A Story of Abuse and a New Beginning

It was the early morning of April 13, 1999 a beautiful pair of twins were born. My brother and I were born. We were just coming into this world experiencing a touch besides each other's, our mother's. For a while it was just us, my mom, and my dad. Little did we know we would be getting a little sister soon. Then a year and a day later, April 14, 2000, our little sister was born. From what I remember, we were living a pretty happy life. The three of us and my parents. Fun days out at grandma's farm with cousin Sean. I am told the four of us used to be inseparable, and we were always playing and having a blast. Those were good times indeed. Then one day tragedy. I don't remember the exact date or really much from that day. I just remember that as the day that would change my life forever. It was the day I would lose my family.

My brother and I were three and a half, I believe, and my sister was two when we were stripped away from our mother's loving and caring arms. We were stripped away from everyone that loved and cared for us. Without warning, all the happiness I had known and the family I had loved was gone. My mother fought as hard as she could to get the three of us back. She fought with every ounce of energy she could. She did everything right, absolutely everything she had to, but they refused. Human Resources terminated her rights, deeming her an unfit parent. We were then awarded the state and placed into the foster care system. We were sold like property and treated as such. To them we were just money. We were passed from foster home to foster home. Again and again all people saw was an easy paycheck. I just recently learned my brother, My sister, and I were each worth 100 dollars, helping to prove my point that we weren't seen as children but as an easy profit. The county got 300 dollars richer by ruining so many lives that day they ripped three children from their family. The system failed us not once, not twice, not even three times, repeatedly. They took us from a safe environment, from our mother, from our family and placed us in dangerous situations. At the age of four and three, my siblings and I underwent things no child or even adult or any human being should have to endure. We were repeatedly molested in the foster homes that Human Services was placing us in. We were even forced to molest each other. I am sickened knowing what I know now.

After being in foster care for about five years, we were finally adopted. After that time, what little memory I had of my mom and dad and the rest of my family was pretty much gone. We were the ages of, I think, five and four when we were adopted. I thought everything was going to be OK now. I figured life was finally going to get better from here. Boy, was I wrong. Shortly after our adoption, my new parents started getting very angry and mean. They would hit us for reasons unknown. We were forced to eat food we didn't like out of the garbage. Still imprinted in my brain are very vivid images of that house where this took place, every detail, every room, especially the office where it all took place. The office was right across from the room shared by my sister and me. My brother slept in a room down the hall by the freezer and laundry. My brother shared a bed with a pile of boxes and crates and a small blanket. The office is where the beatings took place. Oftentimes I would be the one who spent the most time in there. I was beat more often and I had no idea why. After a while they started to starve us, so I began sneaking frozen bread and cinnamon bears at night for my brother, my sister, and me. It was a good plan at first until they noticed something was going on. One night, I was in the freezer, I had three pieces of bread in my hands, I turned around, and staring at me from the stairs was the face of my dad. I grew cold, and stiff chills ran up my spine as I knew what was to happen next. I walked up the stairs, and in an effort to save my brother and sister, I told them the bread was just for me. I knew instantly what was going to happen, so I put the bread down, pulled down my pants, closed my eyes, clenched my jaw so as not to scream, then waited for the pain to stop. After it was over, I was sent back to bed. A few days later, we were on a shopping trip, and while we were at the checkout line, I saw a baby bottle pop and I slipped it into my coat pocket. At this time we were about five and six, and I knew stealing was wrong, but I also knew I was starving. We got home, and I went to my closet and started to enjoy and devour my bottle pop when suddenly the closet door flew open and there was my mom. She grabbed me up by my arm and took me to the office. She had me pull down my pants put my and put my hands on the filing cabinet while she reached into the draw and grabbed the ping pong paddle they beat us with. She told me I was to get a hundred spanks for my punishment. I knew far too well already I was to count out loud, was not allowed to scream or cry or she would start over and add more on. She started hitting me with the paddle, and try as I might, I couldn't keep from screaming or crying. She started hitting me harder, telling me to keep counting, when suddenly there was a loud snap as the paddle broke in half. I didn't know quite what to think in that moment. I didn't know whether the pain and beatings would end, or if she'd find a different way to hurt me. I was relieved, however, to find out that it would stop, for a little while. The next day, they had more paddles so they could continue my beating. After she finished beating me, I was told to sit in the hall. I tried my hardest to do as I was told, but try as I might, I could not sit down for the pain was too much to bear. My punishment for not doing as I was told was more beatings. After the beatings were finally over I was sent to bed for the night. For that week I wasn't allowed to wear dresses or shorts or skirts, and while my brother and sister got to go swimming I had to sit and watch. The reasoning for that was because my entire back from the middle of my back to the back of my knees was a very dark shade of purple. A few weeks after that I snuck into their office and snuck some of their cinnamon bears, I didn't think they would catch me but they did. My consequence was more beatings, of course. Then they did something they'd never done before. They took me upstairs where they got duct tape and put it over my mouth, duct taped my hands behind my back, and duct taped my legs and feet together and made me go down the stairs and get on the top bunk of my bed. My little sister, who was five at the time, saw what they had done and grabbed some scissors from their office to try and cut me out of the tape. She started trying to take it off my mouth but we could hear them coming down the stairs. She quickly got out of my bed and hid the scissors in her bed. I stayed duct taped that way in bed until it was time for church. I don't remember how much later this event took place, but it couldn't have been too long after the duct tape incident. I don't even remember what I did wrong, but I guess whatever it was they didn't like it. My parents made me stand with my nose to the wall and wouldn't let me stop for bathroom breaks or anything. I wasn't allowed to eat either or talk to my siblings. I ended up messing myself while I stood there. They wouldn't let me sleep in my bed either. So every time I had to go to the bathroom I had to go where I stood in my pants on the floor. Since they wouldn't let me sleep in my bed I was forced to sleep on the floor in my waste. The next morning my dad took me outside into the 30 degree weather and hosed me down with the hose, then sent me inside to clean up my mess. I was wondering if we'd ever be able to get out of that house. I wished and wished for it every day. Then one day it seemed my wishes had been answered.

It was late at night and there was a knock at the door. My parents went down to see who it was while my siblings and I were upstairs. I could hear voices, more than one, but couldn't understand what was being said. A few moments later, two women and my parents came up the stairs they asked for me to go over there so they could talk. They said they were with social services and everything was going to be OK. I walked over there and one of the ladies asked if she could lift up my shirt and take a look at me. I said yes. She lifted up my shirt, and I already knew what she'd find, and at that point, I was beyond relieved. She put my shirt back down and exchanged some words with her partner and my parents. Next thing I knew, I was in a car by myself with these two women. My brother and sister had been left behind we were separated for the first time since we were put in the system. I didn't know what was going on; I was scared and confused. We ended up in the hospital, and I was getting X-rays, and doctors were looking at me and touching my back everywhere it hurt. I was later told I had been brought to the hospital because they wanted to make sure I didn't have a broken spine from all the beatings I'd received. I asked the women if my brother and sister were going to be OK and what was happening to them. They assured me that they were OK and that they would be moved to another foster home, and that I was to go to a family friend's to recover, then I'd be reunited with my siblings. I waited in the hospital for the family friend to arrive and pick me up. They brought me to their home where I spent about a month or so there before finally getting to go live with my brother and sister in the foster home. I don't recall how long we were in the foster home for, but I don't think it was very long. It had to have been a short while later that my aunt and uncle came to get the three of us and take us to Longmont with them. I remember not being able to sit down in the car and having to basically stand the whole drive because it was still painful to sit. When we got to their house they had a room all set up for us with brand new beds and everything. We were in a better place now and could finally sleep peacefully. We lived with our aunt and uncle for a while before they ended up adopting us. Life was finally going well for us. We lived in a nice house, had nice friends and neighbors, and went to good schools. We knew we'd never have to see those people who abused us ever again, and that life was headed in the right direction and everything was going to be OK from that day forward. It, of course, hasn't been an easy ride. There have been ups and downs, of course. I've had many years of therapy to help me cope with the trauma I've endured. I will say, though, I'm in a much better place mentally, emotionally, and physically, and I look forward to many more happy years.