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I had a lot of problems, not the least of which, being moved from my prior placement under less than ideal conditions. Lets say at this point I had become more than just a handful for someone to deal with. Not many children under the age of ten are aware of their sexuality, mine had been awakened and I have known from an early age, I most definitely prefer boys as a sexual partner.
Finding a foster home for a child who literally can not be toilet trained isn't an easy task under the best of conditions. My social worker went through an extensive list of potential homes before she found a home not only willing to accept my enuresis, but one that had immediate space available for another child. Under normal circumstances my sexuality would not have been an issue, wouldn't have even been suspected. Coupled with my enuresis, it soon lead to forced sex, and eventually being raped by their teenage son.
From the beginning I shared a room with Michael, whom everyone called Mikey. He was 15, not unusual as teenage boys go, at least not when anybody could see. I had been there less than a week when I awoke to the sounds of Mikey 'doing himself', totally involved thinking I would sleep through it all. I lay there listening to him, watching his sheets in the dim light provided by the night light he kept on all night. I found out later he was afraid of the dark, had never overcome the idea there was nothing in the dark that wasn't there in the light.
I was really impressed with the house when we first pulled up in front of it. All my life I had lived in apartments, group homes, or older houses - this was a huge brick ranch built into the side of a hill so you could walk out of the basement on ground level. You could see a long ways from the deck on the back. The adults lived upstairs, leaving Mikey the whole basement as his 'digs'. For the most part, kids weren't allowed upstairs unless it was meal time or some special occasion. That was pretty much ok with me, the whole upstairs was carpeted and it was almost pure white. I wasn't allowed on the furniture upstairs, but neither was Mikey so that was cool too.
My foster parents were always busy doing something so the vast majority of my care was turned over to Mikey. It wasn't long before Mikey figured out I was a wetter, multiple daily accidents were normal for me at the time. I guess my foster parents knew about it before I got there, because they didn't seem to be unusually upset when I wet my pants, or wet the bed. My wetting accidents were normally handled by Mikey who always seemed to be around when I needed to change. There were only a few times I was provided any privacy when I changed pants, generally Mikey either 'helped' me change pants, or stood there watching while I changed myself. I had a 'wet' hamper to use where my peed pants were kept until they could be washed.
Thinking back on it now, I guess my foster parents didn't notice how I tended to shy away from Mikey. Given the opportunity, I kept a good space between he and I. Routinely, Mikey checked my pants to see if I was wet. Those checks entailed him fondling me through my clothing or on several occasions actually putting his hand inside my underwear to fondle me. I wasn't afforded any protection for my wetting other than a plastic cover on the mattress I was allowed to use. There was never a 'need' for him to touch my pants to see if they were wet, it was quite obvious to anyone who happened to look.
When I would go into our bedroom to change, Mikey would follow me, then stand there watching me change. It made no difference if I faced him or turned my back, he could see anything and everything he wanted to see in the mirror over the dresser. There was never a doubt in my mind he was sexually aroused, he never made any extra effort to disguise the fact. I was nine, capable of changing my own pants, even making sure I had donned my underwear properly with the fly in front. Mikey would often take the opportunity to fondle me during changes, ostensibly making sure everything was in its proper place.
I had complained about Mikey 'touching' me to my foster parents a couple days after I arrived. Their response was not to worry about it since Mikey was supposed to make sure I was changing regularly and needed to insure I was dry. They were adults, there wasn't a lot I could say about their decisions. I reported him to my social worker when she showed up one afternoon. Her response was: "honestly, I don't want to hear it, you're enough of a problem to place, don't mess this one up." If there was any doubt in my mind, her response insured my understanding - sit down, shut up, do what you're told and don't make any waves. That I was being routinely sexually abused made no difference to my social worker; I was only nine, how could I possibly know about sexual matters?
Although it was never said out loud, I'm sure my foster parents knew Mikey was gay, a fact they hadn't disclosed to Social Services. I had just come from a homosexual environment, I knew the signs, and the symptoms. Physically, Mikey out-weighed me by close to a hundred pounds, it wasn't difficult for him to over power me when necessary. I'd try to push him away from me but I would only end up in tears of frustration when he wouldn't leave me alone. I finally accepted if there was going to be anything done about it, I was going to have to do it myself.4
My foster parents were always of a mind my wetting was either being done on purpose, or due to abject laziness. Their ungrounded belief any child of reasonable intellect could be potty trained, let them rationalize having Mikey insure I was monitored for wetting accidents. Surely, any child who at nine couldn't even use the toilet properly needed to be monitored and helped with the problem. I was never afforded any protection, therefore any time I had an accident it was obvious. Wetting accidents tend to leave rather tell-tale signs in blue jeans, as they do when your sheets and pajamas, are soggy of a morning. There was no need for anyone to touch me sexually, there was no excuse for what happened.
It wasn't unusual for Mikey to 'do himself' at bedtime, often as not making it obvious what he was up to. I came to dread having to go to bed, knowing sometime during the night I would have Mikey in my bed. At first it was kind of nice to have someone paying attention to me, laying down beside me to read a story while I fell asleep. It wasn't long before laying there Mikey would begin to caress me, run his hand down my leg, across my butt, between my legs, tickle my ass, just 'playing' with me. I couldn't escape his advances, there was nowhere to go and nobody seemed to care what I wanted anyway. I responded to his manipulations, let him do what he was going to do since I had little other choice in the matter. Gradually he introduced more than just fondling and carressing, convincing me it was his responsibility as my older brother to intorduce me to the finer aspects of homosexuality.
There were other problems with my foster placement, mostly from my apparent lack of achedemic ability. Understandably I hated school, I was subjected to all forms of torment over wetting. Nobody took the time to evaluate what I did or didn't comprehend, paid little attention to the fact I was normally involved in activities well advanced of other students. As a fourth grader, I was reading and absorbing high school texts, could already speak two languages fluently, could rattle off all fifty states in alphabetical order of their capital cities, calculate cube roots of numbers in my head, and had memorized the entire periodic table of elements (including man-made). In a nutshell I was bored silly dealing with fourth grade subjects, was more often than not off in my own world, paying little or no attention to the teacher. As a result I often missed questions, or provided answers which didn't appear to be on topic. Needless to say I was considered the class dummy, after all how smart could I be, I couldn't even keep my pants dry, a feat most three year olds have already mastered.
My boredom often manifested itself in becoming the class clown, or bothering other students while they attempted to solve problems I solved intuitively. My teacher would call me down for being absorbed in my own thoughts, not paying attention to what she was telling the class. It was usually necessary for her to repeat a question she'd asked, since I had no clue what she had been talking about. It didn't take long for her to write me off as a lost cause, assuming I was "dumber than a box of rocks". A secondary, albeit important issue, was the fact I am Irish, complete with the Irish lilt in my voice. As the other kids put it, I, "talked funny", usually eliciting some form of mirth from those who heard me. My 'antics' usually ended up disrupting the class and got me sent to the office as a disciplinary problem. At least once a week my foster mother was required to come pick me up since my teacher would not allow me back in the classroom for the remainder of the day.
Other than achedemicaly, I was a typical nine year old boy, interested in playing trucks, riding my bike, just being a 'normal' little boy. There were only a couple other boys my age in the neighborhood so I was usually playing alone in the back yard. My foster parents rarely allowed me to venture far beyond where they could see me, usually demanding I not leave the yard. I was effectively isolated from other kids my age, or any influence other than Mikey.
Isolation is a key element of an abusive situation. Mikey never left a physical mark where a casual observer would notice something amiss. Being kept away from the other children in the nighborhood kept any of them from seeing or hearing what was happening between us. My foster parents inevitably took Mikey's side in any confrontation, so I literally had no where to run. At school I was considered a generally not too bright kid who stayed in some form of trouble most of the time. I couldn't be faulted for learning, but as a source of information I was definitely 'taboo'. My social worker didn't want to hear anything even remotely suggesting this wasn't a perfect placement. She turned a deaf ear to anything negative I said about the home or the people there. I disliked my teacher enough I wouldn't trust her with anything she might possibly use against me. In a nutshell, there were no adults I even remotely trusted, I'd been hurt too many times.
The only real respit I had from Mikey's attentions was while I was at school. At home I was constantly under his eye, either right in the same room or close enough he could see what I was doing. My wetting problems caused me to be in the bedroom quite often needing to change another pair of wet pants. Mikey always had some excuse to either observe me changing or decide to assist me in changing. Other places in the house or yard, Mikey would physically 'check my pants' to see if I had wet although it would have been more than obvious from across the room.
My foster parents never questioned Mikey 'checking my pants', it was something that happened, they simply ignored it. Mikey would feel the outside of my jeans, more often than not fondling me through my clothing. Not satisfied the 'outside' was wet or dry, he would put his hand inside my jeans to confirm my condition. I spent a good deal of time sexually aroused as I responded to Mikey's attentions. In the bedroom my arousal was obvious, I associated being desireable with Mikey's attentions. I had something he wanted, I was more than willing to exchange with him, just to get the physical attention I so desperately craved. As I recall the only time I was ever held tenderly was in Mikey's arms.
Our lovemaking gradually became more of a wrestling match than a pleasurable experience of mutual satisfaction. The nore I struggled to get away the more focibly Mikey reacted. I was so much smaller I had no chance of directly overpowering him, at times resorting to biting or kicking to fend him off as best I could. It wasn't unusual after one of our wrestling matches for Mikey and I to end up laying beside each other on the bed. I loved the physical closeness of another human being and would soon be snuggled against him as close as possible without being inside of him. It didn't take Mikey long to take advantage of the situation, intorducing me to anal sex. At first he was gentle with me, often carressing me kissing me while he slowly entered me. It was one of the rare times he acted as if I were something special, someone loveable because I was there.
We had been having oral, and anal sex for several weeks before he started to get rough, sometimes forcefully enough I would end up bleeding into my underwear. It went from pleasure to terror when Mikey came to the conclusion I had informed my social worker what had been happening. My social worker had been at the house a couple days prior. I'd told her everything was pretty cool except I wished Mikey would leave me alone sometimes. I meant so I could play with my trucks, or with other kids my age, never referring to the fact Mikey and I had a sexual relationship. My social worker had called my foster parents, informed them of my request Mikey 'leave me alone'. Once again the adults were looking after my "best interests", which ended up being not my best interest.
About a week before the final incident, Mikey got more than just a little rough, I literally ended up raw. I was diagnosed as having 'diaper rash' from being in wet pants so often. I didn't dare tell the doctor what was really happening, I knew Mikey would kill me if I told. I made the decision if anyone was going to help me it was going to have to be me, myself, and I. Getting the means to defend myself wasn't near as difficult as I had first thought it would be.
One of the kids I played with on occasion had an older brother in a local youth gang. It was no secret he kept weapons around their house, I'd seen him carrying a handgun in his waistband, knew he also carried a switchblade. The gun always scared me but I was facinated with the switchblade. Unlike other switchblade knives I'd seen this was a stiletto, the blade snapping straight out. instead of flipping like other switchblades. He had several stuck in various places around the house where he could get to them quickly should the need arise. I knew there was one in the garage, just inside the door where I could reach it.
I waited until I knew there was nobody home then slipped around the back of the garage where I knew the door would be at least partially open. Reaching inside I easily found the knife laying on the shelf just inside the door, quickly slipped it in my pocket and busted ass for home. I had no idea what I was really going to do with the knife, just wanted to even the odds, scare Mikey away from me. I stuck it under my pillow where I could at least grab it if and when I needed it. I never thought how much damage I could do with a weapon like that, never considered I could actually kill someone.
It had been a fairly typical day, I'd wet several times changed pants and continued to play. Shortly after supper I had a bad accident, flooded my pants leaving a puddle in the floor of the playroom. I had gone to change, gotten partially undressed when Mikey came into the room. He was ugly mad, started across the room at me. I grabbed the knife from under my pillow and just swung at him thinking he was further away than he was. The blade snapped into position just in time to encounter his bare side, the speed of my movement enough to slash across his abdomen. His screams brought his parents running. I stood frozen, staring at what I had just done.
A call to 911 brought an ambulance and the police. While Mikey was rushed to the hospital, I was taken to the local police station. To say I was terrified would be an understatement, I had never known terror like that, his screams kept echoing in my ears. I was stuck in a small room they usually used for interrogations, left there alone, totally alone.
Over the next few hours I talked with several people who all asked the same questions, over and over; until I had no idea who I had told what to, or how many times. One thought kept repeating through my mind ~ "he's dead, he's dead, you killed him." I didn't see anyone I knew until late the next morning when my social worker finally managed to fit me into her busy schedule. Nobody seemed to be the least bit concerned I had been questioned at length by several different officers, plain clothes detectives, God knows who else, without benefit of an attorney or even anyone I remotely knew to advise me. Within minutes of my social worker arriving I was taken upstairs to a small courtroom where the magistrate determined my 'best interests' would be served by placing me in a secure facility for juveniles.
I asked my social worker why nobody would believe me, why nobody seemed to take my side? She just looked at me then said, "they will when you stop lying, Mikey told us what really happened." The physical evidence would easily have told them Mikey's version could not have occurred, but their minds were made up, they didn't want to be confused with reality.
According to Mikey's version of the incident he had been in our bedroom listening to his stereo, I had been laying on my bed making noise trying to distract him. He supposedly rolled off his bed and came across the room at which time I jumped up, knife in hand and attacked him. There wasn't a shread of truth in it, but the authorities accepted it without question. Nobody took time to look at the scene and realize the reality and the fantasy didn't wash, the evidence wouldn't support "the facts".
I was placed in Juvenile Hall, isolated from the rest of the inmates since I was only there for my own protection, not a convict. I talked to several people all of whom said they were looking out for my best interests. The lawyer they appointed in my case was at best a joke, at worst a travesty. Even as a child I could see he was incompetent, was only interested in the fee. At our first meeting he asked me why I had attacked Mikey with no reason? Excuse me?
There was one man who came to talk to me who was different than all the rest. I don't know why, but I instinctively trusted him, as if I knew he was the only one who would listen to me and hear the truth. Maybe it was the way he asked if he could talk to me instead of demanding I answer his questions. He was calm, spoke softly but clearly. Unlike the others he didn't jump right into questioning me about the incident, instead just talked about ordinary things; TV shows, riding bicycles, things a ten year old boy would feel comfortable talking about. He didn't stay very long, maybe fifteen minutes then left saying he would be back if it was all right with me. He didn't demand, he asked. Whoa.
I didn't think he would ever come back but he did, several times over the next couple days. Every time he came to see me it was so different from the others, he was so calm, so easy to talk to. We talked about what had happened, where the knife came from, why I was scared, how I'd ended up at Juvie. He never interrogated me, just asked questions then listened to what I had to say. I didn't realize at the time he was going to play a major role in my life; that he of all the adults I had ever known was truly looking out for "my best interests".
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