Reflections of a Bin Bag Boy

1st Departure

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Reflections of a Bin Bag Boy

"Robert, have you filled the Bin Bags with your rubbish from your room yet? The Social Worker will be here to pick you up in a few minutes and she will not be happy if your bags are not ready"

Introduction

Let me introduce myself - I am now 25 years old and my name is Robert Anthony James. Not by any means an unusual name, common some people may claim, but what I would like to share with you is my extra ordinary journey through the Care System, that has shaped my identity, view of the world, actions towards and feelings about this global community which we share -shamefully, unequally.

Why write these reflections? Generate pity? Exorcise demons? Form of revenge? Unhealthy expression of self- indulgence? Needing to be heard or a craving to be understood? I am sure you can arrive at many other conclusions, and all the reasons may or may not be accurate. I do not know for sure myself what the drivers are for writing this. I will allow you to become the expert. All I know is that now, at 25 years old, I have arrived at such an important juncture in my life - the details of which you will find out in due course, the urge to share my experiences with you has become an almost overwhelming force.

Pain can sometimes create a distance between memories. Confusion and disorientation can sometimes blur or distort details. I have spent many hours exploring my inner world to connect with memories in an attempt not to misrepresent my past. What I promise is that what I write for you is as true a record as I can make it. However, I am aware that this is still my own interpretation and perspectives on events - but they are real to me - and as a former child in the Care System, and not often having my experiences and views validated, I do not intend to compromise, modify or justify my thoughts, feelings and views of my experiences anymore. You can choose to believe all or nothing of what I am about to share with you.

The journey I am about to take you on may resonate with you on a number of different levels. It may make you laugh, cry, generate anger and frustration, disbelief, repulsion or avoidance of connecting with my experiences. There are many paths these experiences may take you down. All I can hope is for communication to be opened between my heart and yours. Where this relationship takes you, is again up to you.

My story begins at the age of six, excitedly waiting at my Grans house for my Mother to come and pick me up and take me back to the Homeless Hostel in which we had been living for a few weeks. She never arrived…...

Reflections of a Bin Bag Boy

Chapter 1 First Departure

My mother and I regularly visited my Gran even though we were in and out of various hostels or temporary accommodation projects run by different charities and schemes. My Gran had refused to give us a more permanent home whilst my mother was still “on the game” and still stealing from her to fund my mother’s long- term drug habit. I loved my Gran and I got the feeling that she loved me. I remember getting an excited and happy feeling in my stomach when my mother told me that she was going to drop me off with her – while she went to “work”. My Gran also suffered from depression, maybe due to the fairly recent death of my Granddad and the debilitating Multiple Sclerosis with which she battled. On the day my Mother never returned to pick me up, I remember having an egg butty, watching TV and playing in my Gran’s back yard with an old Tennis ball and stick. Little did my innocent mind realize that this day was to change the trajectory of my life forever.

I remember my Gran appearing distracted, agitated and snappy. I remember it had been dark outside for a long time. I remember my Gran on the phone in a panicky voice complaining that she thought my mother had “done a runner” and wouldn’t be coming back for me - again. She was right. This was the last time my mother was allowed to abandon me. My early memories are punctuated with feelings of confusion and distress concerning my missing mother, who would leave me for long periods of time, at worst with complete strangers, at best with my Gran. My mother and I were already “known” to Social Services. I was, apparently, already on the “at risk register”. Our Social Worker was called Pauline. I have a vague and brief memory of having met her before when she came to my Grans house five days after my mother abandoned me.

My Gran had got me up very early I remember, and made me have a bath. She sat me on the couch whilst she sat on the chair she always sat on. Her expression frightened me, and her eyes were full of tears. I knew she was more than just upset and I knew she had something very serious to tell me, and that I must listen. I wasn’t a good listener, even at the age of six, I had managed to develop a sophisticated filtering out system that allowed me to not hear hurtful or strange things. However, my Gran had my full attention this time.

I was more concerned about my Gran than the consequences of what she was about to tell me.

Her voice was soft and shaky and had a pained tone to it when she explained that I was to be taken into Care. She told me that “they” did not think she was healthy or young enough to look after me – because of my special needs. Apparently, I was difficult to manage because of my special needs - I couldn't concentrate and hadn't begun to read or write. She also said something about attachment problems. I didn’t really know what being taken into care meant, but I sort of knew it hurt my Gran and therefore it hurt me, I was angry. She explained that no- one knew where my mother was. She said that Foster Parents would look after me until my mother returned and sorted herself out. As you will discover, my mother did neither.

Sometime after, the knock came at the door. I was still sitting in the same position on the couch staring at the TV. My Gran was startled, jumped up, straightened my hair, and rushed to the door. It was Pauline. She had already visited me twice during the week I had been at my Gran’s, and tried to speak to me - but I made myself not take any notice of her. I sensed that she represented something threatening to me. She ended up speaking to my Gran in the Kitchen in hushed voices – not that I cared. Both times she left by giving me a big smile, but with sad, tired eyes.

For some unknown reason, this time, Pauline had my attention. She still had the big smile but the same sad, tired eyes. She sat down close to me on the couch for what seemed like ages, and I think she told me things that my Gran had already said.

She looked and smelt very clean, and so did the car in which she took me away from my Gran’s house.

I remember, my Gran crying like I had never seen her cry before, as she mouthed to me from the doorstep to my turned head in the car – “I love you Robert”. As we drove away - I sat in the back seat of the car and sobbed like a baby, destination unknown, and with a heart that hurt more than it had ever hurt before. I clung to the half filled bin bag, like it was my Gran. The bin bag contained the few toys and belongings that I had at my Gran’s house. This was not going to be the last time my life would be stuffed in a bin bag.

The journey seemed to take forever, even though Sheffield wasn’t a huge place. I paid no attention to the changing scenery outside of the car. Pauline was constantly trying to ease my pain with kind words and soothing noises. She tried to reassure me that Barry and Judith were very nice people, very experienced foster parents, which they would take very good care of me and treat me like a family member.

The battle lines were drawn, enemies identified – I hated them already. I hated Pauline for taking me to them. She and they were the enemy. The people that represented my pain and the separation from the people that really meant anything to me and the world that I knew.

I wanted to hit Pauline, claw her face and bite her nice clean skin until it bled. The rage filled my head with powerful visions, but somehow I almost felt paralyzed, weak and totally powerless against the tightly fitting seat belt.

It would be many years later before I realized that my rage was misplaced – but far too late to stop me creating a trail of devastation and pain in many people’s lives. My heart now pounds with guilt. However, my first victims were to be Barry and Judith.

I was sat on their floor, bin bag in hand, knees up and back against the brown leather couch. I wasn’t crying. In fact, it would be many years before I would be able to cry again. Barry and Judith had met us at the door. To my young mind they were old, about the same age as my Gran. Barry was tall, thin, had a grey moustache and smelt of cigarettes. Judith was small, fat, with grey frizzy hair and smelt of old sweat. They sat on two separate chairs, smiling down at me. Pauline was on the far end of the couch also staring at me. Pauline had introduced us and then there was an awkward silence. I enjoyed that silence, I enjoyed Judith fidgeting uncomfortably and playing with her gold chain around her fat, sweaty neck.

“Robert is really good at drawing and loves sausage and chips” said Pauline. The drawing was a lie. I knew I was crap – I got pleasure from drawing – but I was crap. I still am.

She followed it by a string of half truths and other things that I did not recognize about myself. Then followed by a stream of questions from Barry and Judith. Silence. I had unwittingly discovered a very powerful weapon that I was to use ruthlessly for many years to unsettle the most powerful of adults, the power of absolute and expressionless silence. What could they do about it? Nothing.

Pauline grabbed her bag, stood up and moved towards the door. “I have to be at a review meeting this afternoon, I‘d better go and leave you all to get to know each other. Robert, I will come to see you next week” She looked at Barry and Judith with serious, sensing eyes, and said “If you have any problems give Jean a ring”. Jean, I was to quickly discover, was Barry and Judith’s support Social Worker. I was to get to know both Pauline and Jean much better over the next few months – as I am sure Pauline had instinctively felt; there indeed, were to be many problems to come.

I lasted at Barry and Judith’s for approximately 10 months. My reign through rage included; setting a fire underneath my bed with a newspaper and Barry’s cigarette lighter, Kicking and punching Judith as she tried to take me to a new school, daily verbally abusing my teacher Mrs. Whitely, regularly throwing my plate and food onto the kitchen floor (if I liked the look of the food or not), and my favorite game was to urinate anywhere in the house that I fancied- on cupboards, my bed, TV and video, wallpaper cushions the lot. Although, my most regular, and prized spot, was the pillows on Barry and Judith’s bed. This really upset Barry and Judith and I remember taking great delight when Judith used to apologize for the smell or damp patches to any visitors – “It’s Robert” she used to say with flushed cheeks. Why did I start urinating in this fashion? I have no idea. All I knew was that my behaviour captured the interest and concern of not only Barry and Judith, but also Pauline and Jean. They become regular visitors. “He’s testing out the boundaries” was regularly said by Pauline or Jean. “He doesn’t know any boundaries!” was often Barry’s exasperated reply. “Its early days” was the authoritative response.

Hours of discussion would take place around me. They thought I was blanking them out, watching TV. But I was listening to every word that I chose or could be bothered to hear.

Especially, any news regarding my mother or Gran. Through pretending not to listen, I found out a lot of precious information.

My mother was in prison, “finally” put down for “Knifing” one of her “customers” for his money. The “customer” nearly died, she had stabbed him in the eye and my mother was sentenced to three and a half years in prison. She had also had a miscarriage.

My “case” had apparently gone to court and I was to remain in long term care, “all parties agreed”, apparently. Who these parties were I had no idea. I overheard some talk of adoption but that I would be “terribly difficult, if not impossible to place”. Anyhow, this was to be the last I heard about adoption.

I had actually seen my Gran three times while I was at Barry and Judith’s. I was taken to a place called a contact centre to meet her. It was for an hour at a time. A woman would sit in the room taking notes whilst I tried to play with my Gran. But she was tense, forced, and pale. This time I was the one affected by the uncomfortable silences. Why did I have to see my Gran at a contact centre? Eavesdropping on Barry and Judith’s conversations whilst they thought I was asleep provided the answer.

My Gran had colluded with the abuse and neglect that I had suffered, covering for my mother, lying to and not co-operating with Social Services. She hadn’t done anything to protect me when my mother’s boyfriends had battered me or so it came out in “court”. Worst of all there was some concern that my Gran had beaten me. How dare they talk about her like that? My Gran had hit me when I was naughty. Beaten was different, wasn’t it? I had told Pauline that my Gran had hit me; I saw no reason not to tell her the truth when she had asked me if my Gran had ever hit me. How did this change to getting beaten? Didn’t every Gran hit you with a belt or shoe if you were naughty? Wasn’t that allowed? This compounded my mistrust of Social Workers. I was even more guarded about what I told them in the future.

Those three times were the last I saw of my Gran. She had died through the result of a stroke and subsequent complications. I was told by Pauline that it was all very sudden and that she would understand if I got upset. She told me this whilst intensely staring in my eyes; I gave her the same blank non-committal defiant stare that I had perfected. I am sure she could sense that I was blaming her, her eyes looked guilty and desperate just as I wanted them to. She looked away and said “I am so sorry Robert, I know you loved her” She put her arm around my shoulders, which was quickly shrugged away. Her moist eyes still looked tired and sad. She quietly breathed a sigh of defeat.

I was not invited to the funeral. It was deemed not in my “best interest”. I was too “emotionally vulnerable” I often wonder who would have bothered to turn up for the funeral, I couldn’t guess who. I had no other family that I was aware of. I had never known any Dad or paternal family. Pauline was the last person to talk to me about my Gran. My last contact with my past had been erased. But never were my memories that I had of her. From that moment onwards I would often fall asleep in strange beds, imagining that I was snuggled again in her lap, head on her soft breast, with her stroking my hair, rocking, and whispering “ I love you my darling”. In fact I still do when having difficulty sleeping. Like I am now.

Anyway, I knew my time had come to an end when at a family gathering to celebrate Barry and Judith’s anniversary. The event was held at a local Social Club that Barry went to on a Saturday night. There was a disco and food. I hit one of their young Grand children with a glass ashtray on his head and causing some bleeding and later, stitches. He had eaten my packet of crisps, an argument erupted, and then the ashtray. The Party descended into tears and chaos. Not long after this event I was sat in a meeting with a collection of people that included; Barry and Judith, Jean and Pauline and two other people that I had met before But I couldn’t remember who they were.

The result was that I was to be found a new home. I would also be referred to a specialist to help me with my problems and behavior. I was told that John and Linda were very nice people, very experienced Foster Carers, and would treat me like a member of their family- the same thing that Pauline had told me about Barry and Judith. Hadn’t they learnt anything? I didn’t want a new family. I wanted my mother and Gran.

I must stop and apologize to any readers. You may be wondering what I looked like at this age (by this point I was Seven years old). I still forget that people may still be genuinely interested in me and people enjoy picturing an actual person. Photographs that I still posses from this period of my life help enormously with this exercise.

I was unusually small for my age compared with others in my class, I remember being conscious of this at school. But I was still the best fighter. I was also very slender, puny even. My thick short spiky hair and wide wild eyes - dark brown. I remember one teacher saying “I had the mad eye”. My right eye glided towards my nose, my skin was pale, contrasting with thick dark eyebrows and freckles spreading over my nose and cheeks. My lips were full and naturally quite red. The bottom lip slightly extending over my top lip, caused by my under bite and protruding jaw. I have a large mole on my left thigh, that my mother used to joke was dried poo that she couldn’t wipe off when I was a baby. On my large forehead, above my left eye, there was and is a scar. On my left arm I have two, fairly small, dark circular shapes that I have been told were cigarette burns. I also have three of these shapes in the middle of my back, in a rough triangular shape. Barry and Judith were the first people to draw my attention to these. How they got there maybe I was too young to recall. My toes still are thin and strangely long and misshaped. A nasty sight. I still never take my socks off in front of people. My toes had never bothered my Gran. She used to clear the dirt from between them with her finger, claiming “You could grow spuds with all the muck in there”. One lad at a school had once called me “spider toes” and “Hermon Monster”, because of my large forehead. I stabbed my pen in his forearm and he never called me that again.

I hope this aids the reader. I was a pretty wild and frightening spectacle. But this probably helped my cause – with “my new families”. Every little thing helped to unnerved them, and then to legitimately, hate and reject me.

My memories of Barry and Judith are not all bad. I don’t remember them being cruel to me. Distant, but I think this was what I wanted and made happen. Looking back, I can certainly say I never loved them or even felt for them in any real way. It’s a sort of neutral, blank feeling. The nearest I came to a happy and excitement feeling in my stomach was Christmas day morning. Judith had got me out of bed early and genuinely seemed please to see me – I think she was excited. “Robert come and have a look, Father Christmas has been and he’s left you loads of toys” she giggled. I made my way down the stairs and I nearly did break into a smile when I saw the mound of toys near the TV. I nearly did smile but felt embarrassed and uneasy. I didn’t know what to do with them. I had never had this before. Barry sat on his chair with a Santa hat on his head. “They are all for you” said Judith, with expectant eyes and an outstretched arm pointing to the toys. There was a pause whilst I stood there barefooted and in my pyjamas. But I walked away and sat down in my comfort zone, my familiar spot on the couch, and began to watch posh children singing on the TV. Barry and Judith glanced at each other and Barry shook his head with slow motions. Both were devastated. The mood changed and was heavy for the rest of the day. I knew that they had attempted to be kind but it was outside my sphere of experience and I did not know how to make them feel better.

The night before I left them, Judith sat next to me. She put her arm round the back of the couch near my head. I remember jerking my head away, to make sure there was no physical contact. She went on to talk to me. No eye contact, I think she had given up trying. It wasn’t an attempt at a conversation it was more of a confessional and plea. She spoke about how she felt she had failed me. She explained that she had so wanted to give me the home and love that I so needed.
She hoped that my new Foster Carers would be able to give me the security and stability that I deserved. She said that I wasn’t bad, just a much damaged and very hurt little boy. She wished that I turned out to be a happy and contented young man, and that all my dreams would come true. But she knew I did not want to live with them. She had a sincerity in her voice that reminded me of my Gran whilst she explained that she would never be fostering again. I was looking at Judith while she was saying all this, but she will never know that she had my attention or that this was the closest that I had ever felt towards her, I was almost feeling regret and pity for her, as much as I was able. I have a sense that if she had asked me if I wanted to stay with them, I might have said, yes. Up she got and trotted off into the kitchen and started cleaning the pots, oblivious to the fact that she had been on the brink of a possible breakthrough.

However, my bin bags were packed and I was ready to be picked up by Pauline the very next day. That was another night I fell asleep imagining I was snuggled into my Gran.

The next day had arrived; I was ready in a new set of clothes. My bin bags were stacked up near the door, as Pauline arrived I knew where I was going to; I had already been taken to see John and Linda on two separate occasions. Some of my bin bags were already at their large and immaculate house.
Instinctively, I knew John and Linda were very different to Barry and Judith. The stark contrast threw me. Much better looking, loud, young, smart and confident. John was a solicitor, Linda had been, but gave up her career to become a full- time carer. I was the one that was first intimidated by them; my silences did not seem to perturb them. They laughed smugly at my best “evil looks” that had so effectively silenced Barry and Judith. They giggled when I told them to “fuck off” when they asked me a question. They made me feel silly. They were not scared of me, like I knew Pauline, Barry and Judith were. I knew that I would have to invent new methods if I was to win this battle with them. From the very beginning they left me in no doubt what they expected from me in terms of behavior, there would be no pandering to my demands and moods. I knew that there would be no urinating on their furniture.

John and Linda had a power that I had never experienced before. They emitted an energy that I found fascinating. They talked about things that I could only guess at the meaning. They gave me new experiences that still positively influence me today. I found myself wanting to be like them – this I am still convinced was the relationship that could have changed, so profoundly, the course of my life forever. They were the parents I wish every child should have. They had that indescribable magical formula that was just right for me. I am sure it would have worked for me – if only they hadn’t so abruptly and cruelly rejected and abandoned me. The reason? I will come to very soon. Maybe I didn’t get to know them after all. I couldn’t have guessed that I was still capable of being so hurt.


Edited 8th October 2006 Due to welcomed feedback received.

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My first novel "Reflections of a Bin Bag Boy" will be published here.
http://www.redking.co.uk/fostercare/binbagboy.htm
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