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Chapter 12: Wild Child

Waking up, do you ever feel as though you are trying to decipher the difference between what is real and what was a dream.? I soon came to realize I was in deep trouble, how deep was yet to be determined. I was sick to my stomach as i walked up the stairs to the dining room. My foster parents were sitting there waiting for me. The morning after a police chase, an arrested child and troubled individuals whom don’t seem to know what happened to 2 kids who decided to steal a car, take it for a joyride and wrap it around a pole.

“Good Morning” I slowly sat into one of the arm chairs at the table, the look on their face was in total disappointment.” I’m sorry” I said as I sat quietly awaiting a lecture, at the table, deep in thought I snacked on my peanut butter toast. It was a weird, eerie silence. I asked for some pain reliever as my head was throbbing from tossing and turning in my sleep, or maybe it was the crash and the bruises emerging on my growing body. The Rogoza’s I am sure, hadn’t experienced any of this in all the years of fostering helpless children.  Little did they know, a wild child was emerging, a feather in the wind. They hadn’t known me for too long, already letting good people down. I was trailblazing a road of criminal activity, lies, drugs and bizarre behavior only I could understand. They explained to me, what trouble I was in. I would be going to court and charged under the criminal code as a minor. If I was one year older, I would be tried as an adult. I don’t know what that means for the punishment, sitting in silence and a pale face, I felt sick. Looking out the dining room, I swallowed the Tylenol chased by a glass of milk. The snow covered deck seemed more inviting that morning as it may be the best place for me to smoke cigarettes and have reality sink in. Being now on the radar of the local police, high school teachers, my social worker for the CAS, I was a “bad ass”. I can remember the whispers  and being shunned for being a “crazy” person “mentally ill” like her mother.

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Over the next year, I would be going to court, facing the music of paying for what I had done. I wrecked an old ladies car and I was about to knock on her door to apologize. It takes courage to bring yourself to admit you were in the wrong. Instead of blaming others for my actions, I faced the owner in the face and sincerely told her “How Sorry I Am, ” She hugged me and thanked me for doing so, I was relieved to have her forgiveness. Standing on that concrete porch ,months later after the snow had melted, it was Spring. I was sickened by the long wait  of the door bell, a grey haired senior  appeared before me as she opened the door. Surely  a moment where I matured a little in the heart.  I have realized someone, I had never even knew, showed me compassion that day for the troubled teen in front of her.

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I was embarrassed as I tinkered around the bedroom that day, I wasn’t allowed any contact with my partner in crime and we had to be distanced. It is easy to point blame, as most humans do. When the heat is on and it is time to point fingers. We both were already pushing the envelope on “Kids Going Wild” . We enjoyed smoking, drinking and playing cards, It was something we did often. Never was I sat down, and  spoken to about my use of drugs, alcohol or my uncontrollable behavior. I was going to be grounded to the house and until I was able to show some mature behavior I wasn’t allowed downtown to the pool hall, over at anyone’s house or anywhere at that matter. I was under house arrest. Here over the next few months I would, stir up feelings wanting to get myself together, clean up my act. Being grounded I spent hours listening to music on the homes KenWood stereo system, My foster dad had his own business, selling the best audio equipment, I loved the Bass. I became a fan of Enigma and the group “Snap” I became someone who put lyrics to her life, some music made sense as though they wrote the music for me. It was the best form of therapy.

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I was currently serving a long probation service and I had to do community work.  having a personal probation officer seemed cool, I had to visit weekly and my grades and attendance had to 100%. He often looked at me as if he tried to understand how I was so fucked up! I was lost in a series of a chapter book, mistranslated in another language. I had to choose what type of community work I wanted to do. I wanted the easy way out, I wanted to do work that didn’t seem like work. I was going to Community Living, to work with those whom were like Kathleen.  I was awarded for my kindness when I was 11 years old, so this would be it. It was around the corner from my foster home, perfect!

Those months I spent playing, reading and sitting with those living with a handicap. They would become attached to me, as well as I would cry when I realized how good I had it, how fortunate I really was not living in a place like that.  All I was doing, was wasting my days trying to run from all my problems as they were building up and have been for as long as I can remember. When those hours were over, I didn’t continue as I was back into the role of drugs and partying. This time, it wasn’t just pot and southern comfort keeping me unstable; it was getting darker but only a temporary chapter visit.

My Mom was running the roads of British Columbia, living off the streets and coming back to town to raise havoc before being run out of town. Jumping on a bed at a local motel, my best friend drove me to see her. Singing Neil Young from her Walkman, she clearly was ill and in a phase of “manic high” It was hard to watch my mom, I wanted to do something but I myself was troubled in my own way. I blocked out so much which allowed me to feel normal.

I was dressing like tramp, leather halter tops, mini skirts and knee high suede boots, things I had purchased with their money C.A.S gives for a clothing allowance. Shocked allowed to wear this type of attire, this is the kind of things movie stars wear, not a 14 year old girl interrupted in her growth and development. I was called every name in the book, people whispered and gawked at me as I walked through stores, hallways of high school and the local Chinese restaurant. The “Mekong” is where I hung out, in the front window.

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This is where I fell for a boy named Trevor, where I carved his name in the heating vent cover “SKIDDER” I wrote. I laughed and giggled as I felt like a little kid in love. I remember in art class, I drew him. He had a mustache, like one of the band mates of Metallica and he had long curly hair, I found very attractive. I chased him around enough for him to respond to me. I was attracted to those whom wouldn’t even bat an eye at me. It was a challenge, I think. We dated short term, like twice or three times. I was the stalker type, I giggled as it was harmless. Maybe I was coming on too strong, or maybe I was a weirdo.  It was close to Valentines Days as I remember telling the foster parents I met someone I like and I wanted to make him a Valentines Dinner, they agreed. In the basement, I set up a table, with candles, wrapped silverware and flowers. Everything to make an impression, I think I had a little gift for him as well. I had dinner made upstairs and the Rogoza’s retired early to the upper loft area of the home. I sat on the universal gymnasium set up near the back corner of the basement, where I watched for him to walk up the driveway. He didn’t show that night, it was my message he didn’t want me. We never “did it” as I was still a virgin and he respected that, he was a gentlemen and a super good kisser. My chance of having a real boyfriend/girlfriend relationship for the first time, were crushed, as my hormones were developing , I wasn’t the girl the boys wanted to take home to Mom, not yet anyway.

 

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Cannabis Enthusiast : Craft Edible Creator : Recreation and Leisure Professional : Blogger
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