I was adopted a little before my third birthday. I know it to be true, but remember it more because my foster mom had given me a birthday gift before I left and wished me happy birthday before I went to live with my new family.

My sister and I were adopted together. The way my adopted mom tells it, we took a little to adjust; we wouldn’t eat much for two weeks, but finally one night we had fried chicken and I supposedly told my sister ‘let’s eat’ and so we did. My sister and I were like best friends growing up; sure, we fought and maybe more than other good sisters did, but we had each others’ back and we confided in each other. Home videos show my sister copying me, us having fun, and memories are great when thinking of my sister and other sister that we later adopted with us [totally cool to get another sister our age to play with!].

As abusive as my mother was, we had each other.

And then I left. I left my sister alone. And I was alone.

My sister wasn’t totally alone; she had our brothers and sisters and still had my mom and dad despite the malfunctions of the family. But she didn’t have me; we looked out for each other. But how could I look out for her when I wasn’t there?

It would eat me alive thinking about all the bad things I did to my sister or let her endure; I beat her up because we were arguing who was taller [turns out we are exactly the same height…right down to the 3/4 of an inch]. She insisted she was taller and I insisted she was wrong. I beat her to the ground and it ate me alive to have that memory as possibly one of the last memories of my sister. She was my sister after all and I loved her.

Modern day internet marvels have allowed for us to get back in touch, but for awhile there I was utterly alone. It didn’t bother me so much that I didn’t have anyone; I only felt truly alone at holiday times and for my birthday, but only because more often than not, I had to spend them alone.

I feared my mom growing up. She would hit us with whatever was closest to her hand, and that is what put me in the system in the end. There were a couple of times I thought I may actually die. I suffered from Enuresis which meant I was a frequent bed-wetter. It was not until I was about 12/13 that I finally stopped wetting the bed, but my mom did not make the process easy at all. She would make fun of me or discipline me in her own fashion to where I would hate to get up out of the bed if I knew I wet it. And I wet it frequently.

One of our houses had hardwood floors in our bedroom and I had wet the bed yet again. Mommy dearest threw insults/names at me as I carried my sheets to the washroom and I decided to ignore them. She didn’t much care for that and proceeded to discipline me in my room. She was so enraged that she started to bang my head against the hardwood floor; fearing I would actually die, I let myself go limp so the blows wouldn’t have as much impact as if I were clinched. All I could think was why would God let me die like this when I had prayed and prayed for a new mom?

And I did. I used to pray for a new mom. I wanted one so bad. Just wanted a nice mom. A mom who would love and comfort me; who would help me grow and nurture me. I wanted a mom who actually told me she loved me. I can count on two hands [and that’s a generous figure] how many times mommy dearest told me she loved me.

But I was adopted. I was special. I was chosen. She chose me. She chose to get us. She chose to take us in. And yet we were a burden. We were the reason she had no friends. We were the reason for her financial burdens. We were the reason for all the wrong in her life.

Me, the honor student who hated the taste of cigarettes and alcohol. The one who cared so much for her that I would try my best to make her feel better about herself [my mom was a lil overweight and a bit self-conscious about it…so much so that I noticed it]. The one who just wanted to be loved. My sister, the intelligent artist who only did poorly in school when she realized that it was important to my mom that she didn’t do poorly [she rebelled in any way she could]. The one who loved her sisters enough to take the brunt of the abuse. The one who could do anything she set her mind to, but since her mind was set on defying my mom, she was good at defying my mom. Or my other sister whom we had picked up special because she needed a family and we already had her brother. The one who was as sweet as could be, tried to do well in school, tried to be accepted, and tried to block the pain of life as we knew it with drugs and alcohol like my sister.

We were good kids. We were typical teens, but we were good kids. We endured the bullshit that was the abuse of mommy dearest and did daily chores that consisted of steady dusting, vacuuming, sweeping floors, bathrooms, dinner, and dinner dishes. We were a great brood of maids. Daily. I had to quit track in 7th grade because I could not get to bed at a decent hour because I would have to finish my homework and chores. I had no problem finishing my homework, but it would make me late for finishing my chores and that was not acceptable to my mom; I had to quit track so I would have enough time to finish my chores. I was good at track. But I had redundant chores to do.

I was a smartass then just as I am now. I would tell my mom that she wasn’t being fair, she would say life wasn’t fair, and I would tell her that life was more fair than she was. I deserved to be disciplined at times, but I contend that I would have been a better kid if my mom had been a better mom. When my cousin moved in with us, my mom preempted her move by telling us that that was her blood and we should be nice to her. But we were special…we were chosen…we were family too, weren’t we??

One argument we had, I had just had enough. In desperation I asked her what it was I was doing wrong; I couldn’t take the crap anymore and I wanted to know what to do to stop it. She told me what I was doing wrong: I was breathing.

Mommy dearest would never win the mommy-of-the-year award. No, she would earn a night in jail for cutting my head with a glass coffee pot that she decided to hit me with. And I would win the rest of my high school career back in the foster system. I didn’t get to graduate with friends I had had since Jr. High. I didn’t get to graduate with honors because the moving between different school systems made me miss one of the years of a foreign language that I required. I didn’t get to enjoy Prom because by the time I got settled at one school, I didn’t have enough time to make the real good friends you make to go to Prom with. I went to the after-party with some friends, sure, but it wasn’t the same. I missed out on graduating with a class of my real peers and friends.

I was afforded some luxuries that I’m sure my sisters didn’t get because I was in the system though; I got application fee waivers for my college applications. Four free application fee waivers I took advantage of, and one that one college had sent me just because. I got into all five colleges that I applied for. No one to feel proud of me save myself. No one to help me choose which one to attend. No one to give me props for a job well done. But that was ok; I had done well despite my mom.

I made some bad decisions that took my focus away from my studies so I lost my scholarship by .1 of a GPA point, but I didn’t let it get me down. I went back to TX and to a public school because another luxury I was afforded by being in the system is that I got my public tuition paid for by the state. I should have decided to go to a public college to begin with, but the one out of state had a prestigious pre-law program that I had wanted to take advantage of  [I incidentally changed my major to Psychology when I had the coolest teacher ever that made me just fall in love with the subject my Freshman year] and they were the only college that showed they really wanted me. My first and second choices weren’t giving me enough money or showing any interest in me so I didn’t feel wanted. And at that point in my life, it felt nice to feel wanted. Too bad life didn’t treat me well the next few years so I had to postpone my diploma. I still have a year and a half to complete. I plan to do so as soon as I can.

For now I work hard and treat my friends and family with the respect they deserve and that I want to see returned to me. I’m generous and honest to a fault, but working on both as they seem to hurt me most in the long run. I still make mistakes, but I learn from them. Life still throws me a curve ball, but I take a swing at it anyhow; I don’t let life’s roadblocks block me.

And yet almost daily I want my mommy. Not mommy dearest. Just mommy. What mommy should have been: my confidante, my supporter, my nurturer, my help, my guide, my protector. I want my mommy. But not that lady who chose to adopt and abuse me.