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H e r e B e D r a g o n s
What I write here will make little difference to the world at large. It was never meant to do anything but allow me to unload some of my thoughts and feelings as a survivor of abuse. I'm one of the unusual victims, I'm male abused by a female, later abused by a male. I was an only child, now I'm the middle child in an adoptive home. My brothers and I are all survivors.
Where It All Began
I was born in Omaha, Nebraska and lived nearby until I was almost 10. The first years were unremarkable, just like any other infant growing up. I was an only child, a not too pleasant surprise to my unwed mother. I suppose we were on public assistance of some kind since I do not remember my mother ever being out of the house working. My father is unknown to me, probably one of many 'one night stands' whom my mother neither cares, nor tries to remember.
We lived in a second class neighborhood where the rule of the day was 'hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil". The majority of the residents in the area were not members of the social register and most likely preferred it that way. There were other kids in the neighborhood to play with, a few playground toys at the park, and plenty of places for a little boy to get dirty. It would not be at all uncommon to see welts, bruises, black eyes, torn lips, even broken bones among the children I played with regularly. On a daily basis you would see children hit, kicked, thrown to the ground, yelled at, cussed, but rarely hugged or comforted. There were always plausable explainations for the various 'indicators' which showed up on our small bodies - we were children, prone to hurting ourselves in various assorted ways.
In most respects I was a typical child in the neighborhood. There were a couple of differences, one quite visable the other completely invisible. Resulting from an abusive encounter with my mother when I was six, I am partially deaf. She slammed my head into a doorframe which caused swelling to occur in my middle ear. The swelling kept my ear from draining properly which caused an infection, subsequently fusing the bones so that I am completely deaf on the right side. The other difference was quite visible in that I continued to wet my pants long after other children are successfully potty trained. Normally I would have three to five accidents a day which my mother usually handled with a beating since I was obviously wetting on purpose. I still have accidents, although now we understand why.
Night wetting has always been a problem for me, something which occurs on a nightly basis. In my earlier years, wetting at night was just another indicator I was defective, useless, stupid and went out of my way to make my mother's life more difficult. Prior to Kindergarten I was simply kept in diapers at night, the simplest solution to keeping the bed at least mostly dry. After I started school, I was intermittantly in and out of night diapers, depending on my mother's mood at the time. Regardless, I was 'disciplined' every morning for having the audacity to wet over night. There were other children in the neighborhood who wet at night, it wasn't unique to me.
Day wetting really didn't become a major issue until I started school. Prior to that time I was in and out of diapers again depending on my mother's mood that day. When I wasn't in diapers, my mother kept me in 'baby' training pants rather than 'big boy' briefs. I was still wearing training pants at age 8, when the state took me away from my mother. There was never any pattern to my wetting accidents, some days worse than others. School presented a problem since I could not be in the classroom having wet my pants. It was a health hazard for the other students, not to mention being a hassle for the teacher to get me down to the office; where they could once again, call my mother. Occasionally their calls resulted in me being taken home, punished for wetting my pants, changed and sent outdoors to play. Some occasions resulted in no more than my mother bringing me dry pants. On several occasions, even into the third grade, I was sent back to class in dry jeans and a Pamper. After school, I would have one to three accidents before supper rolled around and usually one or two more before bedtime.
Discipline, for wetting my pants, took varied forms, most of which were abusive. I could count on getting beaten at least once, usually twice a day, with whatever came to hand when my mother discovered I was wet. I've been beaten with belts, fly swatters, hair brushes, sticks, extension cords, wooden hangers, wire hangers, open hand, closed fist, kicked, and I'm sure others which I've just blocked from memory. On numerous occasions, I was diapered then paraded outdoors in an attempt to humiliate me into staying dry. Some days I was allowed to change pants after each accident, others I was left in the same pants for hours at a time. 'Peepants' were always displayed somewhere, either in the house or on the closeline, for the world to see I was as yet not successfully potty trained. On many occasions I was sexually molested, eventually being taken by the state.Foster Care
One of the most frightening things that could ever happen to a child is being taken away from his/her home and placed in foster care. In my case, I was in a series of foster homes over the course of two years. While it may have been in my "best interest", it certainly wasn't conducive to me learning to stay dry, or trust adults any further than I could see them.
I was considered to be a 'special needs' child, ergo foster placement was at best temporary, usually resulting in me being moved suddenly from one place to the other. What few belongings I had were easy to transport in a single paper grocery sack and a large plastic trash bag which contained my urine soaked clothing. In all but two of my placements, I was the only wetter, thus usually teased or humiliated for a condition I had no control over. I learned to be very good at hiding an accident, staying out of sight until my pants dried or slipping into my room where I would usually stuff my wet pants under my mattress thinking they were well hidden. Night wetting was always a problem since I was never afforded any protection other than a plastic cover on the mattress.
Through my entire foster experience, my social worker rarely paid attention to me. I would see her about once a month or when I changed placements. Spending time with my social worker usually left me with more questions than answers. I was routinely left uninformed about my case status, what the court was up to regarding my mother, or any indication of how long I might remain in my current placement. On some occasions my social worker simply lied about what was happening, left me with the impression everything was going according to plan, which was not the situation at all.
The State took legal action against my mother, required me to testify without warning. The first I heard about testifying was the day prior. My social worker came to the house, an unusual event in itself, informed my foster parents I was to be in court at nine o'clock the next morning. Her visit was actually two-fold, to inform me of the trial and to deliver a package of Pullups for me to use the next day. Knowing I was subject to frequent wetting accidents, my social worker determined it was best for all concerned for me to wear Pullups. I was nearly nine at the time, still wetting three to five times a day and at night.
Appearing in court to testify against your parent is a soul shattering experience. Having people you don't know ask questions about your home life, want intimate details of sexual abuse, living arrangements, and detailed descriptions of physical abuse is terrifying. At the time of the trial I had not seen my mother for nearly three months. One dodge after another had been used to keep us from communicating with each other. I was on the stand testifying all morning, trying to get some clue from my mother what my answers should be. The lawyer saw what I was doing and intentionally stood where he could block me seeing my mother. After a recess for lunch, I was back on the stand. My mother's attorney got his crack at me, asking a lot of the same questions I had already answered. There was a difference in the afternoon session - they tried to make it seem like everything was my fault. At the end of the day, the Judge said I could leave. As I walked past my mother she called me a "lying little bastard". I would not see her again for nearly a month at her sentencing.
Two days after the trial my social worker showed up to take me to yet another placement. It happened my 'new' foster home was outside Omaha which would further isolate me from anything familiar in my world. I was taken to a group home operated under the auspices of the Roman Catholic Church. Placed in one of the 'dormatory rooms', it was only a few hours before everyone knew I was a wetter. The proctor made it clear I was not to wet my pants, which did nothing to foster my self esteeme or keep me any drier. Night wetting was considered unnecessary since there were ample toilets available.
I am the kind of child who needs to be touched, needs to be hugged and told it is all right. It was only a few days before I was called downstairs to the rector's office and informed I was one of his special boys. I did not realize being one of his 'special boys' meant having sexual contact. Even though I reported his conduct to authorities at the group home, nothing was ever done to stop it. Some three months later, my social worker placed me in another foster home - I had become 'undesireable' at the group home.
During the process of changing residences, my social worker informed me I was becomming a 'problem' child in addition to having 'special needs'. In her words, "(she) didn't know what she was going to do if this placement failed".Life With Mikey
Never let it be said I was an easy child to deal with. I knew a lot more than people gave me credit for. Nobody had taken the time to find out why I hated school, assuming it was simply a matter of being teased over my wetting accidents. In reality I was bored out of my mind. Unknown to my mother, or any of my teachers, I was, an am, gifted. Achedemic material it took other children days or weeks to grasp, was mine in a matter of seconds or minutes. At nine I was reading high school text books, often reading an entire book at one sitting. My motor skills were those of a typical nine year old, leading people to believe my interest in books was just 'looking at the pictures'. Largely because I was bored in school, I found ways to entertain myself which often landed me in trouble with the teacher.
One particular incident occurred in forth grade when long division was introduced. The teacher had gone to great lengths describing whole numbers and fractions. I was not the child to ask when it came to open ended questions. Having explained and written on the chalkboard, whole numbers, odd and even numbers, the teacher asked the class which of the numbers would be divisible by 2. She was taken aback when I told her, "all of them", generating a round of snickers from my classmates. My classmates thought I had given her the wrong answer without realizing she had left the door open. Had she qualified her question by saying 'evenly divisible', my answer would have indeed been wrong; however simply asking which numbers could be divided by 2 left the entire world of fractions open, in which case all numbers are divisible by any other number. She at first told me I was incorrect, called on another student for the answer to her question. Before the other student could answer, I stood up and told her she was wrong and started to explain. Teachers are not fond of students telling them they are wrong, especially when its proven in front of the class. To have the class 'dummy' thwart her carefully calculated lesson plan was more than she could handle that morning. She reacted by sending me to the office, having them inform my foster parents I was being unruly in class and please remove me from school for the remainder of the day.
My foster mother was not happy about having to pick me up and made it clear to me it wasn't going to become a common practice. Her life was already difficult enough having to provide dry clothing for me on a daily basis. I had a backpack containing two changes of clothing due to my repeated wetting accidents. On any given day I would arrive home in wet pants, carrying my other wet pants in my backpack. Normally, Michael (15) would take over, monitor my changing into dry pants, then send me to the playroom.
Particular note should have been taken I shied away from Michael whenever possible. Given an option I kept plenty of space between him and me, not giving him the opportunity to fondle me or make sexual advances. I suppose it never dawned on my foster parents there was no need for Michael to check my pants, if I was wet, it would be quite obvious.
Michael's method of checking my pants was to put his hand inside my jeans or shorts then fondle me through my underwear. On some occasions he put his hand inside my underwear to fondle me directly. We shared a bedroom which left me open prey to his sexual advances, in addition to witnessing his personal sex play. I was often invited to join him, usually under duress. His fondling would elicit a physical response which he told me was evicence I wanted it, even liked it. Having no other guage to go by I assumed this was the way all teen age boys dealt with 'little brothers'. I had experienced involuntary sex previously; not only at the hands of my mother, but also another adult in a previous placement.
My social worker refused to hear complaints about Michael, I was after all a 'special needs' child, not particularly welcome in other foster placements. I was well aware I could not take my concerns to other adults simply because they refused to take me seriously. Anything I had previously placed in the hands of adults had come back to haunt me, usually to my greater peril. If the 'system' couldn't or wouldn't defend me, I'd take matters into my own hands. I was scared of Michael, he outweighed me by nearly a hundred pounds so it was easy for him to overpower me physically. I secretly obtained a switchblade knife, fully intending to use it. The opportunity presented itself later that evening, Michael caught me in our bedroom changing wet pants.
It was normal for Michael to run around the house in just a pair of running shorts without a shirt, especially in the evenings after supper. It had been one of 'those' days, several accidents which required changes. I had been in the playroom, soaked myself and gone to change pants without telling anyone what had happened. I had hidden the switchblade under my pillow, easily within reach should I need to use it. Michael saw I was changing pants, made a move to grab me. I twisted away, snatched the knife and swung thinking he was further away than he actually was. The knife connected with soft tissue, opening a gash in his side and across his abdomen. His scream alerted my foster parents who immediately called 911.
While Michael was taken to the hospital, I was taken to the police station. I was alone, scared, all to easy a mark for the policeman who questioned me about the incident. I told the truth although no one chose to believe me. I was held overnight, questioned several times before my social worker showed up. She asked me what had happened, listened to my explaination then promptly told me I was a liar. My version of the story didn't match what Michael had told the investigators at the hospital. According to him, I had without provocation, suddenly rushed him with the knife while he was bringing me dry clothing to change into. Details aside, I was taken before a Juvenile Judge who determined I was a CINS (child in need of services) resulting in my immediate transfer to a juvenile detention facility.
Over the next week I was interviewed by several adults, one of which seemed to actually listen to what I was saying. I had been found guilty of assault with a deadly weapon, attempted manslaughter, and possession of a deadly weapon. Even though the court had determined I was a CINS, I was still below the age of incarceration, which resulted in me being transferred out of state, in the custody of a probation officer. It was truly a blessing in disguise.Home At Last
After a whirlwind of activity going through court; a psychologist, my social worker and the judge agreed my best interest would be served in transferring me to another jurisdiction. Arrangements were made for me to be placed in my current living situation. I was transferred from Nebraska to Ohio at my new foster father's request. Why he took such an interest in me is unknown, just one of those things that seemed right and proper at the time. How much of my backgroud he actually knew or understood I don't have a clue. What I do know is that I was transferred with only the clothes I was wearing, my other possessions have never been forwarded.
Unlike the other foster homes I had been placed in, my new foster father took a genuine interest in my well being. I hadn't been here a week before I was taken to a doctor in an attmept to find out why I was still wetting. Nocturnal enuresis is not uncommon among children, especially boys, until well into the teen age years. What was highly unusual, my daytime accidents appeared to have no regular pattern, nothing to indicate I was putting things off or wetting on purpose as previously believed.
Initally the doctor determined it was 'just a phase I would outgrow', which seemed to indicate there were no physical causes. In the course of his examinations it was noted I was highly allergic to Tylenol. With that bit of evidence, I was taken to an allergist, who finally put my wetting problems into perspective. A whole series of tests were conducted, determining I was having acute allergic reactions to certain ingredients normally found in processed foods. Unlike most people whose allergic reaction tends toward hives or other difficulties, my reaction is loss of bladder control, as if my bladder were 'sneezing'. Armed with that evidence, my foster father initiated a system of management rather than attempting to teach me something my body simply could not support. After relaying the doctor's findings to me, my foster father suggested using protective underwear which would eliminate at least the embarrassment of publically wetting myself.
After exploring available options I was initially returned to using pullup style disposable pants. While they were generally efficient handling my wetting during the day, they were certainly not cost efficient by any means. We had a package at home as well as providing a package at school where I could change pants as necessary. It soon became obvious disposable underpants were not conducive to the budget requiring an additional expediture of nearly $30.00 a week. My night wetting was simply more than the pullup style garments could handle, often requiring three pair a night, in addition to those I was using during the day. The only option was to return to cloth which could be re-used. It was necessary for me to continue using disposable undergarments at school, but at home we simply returned to using cloth diapers with plastic pants.
I had been here as a foster child nearly a year when my foster father approached me with the idea of permanent placement. My mother's parental rights had been terminated making me a permanent ward of the state. We talked about him adopting me, which I was totally in favor of. I had been victimized by the system enough to realize this would probably be my one and only opportunity for some semblence of a normal childhood. Given I was nearly eleven, enuretic, partially deaf, and a CINS on parole, the court was more than happy to grant our request. Three years had gone by since I had been involuntrily removed from my mother's care. Three years of constantly waiting to be suddenly uprooted, having to start all over again.Where Am I Today
You could say my life has taken a curious route, but I've survived all the difficulties thrown in my path. While I still have a lot of probelms, I live in a highly supportive home where there is more than enough love and understanding to go round. My older brother has since moved away, gotten married and has a family of his own. We have remained a foster family, sheltering children, adopting my little brother and becoming a special family. Finally recognizing I was gifted, I've been in advanced education which I am continuing now as a full time student at OSU. I've only recently turned 16.
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