It is a story that can only be told in its entirety, I have tried other methods and there is always something missing. This is my first attempt at documenting my life story, please don’t mistake it for just a story, there is much more to it than that. It’s a point of view few are aware of, and even those who are aware are often swallowed alive by the toxic forces we allow to run our lives. There is a kid in me that compels me to write this, it is not written for me. Due to the state of society today, the voice of so many people went unheard for so many years. As much as I love sharing my story, I don’t do it from a sense of entitlement or like I’m owed anything. I’ve realized that most people do not have similar experiences to reference. Therefore, I believe sharing my story, openly and with the best intentions, could result in growth for anyone who reads it, just as I hope what I have to say will spark a change, even if it is small. By using my words and the power of awareness, I hope to ensure that as few kids fall through the cracks as possible. There would also be a number of positive outcomes for humanity as a whole. Even though I look back on my early life and find few things to be thankful for, I am grateful for my ability to understand, my patience, and all the people who have helped me.
Well let’s get started, I guess a good place to start would be my birthdate. In Penticton, BC, I was born on Dec 16, 1996. My parents were on and off again for a short period of time, I have very vague memories before I was 10. Every time I look back and remember what I do remember, I realize more and more just how misfortunate I was as a child. From what I understand, the mind works the way it does for a reason, just like many who have experienced traumatic childhoods, my brain has done its best to shield me from the past. It’s hard to put into words the way of life I had as a kid. Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. I grew up with a drug addict mother. During our time homeless, we couch surfed at the homes of other drug addicts, including my grandma. I don’t hold a grudge against my mom. The power drugs can have on a person is evident in the choices she made. There was always this tension, this vibe, more often than not. It was child tax day, but I knew the odds of me seeing it were slim. It is hard for me to recall this part clearly, but there were no regular meals, heck most of the time there was no electricity, no refrigerator, no stove, no heat. The police had broken down the doors, people had broken in and robbed the house, even when we were home there was always a risk. Fleas, mice, cockroaches, and other bugs infested the place. It is bad enough on its own, but I also used to wet my bed regularly for years, but I eventually stopped mostly around the age of 12-13. However, I did not have a bed to wet on, I slept on a living room chair, the old kind that looks like it might recline but doesn’t. Night after night, I slept in my own pee in that chair, my only alternative was the coffee table, which I grew to like. There was no laundry, I went to school and was constantly bullied, and Chris rhymes with piss. I got a bit off track there, so the first major event that had its effects on me undoubtedly. I was four, I vaguely remember my brother being there and we were being the trouble makers we were, like any brothers that age. We would get into anything we found, and that day I found something to say the least. On top of the fridge I found a Clonazepam and proceeded to eat it as if it was pez. I was told that I was near dead and they did everything they could of to save me, apparently there is a limit that when passed does more harm to the body then good. That is the incedent that had child services first involved. This should of been it, support from the community. I am aware that my mom had not interacted effectively and got off on the wrong foot with child services, I just find it oddly suspicious that of all people social workers would be the ones blind to how touchy of a situation this is, emotions are high. My mom may not of done or said what was right, but its my belief she was coerced in a way that shouldnt exist. My point is, social workers go to school for well “social” work, I would like to believe they have atleast some sort of idea how to interact with people, the sad part is they do. It does not take a social worker or even a professional to know how a kid will likely react to something, what goes over looked though is how the focus is put on the parent for the wrong reasons. Someone who has a career, a life, something to go home too should have no reason to allow their emotions to dictate how they treat people. From day one the goal seemed obvious, and it may be hard to believe. I wish I had reason to believe otherwise. As a kid I was aware of certain things going on around me but didnt understand them, when I look back now I can see there was no intention on the ministries part to rebuild a family. Young adults who are addicted to drugs i feel in many ways can be intereacted similarly as with a child more or less. impulsive, immature, reactive, etc. that describes my mom especially when they would antagonize her. It appeared to be her against the system. This is a subject I feel strongly about, even though I come across as against child services its not that. We are all human and fall victim to the same urges and human behaviours as anyone else can, It just saddens me to see that that urge overpowers the needs of the poor, and the children. For some time there was a social worker that came around checked in, brough tus to mcdonalds, the arcade all the places a kid would want to go. Even though I was naive, what happened next was more then uncalled for. it was one of the most barbaric things I have ever seen someone do, from what I gather was all self satisfaction … The social worker that tried to befriend us, essentially bribe us was not doing it for any other reason then to stir up problems between my mom brother and i, and we were all under 10… i just wanted food, fun, i didnt know what he was going to do. One day he showed up at my school, we went and picked my brother up, then we grabbed my sisters. not only was this out of nowhere, he flipped his attitude to the point where he wouldnt even talk to us… through all the crying and stuff, he sat there with a smug look on his face, no comforting, no mention of foster care or food or things i didnt even know existed fully. The only things out of his mouth were directed at my mom. unprofessional is an understatement. This fact is reinforced by this event, this is about 5 years down the road, my brother and I are outside the esquimalt ministry building, I point out to steven hey isnt that andy atfield? he walks up and asks if it was him. To which he responded by acknowledging he was, some words were exchanged. And somehow led him to utter this very professional statement. “oh you mean your mom the crackwhore”. i am not one for violence. but he deserved what he got. my brother has always been real strong and a fighter. unbenounced to andy, who ended up nearly fracturing his orbital bone. My brother who was max 15 years old one punched him, he was flat on the ground dropped his smoke , of course I picked it up and finished it for him saving some for my brother. He got up nearly instantly and ran inside the office to cry about how a 40 year old man just got one punched by a kid he antagonized. We had witnesses on our side, he was blowing smoke in our faces, we had the chance to press charges on him. either way. there is stuff that goes on in the ministry that needs to be addressed and not brushed off as nonsense. Not for the purpose of hate or revenge, but growth. You see how its hard for me to write a story? there is no one story line.. for some possibly obvious reasons, from childhood, the treatment i had, the lack of social skills etc. I never got the chance to stay put, grow, learn. I have gone to too many schools to count with no friends to show. one year in elementary I enrolled myself in school… There is a pattern here throughout all this, I just wanted people of course to like me, to be kind, to be reasonable, to be caring, everything people said they were, all the support and help people had to give, not only was it not there when I needed it, but life for awhile got to me and i became a really angry and reactive person. Everywhere I go, its like I am marked. fuck i thought i had it this time, im so bad at telling my story.