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Multiple Transitions, page 2

And so, now, I won't let you imagine even for a minute that I like you. That I need you, desperately. That I might ever grow to trust you. I am not, after all, a complete moron.

Are you ready to have me not believe you?

Are you ready for me to fight you for control?

Are you ready to hold me, and then hold me some more (when all the time I act like I don't want you to at all?)

Are you ready to really stay with me, through a battle that might last almost my whole growing up? Are you willing to feel as powerless as I do?

What will you think when I say I don't care a bit whether you go on vacation and leave me with Aunt Harriet, who I hardly know at all? Then, when you come back, are you ready to deal with me taking a dump in front of your bedroom door every single day for three whole weeks?

You see, it is like this, Big People: I'm not stupid. I was not blind. I do pay attention, because it matters lots to me.

And so when my first parents knocked me around or acted like I was invisible, or gave me to someone else to raise, or stood there screaming while you took me away from them, I noticed.

And when no one came to take their place, I noticed that too.

And when the orphanage didn't last, and the first half-dozen foster families didn't last, something started happening to me.

A little bit of my spirit started to die.

For some reason, then, I started pulling out my eyebrows. (I'm not sure what that has to do with my spirit dying.) I agree that it doesn't make much sense for me to join in with all the other people that have hurt me, by hurting myself. But I do it anyway.

So I bite on my hand, or dig at my face, or make a real bad sore on the top of my head from scratching myself.

I pull out clumps of my hair, and so the kids at preschool laugh, and Big People have an odd look on their faces when they see me.

I masturbate a lot to comfort myself. (I even let a dog lick me down there.) They say that sometimes I try to touch other kids down there.

Sometimes I run into the arms of strangers, like I have known them forever, and like I don't actually care anymore who I am safe with or not.

(Am I safe with anybody? Does it matter any more?)

Did I mention how much I am growing to hate smallness, and weakness and defenselessness? It's getting so the only thing I know how to do is to just be as tough as I can, and to try to rub out smallness and weakness wherever I see them:

In the kittens that get hung by the clothesline in the backyard and squished with a tennis racquet.

In the babies in my recent foster homes who turned up scratched.

In my own Self, which I attack, particularly when I am feeling small or scared, and I need to beat myself into more toughness.

And as little parts of my spirit keep dying, will it surprise you that I'm not exactly going to be overjoyed when you finally say you have permanent parents for me? Do you honestly think I am going to say, "Oh, I get it. You were just kidding all those other times, but this time you really mean it"?

And, so, do you want to hear something funny? Just about the time I am ready to get what everybody thought I needed (parents who are actually never going to leave me) I'm going to get just a tad weird. I'm going to start banging my head more than I did before. I might start acting like a baby again and, even if I had gotten a little bit comfortable with my latest "parents" I'm going to go back to stiffening my body, and screaming at night, and doing everything I can to tell you that I don't want you to love me.

I can't stand all this talk about "permanence" and "adoption".

I will make you sorry you ever thought about trying to get close to me. I will make you feel almost as helpless and small as I have usually felt.

So are you wondering what I need? Are you wondering what I would do about all of this if I had the power?

Next page > Page 1, 2, 3

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The video "Multiple Transitions: A Young Child's Point of View on Foster Care and Adoption" is available from The Infant-Parent Institute.

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© Michael Trout

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