I'm in lock up..

My mother was always into those show off kind of guys. Not fancy, broke, but full of themselves. Guys who were "country" but couldn't tell a steer from a heifer. Ones that bought a truck, but couldnt change the oil. 

Mom married Larry, my step dad in 1992. Dad had left me at the courthouse (one of two times he would do this before I turned 18). Larry was one of three step dad's I would wind up with. 4 if you count the jackass she was with when she died. Jimmy. 

Larry was a "ruh-roh" kind of guy. A boot scoot and boogie man. Mean as hell with me. Hated the mention of my dad and beat the hell out of me for waking him up from his after work nap. 

There's a later story I will tell, that he leads wholly. But for now, Id like to reflect on his influence in me as my first role model in "talking to girls". 

He did this sort of a shaky walk, bow legged slow, one long stride in front of the other when he was walking toward my mom in a good mood. 

So it was there I learned how to talk to girls. Like a show off. With a "hey baby what's shaking" kind of attitude. The group homes would deem it inappropriate, and the girls just rolled their eyes. 

Apparently it wasn't cool to the girls either and was creepy at best. 

That first Christmas at Bramblewood was odd. Lots of people donated to their adopted kid. I still remember getting a Hot Shots game, candy, some flannel shirts and a Hot Wheels track. On Christmas day, I received more candy, a Bible and some small things from the staff. 

Holidays were empty at the homes. Lots of kids took passes home so the staff we were left with treated us a bit normally. They hated working that day, we hated being there. So we shared the misery and made the most of it. 

There were no lines, no levels and it was like free time all day. My first Christmas sucked a bit. The next few I learned to enjoy. I felt special and preferred after a while to be at the home instead of "home". At least one didn't end up with the cops being called. 

I thought I was fine. 

Then January came. 

There was this girl, named Ashley. I don't remember a lot of what happened but I remember she let me kiss her on the playground. We wrestled a bit, tickled and chased each other on the playground. I thought things were ok. 

When I got home, I was in trouble. Apparently she didn't want to be kissed and she was trying to get away from me when we chased each other. My story didn't matter. Remember that "sexual" history that never existed? The one that led me to get the fraternization talk. 

What I know now, that I didn't know then, was that I was targeted. 

What came next was probably one of my first traumatizations in the home. I saw no judge. Met no juvenile officer but received a punishment that no kid deserved. 

Remember the isolation rooms? I was locked in one. For almost 3 months. At first it was complete lockdown. No school (at first). No calls. No blankets or books. Just complete isolation. These were cinder block rooms with steel doors and steel locks. I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone. No one talked to me. I was in jail, no calls to my mother, nothing. I had to sit in the van with the other kids, I was on silence, not even allowed to smile. I couldn't play outside. 

Bathroom breaks were every two hours, if I was lucky. No mattress until bedtime after everyone else went to bed. 

All because of a false accusation. 

In class I had to sit in a three walled detention desk. I wasn't allowed to even go to recess. I had to stay in. 

I was cast out. All because I kissed a girl who kissed me back, but when she was caught by another kid in the home and questioned about fraternization, I was thrown under the bus, and with my all of a sudden "sexually inappropriate background" I was done for. 

Multiple staff came along through this period of my life. Darren, Kirsten, Alex, Brad and a guy named Trent Twitty. Trent was special. He was everyone's favorite. Mine too at times, but he was harder on me than other kids. 

I was treated like a sex offender. Like I had no clout. 

Mrs. Damanscus, my fifth grade teacher wanted me to go to recess. She fought for me. That poor woman. The hell that home and my situation put her through was so much. I'm surprised she kept teaching kids from our home after that. 

I got recess one day. One of the other kids in the home went and told the staff. Trent cornered me in my "cell" later that night. 

"What were you doing at recess today?" 

"The teacher let me go". 

"You're on isolation, you're not allowed to go to recess". 

I cried. I screamed. I lashed out. 

In the 9 years I was institutionalized I was only "restrained" once. I was locked in, twice. This was one of those times. 

I couldn't fight my condition. I couldn't call anyone or complain. I didn't know the law (what 11 year old kid does), I couldn't tell my mom. 

The shame, the humiliation and sheer mistreatment of being made out to be a prisoner was so traumatizing. 

Eventually, I went silent. For about three weeks. This is where I changed. I hated these people. They got me to conform to their rules. I was broken. Finally institutionalized. 

Closer to the end of the school year I was released. Something tells me they didn't want to. I could tell the staff weren't happy. One staff always had to sit outside my door and monitor me. It wasn't fun for them either. 

To Darrin and Kirsten, if you ever read this, you gave me one hope to get out. Thank you for the music you always played. I learned your game. If I was quiet you played alternative. I was raised on country to this point, but learned to love your styles. 

Writing this I can hear Pearl Jams better man (butter man to me then) and Sheryl Crow's, If It Makes You Happy. 

Thanks to you two, you made it tolerable when you could. 

For a month at the end of my sentence, I still had to sleep in there at night. Not allowed to have roommates because all the beds we're being used at the time. Eventually I moved back into a room. 

I tell the story as if I spent 6 months in there. It was probably about two. But regardless it was horrible. 

No kid should ever have to do that. 

I tell my kids today I used to play army men with dust bunnies. That was half the truth. I did that, but I also did that with paint chips on the wall. I acted out movies and created my own un-reality. 

A kid in the most unreal situation, playing make believe. My Terabithia you could say. 

That spring and summer were 11 years old into 12. 

My first therapy session out of there, I was pointed at, along with about four others in the group and told "before 19 you'll be in prison". 

I was already there. 

My executioner once, telling me my life's fate because of my upbringing. 

If they knew that then, how come they didn't fix it. 

Screw you Andrea Murray, screw you Kevin Robertson. Go to hell Trent Twitty. 

Ill never forget going as an upper level later in my tenure there to Wal Mart to buy my first radio. Darren Myers drove. We SCREAMED "IF IT MAKES YOU HAPPY" down the road that night. Him looking at me later saying "you were on isolation when this came out, how do you know it so well?" 

"Because you played it for me Darren, thank you." 

"Ahh man, you're going into junior high, time to stop listening to country music and start being cool". 

I never spent time in that isolation room again.