Perhaps the reason why I keep fighting is I can’t help but enjoy the fight. As a social worker, everything is a fight: you fight the parents, the homes, the schools, the system, everything; something or someone is pushing you away because they’re scared. And it’s painful every time. And yet, I think it helps me feel alive again, you see, because I was there. That child sitting in the office, wrapped in a beaten blanket, warily watching the world under a fringe of ratty curls was me. When I was five years old, I came from a home that would give any sane human the chills. It wasn’t really a home to me; there was too much wrong with that house. It began when my mother became pregnant for the second time, after the doctor said to that to try again after me, would be dangerous. But my father, of course, wouldn’t listen. He didn’t want a girl; he didn’t want me. So he pushed my mother: pushed her into walls and chairs, until she broke down and agreed.
When I came home from kindergarten, on May 20th, I went to show my mom our school’s graduation invitation, which I had helped to design. I looked into the bathroom and watched my mother cry slow tears at the little device held in her hands. I nudged the door open and asked her what was wrong, and she told me not to worry, as she wiped the tears from her face. At the time I couldn’t have known, but she held in her hands confirmation of her own impending death.
Months rolled by, and my mother’s stomach grew. While my father and I reveled at the thought of a new baby, my mom remained silent and barely spoke. Few or no preparations were made for the new baby, and my mother grew more distant every day. About eight months after conception, my baby brother came. He was early, and no one, especially my mother was ready.
At 11:32 pm, my brother was born, and at 11:34, my mother was pronounced dead. My father went back to grieve, and knew that this was his fault. She never explained more than the basics of her problem to him, but he didn’t listen. He blamed himself, whether he was truly to blame or not.
John, my brother, was always hated by my father. He reminded him of my mother, as he had her eyes. And maybe it was that similarity that made him push John, like he pushed my mother. And when John showed any resolve, my father resorted to physical violence. It wasn’t long until people started noticing John’s introverted personality in preschool, and the calls only enraged my father further.
I was only 9 at the time when I ended up the system, with no one to fight for me. I found out the details from the family at whose house I was sleeping over. That night, with a few terse words, and goodbye click, I learned how my debauched father had strangled John to death. It was him on the other end, saying he loved me, and telling my goodbye. He shortly thereafter took and overdose of pain medication, which, when combined with his drunken state, caused his liver to fail. I didn’t understand until eh didn;t come and pick me up the next day.
The family kindly dropped me off, aware of my father’s drunken tendencies. As I walked in, I saw my brother wreathed in his pale blue baby blanket, the one my mother painstakingly knitted for him. It was torn with overuse and the tossing and turning accompanying nightmares. His face was pale white and his eye looked upwards at the coffee table. My father laid with his eyes closed, holding my brother in his arms, his skin yellowed with the jaundice of liver failure, and the path his tears left on his dirty face stood out like polluted rivers on his face.
I stood at the door for no more than a 10 seconds, before I sank to my knees and crawled to the two forms that laid next to the couch. I shook them both, but without response. I called out their names over and over again, until my voice was hoarse with sobs and their names were only whispers. I called the police and they performed a full investigation of the household. They took away the bodies of my brother and father and wrapped them in black bags. One police officer wrapped my brother’s blanket about my shoulders and asked me to get in the car with him.
As I sat in the office of social services, I warily observed the people tiredly throwing back coffee and sadly flipping through cases. I noticed the casual glance, devoid any true feeling but a little remorse; these people had seen worse than me, far worse.
And so I curled up, and quietly shed a tear fro my brother, father and mother. It wasn’t until then that I realized how truly alone I was. So very, alone.