** I copied this story from an old webpage and I’ve condensed it way down for clarity/simplicity. Even still, its a bit lengthy so you might wanna grab a cup of ‘joe’**
First let me say as tragic as my childhood was w/my foster family it could have been a lot worse. Kinda hard to believe but I’m digressing….
Birth – 1yr:
I was born in the early 1970’s to the not-so-proud parents of Wanda Clem & Roy Seymoure. My mother met my father while he was in the service and after he was discharged they married. I was the 2nd sibling at the time and an unwanted/unexpected pregnancy. My mother & father were hard core drug users before, during, and after her pregnancy. I was born 2 months premature and addicted to several drugs. I spent the first 9 months of my life in a hospital surrounded my machines and strangers. By some miracle, my mother managed to get me home. I’m sure the laws then were much laxer in relation to child/drug abuse. You’d think the issue w/my hospitalization would have been a wakeup call to my parents. Nope! My parents continued their drug habits. I would be left alone in an empty closet or an open dresser drawer for hours sometimes days at a time w/nothing but a pillow and bottle. When CPS (Child Protective Services) found me, I had a diaper rash from my neck to ankles. I was returned to the hospital for 2 months for severe dehydration and related ailments along w/multiple contusions/bruises all over my body. This time I was not returned to my parents. As luck would have it, my real mothers best friend, told my foster mom/dad about me. My foster mother told me once, she took one look at me and fell in love. My adoption was just a matter of formality after that. So I went from being the unwanted son of Mr/Mrs. Drug Heads to the first and only adopted child of Mr/Mrs White Trash Family Robinson. (yes, I’m poking fun here)
Most of my memories up to this point are good and simple. The kind of memories you would expect a child of 5 to have. It was at age 5 that my foster mother became ill w/lung cancer. Being the youngest child of 5 it was easy to assume I was most attached to my mother. She was the shining light in my life at this point. I’d only just begun to discover what it really meant to have a father. (At the time, my father worked long hours at a blue-collar job) For the next two years, I got to watch my mother slowly waste away in front of me. By age 7, she was so frail and miserable I think she welcomed death when it finally came. It was the first death in my life and I took it very hard. While other memories have faded w/time, my memories of her death are as bright and vivid as always. I can remember the faces of every person at her funeral. Not understanding what funerals were, I went walking during the service asking people when mom was going to wake up. Of course, this sent most of them into fits of tears.
It was during this two year period that I have the fondest memories of my father. Naturally, my father became my world and his words were like scripture to me at the time. enter the step mother, aka Satan in Drag as I like to call her. She was a childhood sweetheart of my dads before he met my mother. They met up per chance one day, rekindled the old feelings and were shortly married. With this new union came a new brother and sister for a total of 7 children. Originally, my step mother treated me kindly. While never overly affectionate I had no complaints. As it was, she was supposed to be unable to have another child. She desperately wanted a child by my father. As the fates would have it, she did conceive. To this day, no one can explain it. Somehow an egg survived where no egg should have been. (Fate? could be)
At age 10, I was the proudest older brother you could ever find. Always being the youngest, I was happy to have someone younger to help take care of. Unfortunately, it was at that time that my life became unbearable. My step mother literally became Satan overnight. She began treating me horribly and was very jealous of my relationship w/my father. Once again, he worked long hours so my time with him was limited. Having a small child in the house only made that time shorter. Over the next few years, my treatment became worse and worse. The physical abuse is such a non-issue for me. Being a bit stubborn and a typical Aquarian, I quickly forgot the physical pain. However, the mental anguish was horrible. Besides, calling me a bastard and other common curses, I was routinely told “you should have never been born”, “even your real parents didn’t want you”, “why did you have to be born and spoil everything”, or “your pathetic, I bet your mom died to get away from you”. The last comment she only said a few times because it would send me into uncontrollable rages and even her beatings wouldn’t work. The last time she ever said that, she broke my nose and just before my father came home unexpectedly and caught her. It was the one time he defended me against her.
Well, if you made it this far you might as well read the dreaded ending.