Silence is golden.
Such a simple - well known - statement. And yet, so very untrue in so many situations.
My silence here has been anything but golden. It has been a reaction to the turmoil shifting inside of me. The pain and anger I have struggled to get a hold on, make sense of.
It's been an avoidance of what my life faces. A plain and simple refusal to stand up, take my anger, and use it in the way I swore I always would . . . . for the benefit of all that was good and right.
I've been angry. So very, very angry.
And that heated, powerful emotion has ruled so much in my voice being heard lately.
I had figured out a way to use my own pain to strenthen my voice, to give me a resource to grasp on to to make my story known, heard by all. But what I never counted on, what I never thought I would face, was how different that determination would be when it came to the pain and suffering of my oldest son who I lost to adoption.
Seeing, and now experiencing, what he has gone through during the short twenty years of his life has set me on a spiral of confusion, rage and denial I never imagined I was capable of feeling. His hurt is my own. Felt deep in my heart just as every mother would would feel the pain of what her child has gone through. The situations from the past that are so wrong and yet can never be changed.
My son was abused. Mentally and physically. That is the open, bared soul, gashing wound, fact of what he faced - and still faces to this day under the hand of his adoptive mother. What he has faced, an innocent child deserving the best of all his adoptive mother had to offer, is a terror I can never make up to him. Never make right or somehow erase from the childhood he faced.
How could I ever make it right. Ever change the fate he was set on the moment I placed him in the arms of his adoptive mother and walked out of the nursery.
Yes, I have learned so much more about what was done to me. Yes, I understand I was an easy target. A frightened, naive girl who they played every trick on. Made sure, to the best of their abilities, that I would not dare change my mind. I can acknowledge the vulnerabilites they used against me. The lies they threw around like confetti, never caring about the consequences of them.
But that still will never change that my son had no choice and in return was placed in a life of hell.
That's what I want to know. That's what I struggle to understand. They told me that I would be the one to abuse him, neglect this wonderful baby boy. They claimed I could never give him the life he deserved and if I loved him I had no choice but to lose him.
So I did. I lost him and he lost me. And what came in return . . .
A childhood of physical abuse from his adoptive mother and his first of two stepfathers. Years of mental abuse in the most horrid of ways from his adoptive mother and extended adoptive family. He faced sitting in a court room hearing his adoptive father proclaim he never wanted him and only agreed to the adoption to keep his adoptive mother happy.
He's been told that his adoptive family does not see him as worthy of carrying on their name. Shown, in more ways than one that he didn't "behave" well enough for them to treat him with the love and understanding he deserved. If he upset his adoptive mom he was denied the inhaler he desperately needed as a chronic asthmatic (a trait inherited from his father.)
If he did wrong, angered his adoptive mother, she left the house, leaving him alone while proclaiming she was never coming back to him because he didn't deserve her as a mother.
My son never deserved that! He is an amazing, special man who is worthy of all the love and care every child should find in their life. Why would his adoptive family treat him like this. Why couldn't they just love him for who and what he was instead of insisting he be and act like somebody he wasn't.
And why . . . of all things in this hell . . . did they tell me I would be the one to abuse and neglect him when that was never true. And they did it only to place him in a family that did just that. But they didn't give a damn because his adoptive family were the ones to sign the check, pay the next salary. Keep the money rolling in.
My son was given hell so others could profit off of his pain.
And it's wrong. So very, absolutely, completely wrong.
And nothing will ever be able to change what he went through. Nothing will ever make up for it or make it better. He was treated terribly. That is the simple fact. And nobody gives a damn. Because . . . hell . . . it was adoption and nobody gives a damn what happens to a child as long as adoption is tagged on to the end of it.
And I hate that. I hate that so many "happy, rosy, adoption is great" believers out there want nothing more than to push my son's story under the rug where it won't be heard, acknowledged. They want me to shut up because adoption has been so great for them and they aren't about to take my son's terror and give it any justice.
What does he matter, right? It's adoption. His experience doesn't count. Not when it's associated with such a disgustingly favored action that supposively saves children from bad childhoods.
But where did it save my son?
My son who now lives with me, his father and his siblings. My son who still suffers through the cruelty of his adoptive mother. Who can still be brought to tears by the ugliness she slings his way.
It was supposed to be about him. About giving him the best life he could ever have. And yet, it never was, and still isn't to this day. What matters is the gain some receive through the adoption industry. The dollar signs on the checks that are deposited. The fullfillment of the families who desperately want a child to call their own.
That is all that matters in this ugly twisted reality of adoption. It's there for those outside the children who have no voice. Outside the realities they might face by being taken from their families who love and cherish them for everything they are.
I put him there over twenty years ago. I placed my poor, amazing son in the life he faced and there is nothing I can do now to protect him from that. And so many out there want me to simply shut up and ignore what he went through.
But how can I? How can I ever ignore his hell? His pain?
And who the hell would ever ask me too except for those who have and will continue to profit from the loss of children seperated from their mothers?
Wordless Wednesday — Walk This Way
1 day ago