And Then Life Makes a Full Circle

I often refer to the teenage version of myself as a hooligan. I was certainly not the worst of the worst, but I caused a great deal of heartbreak and havoc. Due to a combination of chemical imbalances and childhood traumas mixed with teenage hormones and an inability to express the hurt and anger that I had carried for years, I was a one-girl team of destruction.

This is not a blog about casting blame on anyone, so don’t jump to the conclusion that I may reveal some big answer about why I was so out-of-control. I can’t, and if I could, what purpose would it serve? The most simple and most accountable answer that I can give is that I had pain, and for many years I handled hurt through displays of anger and aggression.

It was the 1990s and I was diagnosed with a myriad of disorders, some of which are no longer recognized in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). There was no place for me and my behavior was becoming increasingly dangerous to myself and others, so I was placed in a variety of residential group homes.

Change in Philosophy

 

I believe in the power of education and the cliché that knowledge is power. A strong education and a good work ethic can help anyone change their situation. When you are a teen, you have a choice to start building the life that you want to have regardless of the life that you were given at birth. Literature was my path, my salvation, my escape, and eventually, my career.

During my fourth year of teaching, I met R. I have had many students who were wards of the state, so when I found out that she was in a group home, I gave her the same speech that I give all the kids in that situation. It is essential, “I have survived the group home circuit. You can make something positive of your life if you chose to do so. I will have high expectations for you during your time here, because that is my teaching style, but if you need additional resources, please let me know.” Other than that and providing occasional supplies, I had not gotten involved in their cases.  

R and I looked similar, had similar literacy (high) and math (low) scores, and a similar sense of humor. I gave her my speech and was going to leave it at that, but she wrote me a letter detailing her life experience so far. She had no one. I wrote back a list of survival rules/pep talk quotes. It was pretty cheesy stuff like, “Sometimes you will feel like you can’t go any further, but you must always put one foot in front of the other and eventually, you will look back and the struggles will be behind you.” I really thought that I was sharing seriously sage advice at the time.

R’s story was so outrageous that I started to suspect that she was manipulating me for some reason. I called her case worker and discovered that the most disturbing things that this young lady had written were true and that she was, indeed, in need of someone to care about her well-being. I decided to be her mentor.

I believe that God put that child in my life. I wanted to stop her road of destruction and hurt. I wanted to help her realize that she was just as valuable as every other person breathing air and that she had every reason to love herself. Maybe I was trying to save myself or right the wrongs of my personal history through sharing my experience as a teen with someone else. I don’t know, but as time goes on, it is reaffirmed that R was put in my life for a purpose. I hope that I am serving a purpose in her life, but that is not my story to tell.

I failed miserably at being a mentor. I could not simply give her advice that she would follow; I could not fathom why she would not accept what I said and just do what I suggested. For a long time, I was temporary to her.  Naturally, being failed by everyone else in her life, she looked at me as another person who was going to let her down and make her feel inadequate. I understood it, but I couldn't stop it.

Eventually, she left my town for another placement. 

I maintained contact with her caseworker and would hear from R every few months. For awhile, she stabilized and was thriving in a new foster home. Still, like most teenagers and like all children who have suffered in life, she started to push boundaries, made some mistakes, and had to leave the foster home for a group home.

This particular group home was the last one that I was in as a teen. It was 1996 and I was 17. I did not give a single damn about working any aspect of the therapy and was simply buying my time. After six months, the program informed my parents that I was not going to be successful in the program. I left there and didn’t really look back too often.

I wasn’t successful there at all, but I did learn a lot about myself and there were words that rang in my ears years later from three very dedicated and hardworking professionals there (H, A, and E). The first time that I drove to this facility to pick up R for a visit, I became very saddened and angered. I have cried every time that I have dropped her off at the facility. I have cried for her and her lack of options right now and I have cried for my younger self.

I am not nearly as glamorous as Brittney when I cry and drive

I finally understood tonight.

R has become a part of our family over the course of our journey. She has made some mistakes along the way, but we have watched her struggle, grow, and change. We see the good in her and believe that she can succeed. She still cannot see that in herself, aside from moments of sheer defiance to prove all the people who didn’t believe in her ability. Because she has been systematically failed her whole life, it is hard for her to trust that people will be there for her no matter what. Sometimes, she pushes people away as a method of self-preservation. You know, the whole, “I will hurt you before you hurt me” bit.

Tonight was one of those nights. She felt inadequate and frustrated. She was tired of living in a group home instead of a real home. She wanted normal teenage freedom and felt like all of her work has been fruitless.

Again, I understood all of her points.

She started to tell me that she didn’t want to go on passes anymore because she didn’t want to let me down and she didn’t want her counselor to say that she was co-dependent on anyone. She eventually calmed down as I listened and I explained that it wasn’t necessary for her to push because after all this time, I was not going to bail.

And then I said, “If you think I’m giving up on you, you’re crazy.”

There it was. 

My dark shadow of unresolved lingerings that will never be answered and healed.

During my stay at this same group home almost twenty years ago, my biological father sent me a letter. I had not heard much from him during my time in group homes. In fact, the last time that I had seen him, I had severed our relationship in an attempt to gain a solution that I thought would fix all of my hurt.

My parents had me when they were very young and they divorced before my first memory. My father was immature and emotionally distant, but there were things that I look back on in life that tell me that he loved me. There are songs, places, and memories of things like dancing on his feet that bring tears to my eyes. In fact, the best summer of my life was spent with him in Savannah, GA. He was a park ranger at Fort Pulaski, and on his days off we would go to Tybee Island and play at the beach.

Things change.

My mother, step-father (whom I typically refer to as Daddy), and I moved 8 hours away. I began to convert from a tomboy to a girlie-girl and this was completely alien to my dirt-digging  (archaeologist) father. His way of handling all things uncomfortable was to shut-down, cut-down, or make a joke. We were losing the frayed strings that held us together. He also married my step-mother, who hates me to this day (to her credit, I was such a terror to her from 12-15 years old during a total of three visitations that she has never been able to recovered).

This picture is for satire only. My step-mother is a blonde. 

On a side note, his daughter is more than a sister. She is one of my best friends. We developed a secret relationship over six years ago because she was warned by her mother about me. I never turned my sister into a devil-worshipper nor did I try to sacrifice her to the underlords. Plus, she is an adult now so we don’t have to hide the fact that we have talked three to five times a week since she was 15.

Nature wins over Nurture 

My father and I speak once or twice a year. When he does call, he says, “Jaimie, this is your father.” His formality is so reminiscent of Darth Vader that it is funny, but otherwise, it hurts. When I was a struggling teen, I didn’t want to leave my mother, but a part of me wanted my father to save me. He probably couldn’t have because many people tried and no one could stop me from destroying myself except for me. I spent many years in the confinements of whatever facility that I was in thinking that he was going to come “rescue” me.

I understand why he didn’t. I was uncontrollable and he had small children at the time to protect; my mom was in that same boat. Having a small child of my own made me understand how precious those early years are and how vital it is to protect them from hurt, abuse, and confusion. This was something that I didn’t understand until I became a parent myself.

He wrote me once. The letter came during my stay at R’s current placement. I remember two things: he told me that as I get older, more doors closed and he told me to listen to “Just Wait” by Blues Travelers.

Without a second thought, I quoted a line from that song to R tonight.

I have rarely listened to it over the years because I argued with it (or rather argued with my father’s intent on sending it). At the time, the lyrics offended and hurt me. “If you think I’ve given up on you, you’re crazy. If you think I don’t love you, then you’re just wrong, “ is sung softly in the song. I would hear those lines and think, “Really? Why didn’t you come get me? You haven’t loved me in years.” And so the negative thoughts would roll.

I have softened quite a bit towards my father since the passing of my grandmother, our only real connection during my adult life. Yet, we don’t have a relationship. I forgave him years ago for not “saving” me or making me feel loved enough to counteract the burdens that I had carried.

But, tonight, I understood him differently than before. It is one of the hardest things to watch someone you love start to self-destruct and not be able to do anything to save them other than say, “eventually you will stop hurting yourself.”

There are no real answers in life and one thing that my father has always said is, “Your mother and I did the best we could with what we had at the time.” I am doing just that with R – trying the best I can with what I have.

So, I sit here with an ache in my heart for the hurt and helplessness that parents (my father, my mom, and my daddy) felt. I ache in my heart with a new-found empathy that I have for their situation so many years ago. Not being able to help someone that you so desperately want to reach is devastating. 

But most of all, I ache in my heart for R because she has yet to understand all the beautiful things that can come from an ugly life.

So, like my father, all I can think to do at this point is to write and tell her to, “Just Wait.”

Until next time,

LIVE LOUDLY!!!