The other side of the story – National Adoption Month

After reading an article on National Adoption Month, I wrote the following poem. The author of the article blames adoption for her issues. I remember as a young child praying each night that either my ‘real’ mother appear as ‘the mother’ hated me so and couldn’t actually be my mother or that my father would find someone kind who would have us both. After my unanswered prayers, I would cry myself to sleep.

My steps took me to university where I majored in Psychology obtaining my Master’s Degree and as a single parent then began working at a private therapy clinic and with Child Protection.

I do acknowledge the woman’s pain. However, she appears to have other issues and is so focused on ‘being adopted’ she cannot put a foot forward. I’ve been the kid that should have been surrendered for adoption. I’ve also worked with both sides both as a private therapist and in Child Protection. I know how bad the system is and often the kids end up with relatives who are not far from the parent/s they were removed from and/or do not protect them from said parent/s. 
When I was about four, I began going to the next door neighbors home to help with her clients. Mrs. Jones was a speech therapist for the Crippled Children’s Society. There were often children sitting in her living room waiting to be seen or siblings that needed to be distracted while they waited. Helping with these children and being an early reader helped me to focus outside a situation that was out of my control.

The poem below is offered to all those parents who put the child first and to all those children adopted or not who are survivors of some of life’s harshest realities. This piece is also for those brave individuals who step forward and make a difference in the life of these children.  In the end, it is all about love. Some never have been on the receiving end and don’t have love to give. Some have love in abundance. My sincere wish that all would find peace. I know from personal experience that my peace came from learning, understanding and perhaps most of all, reaching out to others who were or are still in pain.

 

“Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother.” – Oprah Winfrey

*

The other side of the story

 

Yes! I’ve no doubt

How painful it must be

Finding out your mother

Didn’t want, didn’t keep

You

Always knowing that she

Didn’t want you

Couldn’t keep you

Left you to the care

Of others

Whoever they may be

Searching crowds

For genetic similarities

Are they a part of me?

Where do I belong?

That eternal search

For home, acceptance,

Unconditional love

 

From my earliest memories

I would pray that my “real”

Mother would find me

I must have been put

Here by mistake

Yet her proof – horrific

Caesarean scar – my crime

Fragmentizing for a girl of three

Prayers for my father to

Find someone else who

Would be kind to us both

Hatred by – the mother

The word ‘mother’ still

Makes me queasy

 

Target for her rage

Making sure bruises didn’t show

Sold off to the grandma’s

Boyfriend – deacon of the church

For him to scatter his holy seeds

And cleanse my wickedness

Father unable to defend him self

Becoming his defender

Deflecting her rage onto myself

Believing he wouldn’t survive

And I would be alone, yet

I was always on my own

Never a kind word, nor

Gentle touch

 

I tell my story not for pity

Now at last I’m free

If you were adopted

Perhaps that mother

You search for

Spared you from my fate

And others who suffered more

Knowing she was not able

Perhaps the choice was not hers?

If you were treated kindly

You’ve much to be grateful for

Try forgiving – we never forget

It is on the road to healing

Then reach out to

Those who still suffer

Taking the focus off ourselves

Catharsis for healing

*

Bisous,

Léa

Wounded

“Parents wonder why the streams are bitter, when they themselves have poisoned the fountain.” – John Locke

“There can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than the way in which it treats its children.” – Nelson Mandela

“A person’s a person, no matter how small.” – Dr. Seuss

Wounded

The tiny blonde woman wails like a banshee

Invoking her curse that I not see my children again

Since the Courts ruled she can’t see her children again

Says she will take me out like Rambo

Court orders sever familial ties

As Reunification services are terminated

A three-year-old boy

Whose name she doesn’t remember “You know, the one I hit.”

And social workers are left to assess detriment

For future visits with this parent

There will be no contact

And Jeffery learns he doesn’t have to hide

Each time he hears footsteps

Doesn’t cower at the knock on the door

The door is not after him It won’t slam him down

As when momma calls from the other side

His vocabulary multiplies each day

His now chubby freckled cheeks widen

As a grin spreads across his face

He runs to the waiting arms of his foster mother

Learning to trust – there are no tricks here

No fist hidden behind her back

Waiting to strike out

Like the eerie hissing of the snake

Whose incantations are lifted from my voice mail

Voice printing

As the sheriff’s department collects evidence

My office building covered with her picture

Covered with warnings – Do not approach

Report sightings immediately

She says that it is her daughter that she loves

The one with the heart condition … her name is Brittany

Does she remember?

Does she remember the names of any of the others?

Six others – each who have different homes

In different states across the country

Altered states

Is time healing their wounds? Do the scars show?

The deepest ones rarely do

Thousands of miles from here

Other social workers are dealing with scars

From the tiny blonde woman

Who wails like a banshee

On my voice mail

In their nightmares

In the quiet of my room

Late at night

Back at the office

I hesitate Before answering the phone

At work they tell me to be careful

“Watch your back” “get an escort to your car”

Reassurance that law enforcement is looking

For the tiny blonde woman

Is obtaining a warrant

They lie in wait for her

As she lie in wait for Jeffery

On the other side of the door

As she lies in wait for me

Wailing

This wounded animal

Lies in wait

Waiting to strike

And I wonder about the animal

That wailed lying in wait for her

Ripping its claws deep inside

Shredding her mind, her soul

Wounded, wailing

The tiny blonde woman

Wails and

Waits

Bisous,

Léa