The First Hit

I was under no delusions: you sign up for a foster kid, you get a child with a history of trauma. Maybe it’s sexual, maybe it’s physical. Could be neglect or emotional abuse but these kids are in the system because they’ve been injured. I also knew it would be tough. But knowing intellectually and experiencing are two very different things.

The first blow-out came not long after she arrived. She could be surly, petulant – what some might describe as a typical teen, though I would have to disagree. She was usually rude, which I found most difficult to deal with and though I tried to do it as kindly as possible, I would correct her incessantly about saying please and thank you and she did not like that.

“Die, bitch, die! Burn, bitch, burn. I hate you! I hate being here. You annoy me!” The first time she screamed these words to me in a frightening rage, I let it roll off my shoulders.

It’s not me she hates or is angry at, I told myself. It is the rage accumulated from years of trauma that needs release. I was new and fresh and she hadn’t worn me down.

But with each progressive tantrum, it became more and more difficult to ignore the rage. It was most definitely directed at me now. It was me she hated, me she wanted to punch. And that is exhausting and frightening - especially when all I ever wanted to do was help her.