Everyone, and everything has a beginning, and I believe that in some ways a person’s beginning has an influence on their life. Although I did not end up growing up in the family I was born into, it has still affected me.
I was born to a drug and alcohol addicted mother, and from what I can gather, I lived in that home until I was three years old, when I was taken away and placed in foster care, then apparently I got to go back to my birth mother for a while, then I was taken back to foster care again at about 4 and a half. While I do not remember much of what happened before I was five, three main scenes come to mind. I remember the day I needed changed and nobody came to my aid, so I climbed out of the playpen on my own, went to the bathroom where the diapers were stored, and changed my own diaper. I remember the day where my birth mother, her boyfriend, and several of their friends thought it would be funny to pour a few sips of beer down my throat. I also remember the day when my birth mother’s boyfriend beat me for no apparent reason, and it caused a nosebleed so bad I landed in the hospital.
I am not sure when all these events happened. For a while, because I did not appear to be a crack baby, or have fetal alcohol syndrome or anything like that, I must have appeared to be a fairly normal child. But things happened in these early years, or maybe perhaps I was born with them, that made learning difficult for me.
The foster care stories will come soon, and I apologize if I’m writing about stuff that you don’t care about so far, but I need to write this for myself. It also sets the background for the main part of my story.