No One Knows My Struggle, They Only Know My Trouble

By Erik Conners

God put me on earth for a reason, to feel what he feels, to feel his pain, to hear the screams his children go through, to witness the molestation cases, the statutory rapes, and the murder of children. He put me on earth to walk the walk because no one knows what he feels but me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Conners
• Release date: May 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310309052

Erik Conners

Erik Jamel Conners grew up moving from one foster home to another under tough conditions that threw him more and more into a path of self-destruction. Severe abuse as a child, beatings, drugs, crime ... you name it, he faced it all.Today, he has turned to God and found that he could now follow his dreams and make them come true. In No One Knows My Struggle. They Only Know My Trouble, the author tells his life story straight from the heart, just like things really were, with no punches pulled.Currently, Erik likes to talk to at-risk youths about making better choices and is thinking of becoming a counselor in the future. Today, he has a happy family with two beautiful little girls that he enjoys raising and encouraging to follow their dreams, whatever they may be.Erik Jamel Conners’ biggest achievement is in realizing that God does love him. He also knows now that just because he had a rough beginning to his life and was deserted by his parents, it does not mean that you are forgotten and can’t make your dreams come true. He knows that God loves everyone and will always be there.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Torture

As a baby, I was born into this world without a single worry, not being able to remember anything until the age of three or four years old. My mother was on drugs as well as my grandmother. It all started when my mother took me and my sister, Erika, over to my grandmother’s house for weeks at a time.

My grandmother had issues. She used to give us coffee, but we were little and thought it was chocolate milk at the time. I remember another little boy lived with her, but I can’t quite put my finger on who he was.

One night, my sister and I were playing, and my mother walked in the door with a facial expression enough to scare any child or grown man. She came in yelling and screaming, saying, Clean this shit up God damn it. There were only a few sheets of paper on the floor because me and Carrie were drawing pictures. We picked up the paper she was complaining about, but she continued to yell at us. My sister tried to tell her that there was no more paper or trash on the floor, but when she did, my mom stormed into the living room and popped my sister in the mouth, saying she was getting smart. My mother told me to get undressed, and to wait for her in the bathroom.

She came in and turned on the faucet to get my bathwater ready. I sat on the toilet and watched her turn on the hot faucet, without even bothering to turn on the cold water to even it out. It was just hot water. As a child, you learn the difference between hot and cold by watching and touching things, and I knew this water was hot as hell. When it was time to get in, I saw the steam hovering over the hot water. When she reached her arms out to get me and put me in the tub, I turned around and ran like a bat out of hell. She was yelling at me saying, Bring your ass here dammit, I’m not playing with your ass.

She caught up with me and slapped me as hard as she could on my back. I fell and hit my head on the wall. She picked me up, threw me over her shoulder, and carried me back into the bathroom, where she dropped me in the water. I started screaming and crying, telling her, It’s hot! It’s hot, momma! I cried and pleaded to get out, but she just held me down in the water and scrubbed me. Crying my eye’s out, looking at her, while I was burning my ass off, she looked at me like she didn’t have a care in the world. I was helpless, powerless, and I couldn’t do anything but sit and burn.

When she finally let me out, I was terrified of her. I felt like I didn’t know who she was anymore. She dried me off and told me to go stand by the floor heater to finish drying off. Now, if I was three or four at the time, my sister was seven or eight. She was three or four years older than me.

I walked towards the heater to finish drying off, when my sister ran to me crying, asking if I was okay. She said she heard me screaming, and I don’t know why, but she kept telling me she’s sorry, she’s sorry. At first, I didn’t understand why she was saying sorry. Momma is the one hurting me, she should be saying sorry.

My mom told my sister to leave me alone, and my sister said, No, he’s hurting. You hurt him! My mom rushed towards her and pushed her away from me. My sister fell back as my mom tried to hit her, but she blocked it. My mom became furious and said to my sister, Oh you want to fight muthafucka? Hold on!

By that time, I was already on the heater. My mom left the room and came back with a belt in her hand, the buckle hanging at the end of it. She ran back in the living room, whacking the hell out of my sister. She hit her in the face with the belt buckle and didn’t let up, like it was the thing to do. My sister was screaming and crying her eyes out as I watched her take one hit after the next. I didn’t know what to do. As the heat was now too hot for me to bear, I got off and said, Mom, I’m done drying off, hoping to take her attention off my sister.

She looked back at me, yelling, Get your ass back on that heater until I say you can get off! and went back to hitting Erika. Scared and terrified of her, I listened. As I watched my mother abuse her, I looked at my right foot and noticed it was pale and white. I was crying because the shit hurt so bad, but I was too afraid of my mom, and what she might do to me if I didn’t do what she said, so I put my foot back on the heater. Standing there, letting myself burn, was the worst pain a child could ever go through. When I looked at my foot the second time, it was completely black.

The door bell rang and my mom locked my sister in the closet. The next thing I knew, there were lights flashing all around me, and I was crawling out of the house on my hands and knees. That was the last time I saw my mother.

Chapter 2

The Beginning of My Journey

The burn on my right foot had deformed my big toe, the police took me and my sister to the hospital. My vision was blurry from there, but I think the doctors put me to sleep. When I woke up, I found that skin grafts were taken from both my thighs, and my penis, scarring me for life.

After recovering, my sister and I were placed in separate foster homes. I feel that was one of the mistakes Social Services made. You don’t separate brother and sister, not after everything that had just happened. That set off my journey of being trapped in the system.

My grandfather’s name was Leo Fisher. He was the only man I knew of who knew my real family. He had been by my side ever since I was four months old. He told me that when he first held me, he fell in love with me and stuck by me ever since.

As you already know, I don’t know any of my family. When I got a little older, my grandfather used to pick me up from my foster home and take me over to a lady’s house by the name of Pam. Honestly, I don’t remember how she looked but I do remember that she was friendly.

The first foster home I remember is the French Home (Mr. & Mrs. French.) When I was brought there by my Social Worker, I did not want her to leave me. I was five or six years old, and the only two reasons why I stayed there was because she said I wouldn’t have to stay with them long, and she was going to bring my sister to see me. I hadn’t seen my sister since we were separated, so of course I was willing to stay when she told me that.

As Mrs. French showed me to my room, it was as if I was walking the plank, not to my death, but to my misery. From that time forward, not fighting to be with my sister lead me down a path to loneliness and destruction.

As I woke up the next morning, while everyone was getting up, I noticed there were three more boys in the house that I didn’t see when I came in. I don’t recall their names, but one little boy in specific had a burn covering his entire back, which Mrs. French had to put Vaseline on to keep moist.

Three months later, I got a phone call from my social worker saying she was coming to see me. I asked about my sister, to which she didn’t reply. Instead, she said she had another surprise for me.

She arrived at the house with my grandfather. I ran right past her, straight to my grandfather’s arms and gave him a big hug. I hadn’t seen him since my arrival there. With him, he brought clothes, toys, and a Jeep Cherokee Power Wheel. My grandfather always said he would track me down wherever I went, and he was telling the truth.

When it was time for him to leave, he gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. I didn’t want him to leave and I started crying. I hated that place. I kept bugging my social worker about my sister, telling her that I missed her and wanted to see her, like she promised.

I went into a deep depression after that. I stopped eating, I wouldn’t talk to anyone, and I wouldn’t go outside or play with the other kids. I just wanted to see my sister.

Mrs. French called my social worker. After telling her something was wrong with me, she handed me the phone. I threw it against the wall and started screaming, saying, I don’t want to be here. I hate it here. I hate you. I hate everybody. I started banging my head against the wall, yelling out, I want my sister, over and over.

My social worker rushed over to the foster home because she wouldn’t have been able to calm me down over the phone. She came into the house and found me sitting in the living room, against the wall in Indian position, banging my head against the wall.

She said, Erik, what’s wrong? Are you okay?

I didn’t respond, I just continued to hit my head against the wall as she asked, What is it? Do you want your sister?

I stopped as soon as she mentioned her. I still wasn’t talking, but just shook my head yes.

Okay, the next time I come back, I will bring your sister. Okay?

I said, Okay, but if you don’t bring her, I’m going to burn this house down. I didn’t see anyone’s facial expressions, but they knew I wasn’t playing. I had my head down, and as I was rocking back and forth, I told Mrs. French, along with my social worker, If I can’t have my family, nobody can have a family. I was as serious as a heart attack.

When she came the following week, she brought my sister with her. I hadn’t seen my sister since the night we were separated, so I was happy to see her. We walked and talked for a good hour before she had to go. We both enjoyed her visit.

A year went by, seven years old now, and I had become friends with some of the boys who lived on my block. I met a kid around my age named Carl. He was the cool kid on the block, and we became good friends. He taught me a lot, but mainly taught me how to steal.

One night, we were at the A.B.C. Market in L.A., and he had stolen one of those 50 foot long rolls of bubble gum. I couldn’t steal anything because my guardians watched over me like a hawk, and since I couldn’t steal from a store, I decided to steal from them.

Mr. French used to leave his jewelry around the kitchen counter, and when I got up the next morning to get ready for school, I saw his jewelry unguarded. At the first opportunity I found, I took Mr. French’s nugget ring. I thought about taking his nugget watch too, but didn’t want to go too far, so I left it there. I couldn’t wait to show Carl what I had.

Recess came and when I flashed it on him, his eyes lit up. He asked where I got it, and I told him to not worry about it.

Carl and I left the cafeteria and I said, Let’s go play kickball. We chased each other to the kickball field, laughing and playing around. Ten minutes into the game, I noticed the van from the house driving around our school. I never saw the house van around my school before, so I got this weird feeling, like I knew he was coming to ask me about his ring.

If you would have seen the way this van looked, it would’ve reminded you of the show A-team, with Mr. T. The van drove by slowly, but it never stopped. My second thought was, Maybe they were just checking to see if we made it to school safely.

Two men on base, and the pitcher tosses me a bouncer. Man, I was going to kill that ball, until I saw the van again, and this time, it stopped. Mr. French got out and spotted me.

He called me to the gate and asked me if I knew where his ring was.

I said, No.

He said, Are you sure?

Yeah, I’m sure, I said.

He said, Now if I find out you’re lying to me, you know what’s going to happen.

I shook my head and said, Yeah.

He said, Okay, then turned around and left. I went back to playing kickball.

My plan was to sneak the ring back into the house before he got home from work, and have one of the other kids find it by giving them a hint, and letting them take the rap. A perfect plan if I would have made it work.

I was in class, didn’t know what I was doing, and somehow, the damn ring fell out of my pocket and hit the floor, making a loud noise. My teacher saw it and called my house.

Dinner was served around 7:00 - 7:30 P.M. We made placemats in school and this was the first time we ate on them. Mr. French came home from work and Mrs. French told him I got suspended for having his ring at school. I knew the shit was going to hit the fan, but I wasn’t feeling too bad, because one of the other kids got suspended from school as well. I felt that we were in the same boat, but boy was I wrong.

This old-ass man had to be out of his fucking mind, because this fool had the nerve to hit me like I was his son. Not only was I not his child, but he wasn’t supposed to hit me either, and to make matters worse, he grabbed a shoe-like slipper and started to hit me on the foot I was burned on.

The next time a saw my grandfather, I told him what happened ASAP. He called my social worker and got me out of there that same day.

Chapter 3

Girl Crazy

I moved to Compton, California, where I was adopted by the Reed family. My grandfather felt more comfortable with me living there because Mrs. Reed was his ex-wife’s daughter, and he felt I would be happier staying with them, as it was easier for him to come see me.

Mr. & Mrs. Reed had children of their own. Their oldest, Don, was grown up, and they had a teenager named Mike.

It seemed like at this time, I was entering a second phase in my life. I was going girl crazy, chasing all the girls, playing, Hide and Go Kiss, writing letters with check this box if you like me, etc.

I remember this girl who lived right across the street from me, her name was Kyion, and when I saw her, my eyes were exposed to a different light.

As I grew older, I learned from my foster brother, Mike. The first time I ever saw sexual intercourse was when I saw him having sex with a girl named Stephanie. The longer I stayed in that home, the more familiar I became with the people who entered it.

Later on down the line, I found out that Stephanie was Mike’s cousin. He took her virginity. It was a funny thing though, because when she started bleeding, they both were scared shitless and didn’t know what to do. Mike thought she was on her period or that he poked the wrong hole.

As time passed on, I became slick and got some quick feels in. Stephanie had the nicest plump booty a kid could ever see. I started feeling on her so much that she soon realized what I was doing, but didn’t even get upset. Maybe she liked me. I don’t know, but eventually I became so comfortable with her, I was touching everything.

Stephanie was around fifteen, and I had put myself in a position where I wanted to touch her all the time. In fact, it got so bad that I was giving her 50 cents here, and a dollar there just so I could get a feel. For an 8 year old boy with a 15 year old girl, hey I wasn’t mad at the situation.

One day we got caught in the act, and her mother, as well as Mrs. Reed, refused to let her come back over. I learned a few things in my three month fling, or whatever you want to call it. I learned that the way you place words in your conversations can get you a long way. Being cute helped as well. Well, I guess you can call it being man-ish.

As I grew stronger with more wisdom and energy, I started to nit pick at what the streets had to offer. I started picking up game here and there and decided I wanted to try it out.

Mrs. Reed’s oldest son, Don, used to bring his girlfriends to the house. He was in his early 20’s, dating a tall, heavyset girl of 23 years, by the name, Tonya.

Tonya came over late one Saturday evening with her 19 year old sister. They ended up staying over that night. We watched House Party, with Kid ‘n Play, but the night soon died out and everyone was getting tired.

I heard the sound of wet kisses, and