a real rare sight.

Mike did what so many social workers, counselors, and foster parents often forget to do. He asked me what I wanted. Mike gave me some control and choice while in foster care and as ward of the State of New York. I know that 99% of the time others had the control. They often told me what to do, how to act, and made goals and objectives for me. I owe Mike so much; he is one of the reasons I became a social worker. Mike allowed me to escape an environment of sexual abuse, and he empowered me to be in mainstreamed classes. I would not be the college graduate with a 3.65 average if it were not, in part, for Mike. I was mainstreamed into normal classes and survived. I did not excel, but I did pass my courses. I proved so many people wrong and proved to Mike that I would not let him down. I also had a Special Education teacher named Karen that put up with all my crap and believed in me. Karen did everything in her power to support me and provide me with the tools necessary to be successful in normal classes. When I was mainstreamed, I used to go to her room for a resource room. She did a lot for me also.

I remember summers at the group home the best. I loved the summers at the group home. I worked a job at the county park for 2 summers. It was one of the best jobs I have ever had. Sometimes I would get up early in the morning and go for a swim in the pool, shower, and then jog to work at the park. The staff would then pick me up at the end of the day. I felt so much like a normal kid. I was in Heaven. I was getting paid to work in the woods and the park, and it was cool. I loved the group home at that time.

The staff developed some trust in me but, of course, at every corner I would sabotage it. I stole at school and lied. I could lie better then most people could tell the truth. I was so impulsive and very angry at times. I was a very aggressive kid at times and raged with anger over the simplest things. Once I was in my room laying in bed, and the staff came up to tell me I had to get my laundry out of the dryer before I went to bed. I became so angry. I started to swear at the staff. I went downstairs to the basement with him to get it and realized it was still in the washer. He said I would have to stay up until it was dry because that was the rule of the group home, that all laundry had to be done before going to bed. I became so angry and enraged that I picked up a fire extinguisher and threw it through a wall. That was the kind of behavior the staff had to deal with. Most of the time I really did not care if I hurt others. I cared about one thing and one thing only, myself. I will say though that while at the group home I don’t ever remember running away.

By now, I turned 17 and my life took a sharp turn for the worst. At least that’s the way I felt. I was relaxing one day with one of my favorite staff, his name was John, who liked the outdoors and we both loved motorcycles. Either way, John asked to talk with me, in private. I knew something was up. I wanted to shut down, but I did not. He told me that the staff at the group home and the county felt that I needed to be moved to the other group home in the city. He said it was a good thing. I had grown so much and it was time for me to move with other kids that were 18 and getting ready to live on their own. I was devastated and shocked. I started to cry and begged for him to let me stay. It hurt so badly. I can say that I don’t believe that I have ever cried like that again. I felt so betrayed. How could they do this? I was starting to trust them, starting to bond with them. I became numb and stopped feeling for a long time. But, I was moved again and decided at that point that I would just look out for myself. I would not trust people. I was so sick of trusting and being hurt. I hated the elevator feelings, the ups and downs. I felt that if I did not get close to these people or others, I could control the feelings of being let down which hurt so much.

I was 17 and living in the city. My behavior and attitude deteriorated fast. I started to smoke pot, something I had not done for years. I was arrested on occasions for stealing or shop lifting, and had to do community service. I just did not care. While in the city, I focused my energies on just surviving. I no longer really enjoyed the interactions between the staff and other clients. I did find places to be myself. I used to walk to the parks and the canal just to relax, to be free again and escape reality. The group home and my old school did let me finish out my junior year at my old school. A teacher who lived in the city transported me. Nothing was the same; my life had changed.

I turned 18 years old and shortly thereafter had a meeting with the group home staff and the county. During the meeting, people described what my past couple months were like, and what I had to do to be a success. I knew what I had to do. I stood up and told them that I was leaving foster care and the group home. I think they were shocked but somehow expected it. I walked out of the group home never to return as a resident. The next day I left care. I ended up working most of the summer at a Boy Scout camp in the Adirondacks, that is until I was fired for stealing. However, I had a great time at the camp. I got along well with the Boy Scouts and the staff for the most part.

After leaving the camp, I moved in with an old counselor and his girlfriend. It was a great thing at the start. Bernie and Sharon let me live with them. It didn’t work out in the long run because I just didnÕt listen. I was intent on running my own life. I left Bernie and Sharon’s. Over the next year or so, I lived with friends until I graduated from high school. I finished my senior year by the skin of my teeth. But, I did it, I graduated high school! I then joined the Marines but was not scheduled to go in until December of 1985 which was 5 months away. So I continued to live at various friends’ houses. The summer of 1985 was one of the best ever. I met a kid named Chris. Chris had a car, and I had a motorcycle. We hit it off immediately. We became close friends and I actually became a member of his family. Chris and I worked at a restaurant busing tables at night a couple times a week. When we were not doing that we were driving my motorcycle around the state, for days on end and for thousands of miles.

I was finally out from under the control of others. At least, that is what I thought. Until I went into the Marine Corps. in December of 1985.

To be Continued shortly....