My brother Allen and I moved in with a family friend when I was 5 and Allen was 6. My mother was addicted to drugs and couldn’t take care of us. The woman who took us in was older than my mom, about 67. We called her Panchi or, sometimes, Grandma.

Panchi legally adopted me and Allen, but my social worker would still come around to see how we were doing there. About three years later, when I was 8, my mom started to visit us at Panchi’s almost every day. I didn’t fully understood what was happening, but since my mom was there I was content. My mom was going to rehab and Panchi was taking good care of us. She would hit us occasionally, but nothing anyone thought was wrong.

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It was like that for about two years. Then, when I was around 10, Panchi decided it was best if my mother didn’t see us or hear from us. My mom had stopped going to rehab, Panchi said, and wasn’t in a condition a child should see her in. I sort of believed her, because when I did see my mom she was getting worse. But I never got to talk about it with my mom.

About a week later, Panchi started to hit me and my brother whenever we did something wrong. At first I believed it was acceptable because she was our mother by law and I was doing bad things like fighting. But then she started to hit us just for not eating her food, and I realized that wasn’t OK. If I didn’t like the food then why should I eat it? I felt uncertain of where Allen and I stood from then on.

She began to hit me and Allen all the time, like it was becoming a habit for her. I felt intimidated whenever she came around. She never really screamed at us; it was more like an unexpected attack. I remember hiding in the closet and hearing my brother yell from all the blows he was taking. The closet was my safe place until I got out. Then I was the one yelling and crying from the blows. I still wonder why she hit me when I was “her baby”—at least that’s what she would tell company. My trust faded away because now she was lying not only to them but to me, too.

My sister Jackie, who was about 15 at the time, lived with us but was never home. She started noticing bruises on Allen’s and my arms and legs. (Panchi never hit our faces so the social worker wouldn’t notice bruises.) My sister told our cousin Jessica, and Jessica called Children’s Services (ACS). Jessica promised that we were going to be safe, but she didn’t tell us when or where ACS was going to show up. That made me anxious.

Into Care

A week later we were all sleeping when we heard loud banging on the door. It was 3 a.m. When Panchi opened it, about six ACS workers came in and separated us from her and that’s when our case began. I was 12 years old.

Once inside the house, the ACS workers (who were mostly male) took me and my siblings and put us in a room and took my grandma to another room. They called me, my brother, and my sister Jackie in for interviews one by one. We were there for about four hours just answering questions.

When I was alone with the female ACS worker she began to ask me questions.

“When did the hitting begin?” she asked.

“When I was 9,” I replied.

She wrote down my answers and continued. “What’s the worst thing she has done?”

I answered, “Drag me by the hair out of the shower and whipped me with the belt.”

As I was answering more and more of her questions I noticed a slight discomfort in her voice, almost as if she was going to cry. She felt for me. I finally felt important to someone. After we were done there they scheduled our appointment for the next day. I was afraid to go to sleep though, because I thought that Panchi overheard some of my answers.

The next day came and we had to talk to a psychiatrist, one at a time. Some of the questions he asked were a repeat of the ones they asked. He asked if Panchi’s sons ever touched me inappropriately and what the worst thing they or Panchi did to me was.

I felt bad telling on Panchi; I was afraid she would get into really serious trouble. I worried because even though she abused me over and over again, she was still the one who raised me.

The last question the psychiatrist asked me was “Why do you think she did this?” I didn’t answer because I didn’t know. I still don’t know.

Later on that day they took us back home to get as much clothes as we could carry. When we got there I saw Panchi in the kitchen throwing away things we had given her over the years since we were in kindergarten. I immediately started crying and ran to give her a hug. She didn’t hug me back. She teared up, but she pushed me away when I tried to look at her eye to eye.

image by YC-Art Dept

I was feeling sad, depressed even. I felt for Panchi because I knew she would be alone in the house. She wouldn’t have people to keep her company anymore. Even though one of her sons lived upstairs and the other lived downstairs, they had things to do so they weren’t always home. Still, I knew us leaving was for the best.

Reminders Everywhere

After a while I got my stuff and left. I never really did anything to cope with the feelings of sadness, emptiness, and depression. I just buried them. I never spoke of my experience to anyone; if someone asked me I shrugged. I had lived with Panchi for about 7 years, but I tried to never think about her again. I hoped that no one would ever bring her up.

But there is always something that reminds me of her. Smells, touch, voices, even names. After I’d been living in foster care for a while seeing parents and their children being lovey dovey reminded me of the times me and Panchi had. My feelings were beginning to come back up.

I started to cut myself for relief from those feelings. While I cut myself, the pain went from thinking of her to the pain of cutting my arms and I was grateful for that. I went to therapy when I was 12 for about a year, but it made me feel crazy. When the therapist asked about the cuts on my arms and why I thought it would work, it just made me madder. I felt like cutting myself more. I disliked the therapist because she kept bringing up my past, but she didn’t seem concerned like the ACS worker had. I felt as if I was just wasting her time. So I stopped going.

Eventually I also stopped cutting myself because I grew happier. Although I didn’t feel comfortable in any foster home after that, it felt good not to get hit by anyone. I met someone who made me laugh and would help me forget about everything that was happening. From time to time when I remember Panchi or if I become angry at something I cut myself, but I try not to.

Effects of the Past

I’m 16 now. Although I’m doing well, my past has changed my way of thinking. I’m not really a people person. I don’t look for conversations, ever. I don’t really treasure anything and I don’t have an idol. It makes me feel different from other teens because they usually look up to their parents or siblings, but I look up to no one.

I am still extremely close to my sister and especially my brother. We’ve gone through everything together and I can’t see my life without him. I don’t fully trust them, though, because they have told on me when I did something bad and they’ve also judged me.

I find it hard to trust anyone, of any age. I let my guard down with Panchi, and she betrayed me. So I keep a wall up. Whenever someone asks me about myself I tend to leave out details about foster care and why I’m in care. I don’t let them know because it would bring back memories and I’d probably start to become more distant toward that person.

But I do have a few people I trust: my best friend Pura, who is 15, and my boyfriend Andre, who is 18. I’m also starting to trust another friend, Ana.

I believe that you should only trust someone if they deserve it. I’m not talking about deserve as in they buy you something. I mean like they earn your trust. They prove their friendship to you in a way you know is sincere.

I also believe that everyone can become like Panchi. Even Andre and Pura, but I am willing to take that chance on them.

The Wall

I believe that with time I could come to trust more people. I came to trust Pura, Ana, and Andre because they were there for me when I needed someone. They were there when something was going wrong for me. There have been times I got really mad and went off on people, and Andre calmed me down. It took me a while to tell Andre and Pura about my past, but when I did, they didn’t judge me at all. It just made our relationships stronger. No adult has been there for me when I needed them. Adults have judged me and failed to keep my secrets, so there’s no adult I trust now.

I see my mom once in a while, but she has not gotten any better. I never talk to her about the past or how I’m feeling because I know it would just break her heart more. Even when no one talks about the past she cries. It’s like that’s all she thinks about when she’s with us.

So I try to focus on all the good things about me that I know would make her happy and proud. I try to comfort her all the time and I know it helps. I don’t judge my mom because even through the tough times she made an effort to be with us when she could, and I know it took a lot of strength for her to do that.

I still feel like keeping the feelings about my past buried even though I know it’s not healthy. Those feelings will always be there. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with them.

I don’t want to get hurt again. I can’t imagine being safe enough to let it all out to people other than Andre, Pura, and Ana. I can picture myself without the wall when I get older, but I don’t know how I’m going to get to that point.