My mother. They called her, "Dizzie Debbie". They called her, "Taz" short for Tazmanian Devil. They laughed at her. They rooted for her clothes to come off in the middle of the night on top of the hood of the car. They even told me it was "Just a game" when she cried as they took her soul in front of me. My mother was sick. I would scream that to them. But screaming excites the devil.
She did things that would make eyes pop on most. She brushed her pubes with the cell mates hairbrush smiling as the mate was about to crack her mouth open and she laughed as the pimp made a black and blue on her cheek and when Tucan Sam broke her leg on the curb in no way did she even squeal; Drugs, sex, and boo's will numb the pain with a sparkling disco ball, making it all so danceable.
The juice filled, soda-pop wax candy she gave me made it all ok. Two day old cold pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the shitty motel was what I lived for. I could jump on the flamingo bedspread like Tigger on crack, bounce off the walls from the sugar rush, and bathe in the tub for hours swimming like a captured mermaid. None of it was measured in my experience as abuse or as neglect.
I write this about my mother because as children we have unconditional love for our parents. When I was taken away and put in foster care my foster parents never understood why I would go back to my mother or cry for her in the middle of the night when there was clear neglect and abuse in my files.
No matter how hard they hit us or how bad they treat us we will always love our parents and want to go back to them. The idea is to rehabilitate our families so the children can go back to their families. This is why it is important for us to truly research and educate ourselves on trauma informed care.