Years ago I was diagnosed with depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. I have had depression for as long as I can remember. I was the kind of child where all my good memories took place when I wasn’t at home. I loved going to school because it was a safe place for me. I wasn’t good at school, I just liked going to school. I loved summer camp because I wasn’t at home any more. The first time I went to summer camp it was for two weeks. I had never been away by myself for that long at one time. I was thrilled that I didn’t have to worry about things for two whole weeks. I felt safe for those two weeks. But those two weeks were not nearly long enough. As the two weeks came close to the end I started to panic again about having to return home. I didn’t want to return home, I was scared to return home, I resented that I had to return home. I knew that I wouldn’t be safe when I returned home. And as that home day drew closer the fear grew higher. After that first summer at camp, I would always go for a month.
Now that you know that part, let me tell you why being away from home was a safe place.
For as far back as I can remember I was beaten. I was adopted at 7 days old. I was adopted due to the family not wanting to give birth to another child but yet wanting another child. So one would think that they had wanted me since when you adopt someone you get to pick the one you want. Or that’s how I think it works even back then.
But that didn’t seem like the case to me. If I got to pick the child I wanted out of all the children being put up for adoption I really don’t think I would have beaten that child. If I had wanted a punching bag I would have bought one instead of adopting a child to use as a punching bag.
It was the adopted mom that would beat me. And it didn’t matter what she used, it would be anything that was handy to use at that particular time. It would never happen when the adopted dad was home so I would pray that he wouldn’t ever leave the house and if he did leave the house that he would take me with him. Which unfortunately didn’t happen. I was told years later that when a lady would babysit me that when my mom would come to pick me up I would sit on the babysitters foot, and wrap my arms and legs around her leg and beg her not to send me home. To let me stay and live with them.
I walked on egg shells in my house. I was always ready when I turned a corner, or walked out of a room that she would be there waiting for me. I didn’t sleep well, because I always felt that I had to be aware of the noises around me in case it was her coming into my room at night to beat me for something I did during the day that she couldn’t hit me for then because my dad would have been home.
To this day, every little noise I hear at night I am awake to because I get terrified that someone is coming into my room to beat me.
To this day, I flinch every time someone moves something around me too quickly.
To this day, I fear that I will be beaten by someone in my life.
To this day, I fear that I will be the beater to my son.
To this day, I feel that I must have done something in order to deserve what I got. Why else would someone adopt someone and then do that to them.