I Just Didn't Understand (11)

The day was finally getting closer for us to move in to the house on the new property, just a couple of more weeks and we would be there.  While our family waited for that day to come, tensions were getting more intense between the adopted mother and I. I would like to think that because of the tight living quarters and the list of a hundred things going on at one time, that the reasons for the tension to get tighter were justified. But, in reality, it was just part of the cycle of talks and yelling at me that was just becoming all too familiar. I almost expected it, any day, every day. She was getting cold towards me and just treating me like I was anything but her daughter.

 We never got to go do mother/daughter related activities. I remember one time going to a tea room for lunch for some reason but I didn't really care for it, I wasn't a prim and proper kind of gal, I was very down to earth, very tomboyish no thanks to living in a family of nothing but boys and I just didn't do the whole foo-foo thing.  Whenever we did go out to do something, I could never really enjoy myself because I didn't know why she was being nice to me, or why she would want to be with me, she was usually pushing me away or spending time with Matthew, why would she want to spend time with me?  So, we just didn't do much together and I hurt because of it. I wanted to have a mother and daughter relationship, I wanted her to be with me, want to be with me and want to be proud of me but nothing I could do would please her. I would try though, I would try to do the right things, try to say the right things, act the way she wanted. I would soon come to the conclusion that she was just molding me to be this robot of a person that I wasn't.

 I was never allowed to develop into the person and personality that I was and be who I was intended to be. I was independent, free-willed and spirited. But I was also kind, full of compassion and yet there was a fire within me that could burn if it was fueled just right. But, again, I wasn't allowed to be this person. I would be told that being independent would be a sign of rebellion and that being sarcastic and having a sense of humor would be acting disrespectful and also spark an attitude of rebellion.  In fact, anything I did wrong or didn't do right in her eyes, was considered to be an act of rebellion.  I would constantly find myself in situations where if I didn't put some thing in the cupboard in the right place, or ruined a load of laundry, I was being considered as being disobedient or want to do things my way and not hers. The idea of being responsible would never make sense to me, I was given the responsibilities of cleaning the kitchen or doing laundry but the day I would make a mistake, would be the day I was considered irresponsible and my responsibility would be taken away until the day the house would look like a hurricane came through it and then I was given my responsibilities back because it was now convenient for her.

I would never win with the adopted mother, nothing I did was right enough or worthy of praise or compliments. I would struggle to this day with the need to please everyone around me because I was trained or taught it was needed to please her and if I made a mistake or fell short of her expectations, I would be told how stupid I was and how I would never amount to anything in life. This kind of emotional abuse would go on until the day I left home and it would haunt me as an adult today. I don't do well with letting people down or not meeting their expectations and it would be a result of what I went through with her. 

 I was never allowed to do participate in extra curricular activities because it meant that I might do something better than her and she couldn't let that happen. I did learn how to play the flute when I was about 10 and would play in the band at the Bible church where we spent so many years, but then I was taken out of that for some reason. I would keep my flute but only be allowed to play it in my room and play out of a hymn book. I was on a swim team for a year or so, actually Michael and Matthew and myself were on swim teams. I was okay at it, it was the only ‘sport’ that I would be good at. I would place a lot in second for all kinds of swims and it was something I actually enjoyed, something I could be challenged at and my swim coaches saw it, and they would help me be better. I would get a lot of awards for swimming and mostly for AWANAS. I had a memory like nothing in this world and it would score a lot of points for our team at our church. Every one knew I had the memory too, every year I would memorize everything the AWANA leaders could give me and I would still run out of things to memorize. But, like the band ordeal, swim and AWANAS would come to an end as well and there would be nothing else for me to do. Because of the home school curriculum we were using and the things we were being taught at the new church, the adopted mother would get some idea brainwashed into her head that having things in our possession like ribbons and trophies would cause us to be ‘proud’ and be rebellious so the day would come where all the ribbons, trophies and plaques that I would have worked my tail off for, would be thrown away in the trash. The day that happened, I cried. I was angry again. I did not understand why. Matthew was allowed to keep his awards and stuff but not me. Anything that proved that I was good at something would be thrown away like it was garbage and I would never have anything to show for anything I did. In my mind, she should have just thrown away my childhood, the only thing that I would have to remind myself of what I did good as a young girl would be my memories in the back of my head.

It was stuff like this that just convinced me that she hated me and other things would happen that would just confirm that to me.  One day while we were waiting to move out to the house in the country, we would get a phone call from the Bible Church we had left and the church had bought the land next door that was a horse ranch and the church was going to expand and build a new building. There was a huge barn on the property and we were told we could have the barn but that we would have to take it down and move it ourselves to the new property. Well, our family did just that, well, let me re-phrase that, Michael and I and Dad would go take the barn down.  Board by board, metal by metal, we would take it apart, load up the pieces onto a trailer and haul it out to the property where one day we would resurrect it again.

One day while Michael and I were there helping Dad take it down, Michael and I would be carrying a 16x4 and we were supposed to be stacking it in a pile to take, well Michael would for some stupid reason drop his end of his board and it would send my heavy end flying up in the air out of my hands and it would land on top of my left foot. I screamed! My Dad wasn't around and so I tried walking it off, at the same time, trying not to kill Michael because of his lack of common sense. The top of my foot began to swell and there was a puncture wound where the corner of the board had pierced it and it was bleeding now too but I didn't think anything else about it until later that evening when I went to take my sock off and it had swollen even more. I thought it was broken and was very concerned and thought I should show the adopted mother only for her to blow it off and say it was ‘bruised’. I wasn't convinced and not any more convinced as I would go to bed that night and it would throb. I would get up the next morning finding myself barely able to walk on it. It had swelled into the size of a soft ball. I could barely get a sock and shoe on that foot but I was forced to and I was told to stop acting like a baby. For a few days, I would limp on my good foot trying not to put pressure on the bad one. I was convinced that it was broken if not that, cracked at least. It would be swollen and black and blue for a few days. I was never take to the doctor or emergency room at all. I didn't understand why either. Why would they not be concerned? If it had been Matthew, they would have taken him to the ER the first day it happened.

Again, it was stuff like this that just didn't make sense to me! Why would she treat me like this? Why was I forced to sit at a table and eat a meal that I didn't like but yet Matthew was allowed to do whatever he pleased? I will never forget the night she made us Frito salad and it was my favorite but she didn't realize that she didn't have ranch dressing for it until she made it so she decided to use thousand island, I HATED that stuff, I hated the sauce on a Big Mac and so I detested that dressing even more, yet, I sat at the table for 3 hours while I tried to shove that stupid salad down while gauging the whole time. I would never touch that dressing ever again in my life. I hated thousand island, I hated mayonnaise, I hated bologna and pimento cheese spread. All of those things I hated with a passion and I would never touch it again as long as I lived. In fact thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach.

The miniature sermons I would get when I would mess something up or say something I shouldn't would increase and I would always have to sit there and listen and pray that she wouldn't slap me in my face. She was getting really bad at that. She would slap me if I looked at her wrong, or didn't speak up loud enough, she would slap me so much of the time that if she stood there in front of you and yelled at you and would wave her hands while she talked and if I jumped just at the movement of her hands, she would slap me anyways. So, I started to expect it and there were times she would slap me hard enough to make my nose bleed but she wouldn't care.

One day at the Retreat Center, she found out that I had been teaching Jacob how to do and say things and when she confronted me about it, she would slap me for it.I was being slapped and yelled at for doing something right, doing something she should have been doing but wasn't. I was slapped for pretty much doing anything and it would get worse.

Our family was getting more catering jobs outside of the Retreat Center and we would go and do those but of course I was not allowed to socialize or be outside of the kitchen where we working or watching Jacob. There was so much work to do, I was always washing the dishes or watching Jacob and Matthew was always eating or following my adopted mom around. I was starting to dislike the whole thing, there were times I wish that Matthew and her would just not go because it was sickening to see them interact and see her treat him like he was God or something. I loved my Dad, but was never allowed to be around him much, he was so lenient with me and he and I would always get along and she wouldn't let that be and she would one day put a stop to our relationship from ever growing into what it should have been.

There was so much going on that I just didn't understand! I was getting angry and just non emotional to things. I wouldn't cry, I wouldn't let anybody see me cry and nobody would be around at night in my dark room to see the tears fall into my pillows. Nobody knew that I was entertaining the idea of running away or wanting to kill myself.  Nobody would see the wheels spinning in my head about how confusing this whole ‘family’ thing was to me. Nobody would know what was really going on behind closed doors for the longest time.

Finally the day would come for us to move out into the country, in our new house and start a new life together as a family or at least that’s what I thought was going to happen. Little did I know that I was just a couple of years from freed from my bondage in my own earthly hell but little did I know as well that it would become worse before it got better.

Until next time, be blessed and inspire to make a difference!

~The Adopted Child