My years in foster care are a bit of a blur. I genuinely struggle to put a time frame on it all so forgive me if my blog post today feels disjointed at all. It’s just the way my memories flow.
If I had to estimate, I’d say I was in each ‘main’ home for an average of 2 years. There were three of these. By ‘main’ I mean long term I guess, not the respite homes.
The two homes after the not so nice one (previous blog) were better because the four of us were together and also we got to go to school on the estate where our mam lived.
The first was with a couple who had grown up children- they were lovely, actually. I liked being there, as much as you can like being separated from your parents… My sisters and I were well cared for and had a big house and garden to play in. My mother was also battling behind the scenes to see us more (and it was working!). Life could have been worse- it had been worse.
This didn’t stop me feeling constant anger though. I wanted to scream all the time. I had three personalities that were competing to get out. One was a happy go lucky little girl who was making new friends (two best ones especially), another was a child who wanted to withdraw and hide in her own world (and frequently did) and the third? Well, she was a nightmare!
I remember screaming and trashing my bedroom in my foster home when I was around 8 years old. I literally threw a chest of drawers across the room! On reflection- I know I couldn’t cope with all the different ways of being I had. I felt different to everyone else in the school. I had to get taxis in and have special permission to do anything after school.
One of my best friends, Rachel, was curious about this and asked her parents why I had different rules to other kids. They explained in only the way her amazing parents could and she asked if I could live with them! I think they probably would have had me if they could because in later years I practically lived in her house!