A Song about Jesus Saved Me From a Childhood of Hell
The doctors told Tammy not to ride horses while pregnant because she was at high risk for miscarriage, but she rode anyway.
She gave up her maternal rights before my first birthday. She did not want to be a mom to me.
Between nine months and three years old, my sense of security and stability slowly eroded to nothing. I slept in tents on the streets of Santa Fe and defended myself from monsters disguised as caretakers.
My father said goodbye when I was four. Not, “See you later, alligator.”
After a while, living was like navigating crocodile-infested waters. The identity of mine that had been trying to emerge was forever marred.
In my fifth year, I lost my faith in the willingness and ability of adults to protect the weak and innocent.
Although innocence was something I never had.
I have one book devoted to my time in foster care. It contains a few photos of my biological parents, my half-siblings, and foster family members. It has the names of my caseworker, judges, doctors, and the schools I went to.
There are glimpses of what my early life was like.
My favorite foods are listed as brown gravy and jello.
The details have been enough for me to put together parts of my history before I was adopted. My mom has filled in the rest, bits she obtained from whatever my caseworker was allowed to tell her.
The abuse I endured during the first five years of my life is such that my state file is sealed. Now that I’m an adult, I can request the records, but I haven’t been able to send the required document. Emotionally, I’m not sure I ever will be ready. I know pieces of what happened to me. Severe neglect. Probably sexual abuse. Certainly physical, emotional, and psychological—some of which I remember.
As a child, I never could have articulated what I felt during my early childhood. Now, when I force myself to visit that little girl, she tells me:
I am not loved.
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