When Childhood Starts Getting Complicated

I look back now, at myself as a child. Twirling around in circles, laughing, dancing, playing and I recall things now that at the time, meant nothing to me.

Such as, caseworkers. What does a five year old truly know about a “caseworker?” To a five year old, this person is just another adult, talking at them, looking at them, an adult who this child never knew before.

I remember the first time I realized what a caseworker was. She was a woman. A woman who came to visit me, in my home, with the people I called family.

A woman who was there, to act as a guardian, a protector of what would happen to this child. To me. Someone who was assigned by the court, to make sure I was being taken care of.

Around my sixth birthday, the man I grew to know and love as my father, died. I did not know what “died” meant. I just knew people from everywhere kept coming to visit the woman I knew as my mother, who was crying and sad.

Soon after, my “caseworker” appeared. And removed me from the only home I knew. The siblings I loved. The friends I had made at school. And my grandmother, who I loved more than anything and anyone. She was my best friend.

Raven Sapphire