TheOtherSideOfThePancake

No Matter How Flat The Pancake, it Still has Two Sides

 by V. Martin 2018

    This is to my adopted extended family, Halls, Martins, and others, by marriage. After 35 years my adopted mother found me. She had adopted me when I was 12 and she was 39 and single. They, DES, didn't normally let single people adopt but mine wasn't a normal case. Having been in the system for over six years and as many foster homes because the last one kept me for almost 3 years. Anyway, my adopted mother soon after met her future husband and that was the end of the beginning for me.

      Don't get me wrong, I knew it for what it was and maybe that's why Phyllis, my adopted mom, and Frank, who never adopted me, believe it was my choice not be part of the "family" anymore. The same reason people want to kill the messenger when the message isn't what they want to hear. There was nothing I could do about the decisions being made about me. I was only 14-15 years old. 
I didn't go out of my way to behave badly, I never did anything but what normal teenagers do. My Mom was being pressured by her new husband, your father, so she started building a history to support disowning me. If my Mom and Frank were planning on keeping me, his three daughters and I would have been introduced to one another. As it was, never, not in the three years they were married before I was disowned did I meet his kids. 

    Phyllis built a history by admitting me to the psych ward at Phoenix Camelback Hospital. The first time was understandable, I got caught shop lifting and couldn't face telling my Mom, I was so embarrassed. Rather then face her I decide killing myself was a better option. Never did it occur to me to run away. Funny but seriously, the thought never even entered my mind. My attempt was half assed, obviously, it failed and I was admitted to the hospital. There I stayed for two months where they never put me on any medications or diagnosed me with any disorders. I was fourteen and still a virgin and drugs were something I thought you got at the drug store. I hadn't even gotten drunk or had a sip of alcohol.

So doing drugs and/or drinking was not even on my list of things to do. As a matter of fact it wasn't until the second time she admitted me that I started smoking cigarettes. 

    For the second time she admitted me because the girl across the street from her house and I got drunk for the first time together. To this day I haven't had as much fun or laughed as much or as hard as I did when Kristian and I got drunk off her Grandma's booze. We road our bicycles all over the place but then couldn't find our way home so I called my Mom, Phyllis. The lady who was the Mother of some girl, I think Kristian knew, had to tell Mom where we were and she came and got us. It was before ten pm, my curfew, so I thought I was in the clear, as far as being in trouble was concerned. Not the case. Right back to the hospital the very next day for another two months. This time they diagnosed me with being emotionally handicapped. This was at Phyllis's insistence, needing something on record to explain what she does next.

Instead of bringing me home this time she transfers me to a residential treatment facility in south Phoenix. There I remained for eleven months, where they didn't know what to do with me having never done drugs, never had sex, and only been drunk once. The other girls were all alcoholics, drug addicts and/or prostitutes so the program was designed around these problems. So they came up with a program just for me, part of which was going to public school. Something they had never done before. All the kids went to school on grounds which was close to being home schooled but with the whole neighborhood. This place was located in South Phoenix some of the worst neighborhoods in Phoenix and I had to leave before dawn to get to the bus on time. Fourteen years old at three to four in the morning walking the streets in South Phoenix to catch a bus to go to high school at North high. 

     Eventually, they discharged me and I went home, where by this time I wasn't welcome. My curfew on the weekend was 10pm and all my friends were allowed to stay out until midnight. Being the mature young lady that I thought I was I called a family meeting and pitched my cause. Explaining how unfair it was and that none of my friends want to come home 2 hours early. They just weren't hearing me, so I asked if we could get counseling? 
Phyllis picked me up after school telling me we were going to DES to get counseling. That was just a ruse to get me to go along willingly. Frank was to meet us there, she said, when I asked. When we got there she led me to a room with a window next to the door. As soon as I was in the room she turned around and without a word left me there. I watched as she disappeared around the corner, stunned, not sure what to think, do, or feel. So I went to my default setting, no feeling, no caring, no nothing. JustNumb. This is a very brief, detached account of what happened because most likely you won't believe me anyway so why invest anymore?

     Hopefully, this clarifies things a little bit more. Of course, this is my perspective, these are my memories of what happened. Since it did happen to me, my memories are probably more accurate then Frank's or Phyllis's. They have good reason for remembering things the way they do and I'm not saying they are wrong. But they are wrong letting anyone believe I chose to leave home because that is simply not true. I never ran away from home! What the fuck? Adopt me, get married, disown me, then move your new husband's daughter in to take my place. Years later look me up just so you can blame me for what you did? 

Not to mention the fact that the last place anyone, who's been in the foster care system, wants to go, is go back into the system!!!!! This is a fact, ask anyone.
    

What were they hoping I'd forget?
If they think Grandma doesn't know that they, my parents, lied to get them, my grandparents, to disown me they are wrong; She knows.