My Little Monster came to me fresh from his latest stay in a facility. He had recently turned 9 and been in care almost 3 years but had moved TWENTY-ONE times - from foster home to foster home to facility to group home to another foster home to a facility, etc. He had recently gone back to the birth dad for a trial reunification but it didn't "take" as birth dad still was too messed up. The poor boy was taking SIX different meds - including some that were prescribed solely to address side effects of other meds.
He was removed from the home due to neglect and abuse. Mom & dad would often leave him home with adult siblings to spend long weekends in a casino. Police were called to his house at least weekly because of domestic violence. Siblings would get in violent physical fights in front of him, terrifying him, with 1-2 siblings caring enough about him to sometimes remove him from the living room/scene - by locking him in a dark closet. Once they forgot about him and left him there hours as they all left the house (he's still scared of the dark).
One of the first things he asked me was if he could call me "Daddy." He had unruly, badly cut hair, bags under his eyes and dark circles, and a protruding "medications gut" (his doctor would say later he'd never seen a kid so constipated). He cried frequently about missing his mommy & daddy, and his bubba and sissies (bubba was in jail, like various other family members would be in and out of). In short, he tore my heart out and I bonded with him quickly - initially, admittedly, out of sympathy/pity, but also because of his natural temperament, and because he SO. BADLY. wanted/needed to be loved.
As with most foster kids, he went through a "honeymoon period" where his behavior wasn't too bad. I quickly discovered he was/is an emotional boy at heart (and definitely a drama queen), so he cried quite a bit over his family, argued and whined a lot, etc. And once he was more settled and felt more "secure" in the placement, he then felt safe enough to "let go" and express the rage and frustration he felt over being denied a place in his family, thinking he was a "bad kid" and it was all his fault he'd been removed, wondering why his mommy & daddy wouldn't/didn't do more to keep him (most likely, he reasoned, because he'd been "bad" and so they didn't love him anymore - they would actually say this to him when he'd act out).
Escalating behaviors mostly included running away, EXTREME tantrums that would last an hour or longer, endless crying/whining/arguing/defiance, self-harm threats and half-hearted attempts, etc. The self harm threats/attempts were particularly useful for him at school as of course they had to take them very seriously - and it was these threats/attempts that would land him in a facility for a week or more where they would just add more drugs or try different ones. He was too "dysregulated" to understand how his actions were harming him and not helping, and he was too dysregulated because of all the meds, all the moving from placement to placement, his fear and shame, etc. It was a vicious cycle.
The self harm threats initially freaked me out and I responded as most people would when a pitiful, cute 9-year-old boy says he wants to die and tries to find a knife in the kitchen (or swallow stuff at school or wrap cords around his neck). I would panic, respond forcefully and yet sympathetically that he shouldn't even think of such a thing, keep him from grabbing anything he could hurt himself with, etc. Eventually, I realized these threats/attempts were really just pleas for attention - particularly after I noticed the careful way he made sure NOT to cut his arm with the butter knife he was vigorously making like he was rubbing on it. So I then would say, once he ran into the kitchen, wearing his flannel robe, and making like he was going to cut his arm open, but not touching it, "Well, let me know when you actually break the skin and I'll call the hospital." He glared at me, threw the knife down angrily, and stomped out of the kitchen. And then that was pretty much it for the self harm threats at home with me - altho he'd still use it quite a bit at school.
The running away was more difficult to deal with. I had said up front I didn't want "runners." Not sure why, but it really sets me off and it didn't take many instances of him running before I was Over. It. He was very fast (when he wanted to be) and so could easily lose me and I'd spend way too much time roaming the neighborhood, calling & looking for him. So I finally quit chasing him, and dutifully reported it to his worker, counselor, and the police when he'd run and then sit on the front porch and wait for him to come back - which he would almost always do within an hour or two, sometimes with a police officer who'd managed to find him, sometimes on his own.
The first time I didn't chase him, he came back after an hour, sobbing, apologetic, saying he didn't know why he was such a bad boy, and then crawled into my lap as I sat in the rocker on the front porch and pitifully asked into my chest, "Am I still your little monster? Can you give me another chance?" And I did. I always did coz I loved him so much.
I gave him another chance when he ran again some months later, and told the police when they found him that I was trying to kill him - which prompted them to block off both ends of my street with cop cars, and then approach my house with guns drawn while I stood on the porch, gaping, on the phone with his worker (the running finally stopped - at home - when I finally got the police to stop patting him on the head, giving him toys and stickers, etc. when they found him).
I gave him another chance when he found my car keys while I was in the shower, stole my car, and led a good chunk of the local police force on a merry chase around town, never going more than 15 miles an hour, and using his turn signal and following the rules of the road, yet the keystone cops still couldn't manage to surround him and ended up "executing a pit maneuver" which smashed up the back of the car and left it in the shop for four months.
I gave him another chance when I had to go to school time after time after time to pick him up because of hysterical meltdowns, sometimes necessitating multiple people to manhandle him out of the school and into my car, with one time him biting me in his rage and frustration and then immediately freaking out upon realizing what he'd done and break down into "I'm such a bad boy" hysterics and sobbing.
I admit there were many times I thought I was NOT going to forgive him - that I would not take him back from his latest facility stay, that I couldn't deal with the stress and the drama anymore. But the little monster had wormed his way into my heart and in between all the bad there was so much good, and I could see what a good kid he was/is at heart, and I'd just grown to love him So. Much. I couldn't let him go.
Things like him seeing a kindergartener at school sobbing and afraid in the hallway early in the school year, and my little monster going up to him (on his way back from the bathroom) to take his hand and tell him it was going to be okay, that he was also scared of school at first, and giving him a hug.
Seeing how much it tore his tender little heart when he first encountered homeless people and crying over it and wanting me to give each of them all my money ("What's going to happen to them? What's going to happen to them?" he fretted for hours after).
Using his own money (which he loved) to buy a little girl something she wanted that her mom wouldn't get for her. He did this on more than one occasion.
The joy on his face and his laughter when I first took him to the beach and he took off his shoes and started walking on the sand, giggling and squealing "Daddy, it tickles!" And I realized it actually DID tickle, and loving him all the more for opening my eyes to the joy of something I'd taken for granted. He always got SO excited over so many things that it made them that much more enjoyable - or, again, opened my eyes to things I'd previously dismissed as mundane.
His constant concern/worry for me, often asking "Are you okay?" if I spent too long in the bathroom (hey, I'm old), or stubbed my toe in the kitchen and cried out, etc. I realized eventually part of the concern was I'd leave him/be taken from him as he frequently had nightmares where I died. :(
And then there was the pride I'd feel when he'd conquer a fear or try something he was afraid of - like when we were in a bird sanctuary in Colombia and he kept wanting to feed the birds but would Freak. Out. if they tried to land on him. I kept chastising him/encouraging him to gut it up and he finally did and one of my favorite pictures of him is him beaming proudly while three small parrots perched on his hand/arm, eating the seed he had.
Beyond the behaviors and drama and outbursts there was also the constant neediness. Multiple people would ask how I could deal with him almost constantly needing my attention, crawling and hanging all over me, telling me he loved me 30-40 times a day just so he could hear the "I love you more" in return. He was super affectionate and loved snuggles on the couch while watching TV together or in my bed on the weekend mornings just before getting up. He made it super easy to love him, but also super hard. Thus, the paradox.
Not long after he was placed with me, he made it clear he wanted me to adopt him. I told him from the start that I only came back to Oklahoma because Covid forced me to, in part, and in part to spend time with my dad before he passed. After two years with him, my dad passed but I decided to stay one more year to help my mom deal with the transition, and because my little monster would be finishing elementary school. I did break down and tell him (foolishly, in retrospect) that if he could make significant progress over the next year, and assuming they'd let me, I'd adopt him and take him overseas with me. And while he certainly has made progress from when he was first placed with me almost 3 years ago, he still has a long way to go.
He himself became conflicted over the idea of moving overseas. He loved me, he wanted me to adopt him, but he was also afraid of leaving Oklahoma, of being away from his family (altho he only had contact with the one sister closest in age to him - and still 8 years older), etc. And of course he still had issues and behaviors - esp. at school. The defiance and the drama were still hampering him, and as I hit 60, I realized I didn't have as much energy to deal with his CONSTANT neediness, and also found myself worrying about what would happen when he became a teen and could, literally, hurt me in one of his rages.
Then, it turned out it was difficult for me to find a paying job overseas, my travel agency business wasn't taking off enough to support me, and so I couldn't support him even if I wanted to overseas. BUT I still needed to get overseas to figure out where I could retire, thus the return stint as a Peace Corps volunteer. But I made sure to tell him that if he continued making progress while I was overseas, and if he didn't end up in a home he might like more, with 2 parents, with kids his age to play with, etc., I would come back and adopt him. And I still would. But based on the struggles he continues to have, I don't know that that will happen. And it tears me up.
I've NEVER had such a disconnect between knowing in my heart I'm doing the right thing for me, for my mental and physical health, for my future, while at the same time HATING that it is so and STILL wanting to forget all of it and get him back and somehow deal. I've never loved anyone like I love this little monster and it is Killing. Me. to be without him now. So just waiting desperately for the "time heals all wounds" thing to kick in, and waiting for the distraction of Peace Corps service while simultaneously hoping beyond hope my little monster can turn it around, stabilize, and either end up in a better place or be ready to re-join me when I'm ready to retire. Sigh.
