Counting plastic bags

A second person account of life in the foster care system, real life story....

It takes the men in suits hours to get a translator for you. There is pretty woman there in a dress that looks too much like your mama's. Her hands say “It will all be okay” but her eyes just look sad. You wonder if she's lying with her eyes or her hands. Then they hand you another trash bag. She tells you to fill it and then you know that her hands were lying. But it doesn't matter because that's all you get to keep, one flimsy plastic bag's worth of your life. That first time you pack the picture of your ma and da and the photo album your brother made you. You bring the stuffed pony from when you still slept with a night light and the dress you wore to the funerals. Three houses later, three fake families later, the pony is stained and missing an ear and the photos burnt up in the fireplace while "Mommy", as this one wanted to be called, made you watch. You take in everything and decide to let nothing touch you, ever. Life is divided in to “before” and “after”, “then” and “now”. Before, there was bright ball of hope with
each new home. Now, you know that nothing lasts and so you never fully unpack. You've learned to ferret away a store of food whenever you can, because who knows when you will be fed again. The cross that came from the "first ones" got tossed in the trash after hundreds of prayers for a good home, a safe home, fell on seemingly deaf ears.
 Time passes in a molasses slow haze of aborted hand gestures and brightly colored lies but it does tick onwards. Ironically, you've gotten good at hearing things people aren't saying. You know from the shuttered looks on their faces and their brittle smiles that you'll be sent away soon. This time when they hand you the bag you know everything you have will still leave it half empty and you’ve stopped caring if the garbage bag smell will seep back into your clothes. You go to the new school and people hesitantly smile but you don't bother the respond. You'll be gone by this time next month. It's always a short stay, no wants to keep the ones with "problems". Somewhere between the first house and this one your eyes have acquired a jaded look, your laugh, a bitter tint and your body,a multitude of scars. Deaf kids have a lot of "accidents" it seems. You used to hope the next family would want you, now you know they won't and you don't even try to change their minds. Seven months and twelve days until eighteen. Six more black plastic bags full of life until you're a real person again. You smile for the
family Christmas picture with the four others. This will be the last one. Maybe when those plastic bags are emptied for the last time, someone will tell you how to stop feeling so hollow.

Reviews

[Tegon Maus]

I'm sorry for your pain. It gets better... I promise. Well writen, good visuals. I hpoe you're not this sad but just write this well.

[crazysox]

This is so sad and tragic....It brought tears to my eyes. I can't imagine how life has been for you, if this is a true story. How sad :'(

Wow. I don't even care that there are grammar errors, this is just tragic. I'm so sorry for the loss. I want to just give you a hug right now.