Patches

(Disclaimer: This is a fictional account written through the lens of a  foster child. These are recollections that a foster child might say if they were able to grasp words at their young age. Although this is fiction I believe many of the emotions and actions are very true. )

Pieces. What's left when your world falls apart. As a child it's hard to grasp that chaos isn't commonplace if chaos is all you've known. So I have pieces. Each encounter with someone new leaves more pieces as they enter and as they leave or as I am shuffled from one home to another. I have pieces. I'm not complete. A part of me is here and there. I feel broken but my pieces are scattered.

I get the look. Unfortunately I'm old enough to understand pity. It comes wrapped neatly packaged in hugs and kisses and consolations. I still see it though. It's there in every interaction. The underlying pulse of pity. It makes me mad so I have anger.

I hear the talk. I may be in the next room but I still hear as my fate like a dice is rolled. It's always tentative and based on my behavior. If I have been good it means one thing, but if I have been bad it means another. I am never allowed to have age appropriate behaviors. Everything I do is seen through the lens of my status as a ward of the state. All I do is based on a past I can't recall and a family I have had little interaction. But they talk about me as if I am invisible. That's how I feel most of the time... invisible.

Time doesn't heal all wounds. I am not allowed the luxury of working through my problems with time. If I become inconvenient I become dispensable. My family didn't want me or couldn't take care of me so I became a number in a system that dehumanizes the humans it services. I'm worthless although I carry a price tag and a monthly stipend. There's a cost benefit analysis that occurs and if my cost is too high I may not benefit the 'family' I am a part of. They may not have time to give me time.

All of that wraps into me. I'm a person full of patches. I have a doll who is made of patchwork fabric. It's full of pieces from here and there. I don't know who made it but I feel like that doll. I was given it several years ago and with each place I sleep I take it with me. It's mine.

The room I sleep isn't mine. The clothes I wear are not mine. Most of the toys I play with are not mine but Patches is mine. She is always good. She never acts out. She doesn't hit or fight. She never bites. She listens without comment and she holds all of my hurts inside her. I hug her each night and kiss her. I need her because I need to feel needed. I need to feel wanted. She wants me. It's me and Patches against the world.

Mom. Such a small word with huge meaning. Patches and I haven't had a mom in several years. The family I'm with are nice but they are not my family. The lady is not my mom. The man is not my dad. I tell Patches that I heard that we may be moving again. They are tired of my behavior. I have disappointed them ... again. They don't understand what's wrong with me. I hug Patches a little tighter.

I really want to be good. I tell Patches how I don't try to be bad. I have this spotlight on me all day and when I do something that other kids do too I'm the one that gets in trouble. Then comes the look and the talk and the punishment. They even take Patches away from me sometimes. I promise to be good but...

So here I sit in a room full of other kids with moms and dads who bring them and pick them up with hugs and kisses and the way they look at them isn't the same as how my mom and dad look at me when I am picked up. They have so much more than I do. I want more. Patches and I deserve the more too. Can someone please give me ... more.

jamie ...

(dad to a soon to be adopted foster child.)