I am writing a biography on my life. I just want to inspire other Foster Children that they can make it through life with horrible/no parents. I am living proof so far. I may not have a life as rough as many other people, but it wasn’t great either. This is just the beginning.
I don’t really remember a lot about the times when I was a toddler. Only the pictures in my old ragged albums remind me of who I was, precious moments frozen in time for me to reflect on. It reminded me of what I had as a family before it was torn apart by hate, manipulation, money, and misunderstanding.
My parents gave up on their love a few years after my brother was born, mostly because of money issues and immaturity on behalf of both of them. I was around five years old. I barely remember me wearing a costume on Halloween night tricker-treating the month when everything unfolded into a divorce.
My mother typically took care of me and my three brothers, well until my two older brothers left to live on their own, when she kicked my dad out. They were at least eight years older than me. My youngest brother is a year younger than me. His name is Matthew.
My mother was jealous of my dad’s best friend, will not mention his name. Dad had spent most of his free time with him instead of with my mother, as if he was dating him, so my mother eventually snapped and dumped him. We were all left to our mother. She was not employed and barely had any money.
When my older brothers left, we moved to Langford, just the three of us. Quite swiftly my mother got a new boyfriend. I did not like him. To her, he was more important. In fact we had to steal food from her and Matthew and I were left alone to watch and feed our selves. I was around six years old at this time. There were times when I watched my brother cook food, I hated cooking, generally waiting for her to come home after eight pm.
My mother liked sleeping over at her boyfriend’s place. She would drag us along. I hated it. He had a nasty cockatoo that bit us and chase Matthew and me all over the place. I still have a scar on my left hand from a time when he bit me, between the knuckles of my index finger and middle finger. My mother had forgotten to mention that he was afraid of gloves when she asked me to pass one to her. She was holding him. He jumped up and hung tightly to my hand.
At his place, while they slept in a nice bed, Matthew and I slept in sleeping bags. We went to bed around nine to ten, while they were still watching television cuddling on the couch. They left the parrot to roam the place. I had to zip up my sleeping bag all the way or sleep in the bathroom to prevent myself from getting bitten.
This is all real, nothing fake. This is just a rough draft.
lol, thanks. I just noticed the amount of "My" I use.
It does get a lot worse, a whole lot.