People at the border said no….so my adoptive parents smuggled me out.

Last night I was laying in bed thinking about how sad and frustrated my real mother must have felt after my adoptive mother brought me to visit her. Once the illegal/fake paper work was done, my captor decided it was “safe” to let me visit my own flesh and blood.

I cried a bit last night. I cried because I can’t imagine the pain my mother must have been put through. I was not meant to be adopted. But after all was said and done, it could not be undone.

I grew up knowing in my heart that I was loved by my birth family. I don’t know how I knew, maybe The Primal Wound explains it all. But I knew that the lies my adoptive parents told were just that-lies.

Fast forward years later when I actually have contact with my birth family. I see them now. I’ve met several cousins, two of my amazing siblings. My aunt. And have recently had a short chat with my grandfather.

And they are all well. Which is a huge surprise since my adoptive parents kept me believing they were not.

We didn’t talk much about adoption when I was growing up. And when we did, it was all rainbows and unicorns.

We didn’t talk much about race, or racism and how I was the target of evil deeds all because of the color of my skin. “Just forgive them.” They would say. “They are just jealous. ” But forgiving them didn’t change how they behaved towards me, it just created more anger. Because we were not dealing with the issue.

Forgiveness is like a band-aid that can backfire. Some things need air to breath.

As I lay in bed, tears softly hit the pillow. And I kept asking myself why was everyone so sorry? My aunt is sorry, my siblings are sorry, my grandfather is sorry. Everyone is sorry and yet somehow, that does not change what happened.

Does sorry help to assuage the guilt? What Guilt?

That they didn’t fight for me?

That by law they couldn’t get me back?

That maybe I was not meant to be adopted in the first place?

Everyone seems to know my story except for me.

As I learn more about who I am, my dreams confirm my worst fears: I was trafficked.

When I was around 10ish (years for an adoptee are often fuzzy) we had gone to Haiti to visit my family. I remember my brother, my mom and my sister there. Part of this I remember, and the other part I see in pictures. But we spent some time together. I could not communicate with them. I didn’t speak creole. Creole was discouraged in my home and was only spoken when the “help” was around. So I lost much of my creole though I know today science says that the birth language can be retrieved at any given point. It is imprinted on the brain.

I remember after the visit we headed to the airport. My memory is fuzzy but I remember the airport personnel not letting me out of the country. I was so confused. I was being raised by these white people who were my “parents” legally, but I didn’t look like them. I don’t know if my parents had the proper paper work. I didn’t know anything. All I recollect hearing was the word Kidnapping. I didn’t know what that meant. I was clueless.

I had an experience similar to this one as an adult.

With me was my white blonde-haired sister. I had been living with them for about 5 years now so I knew her as my sibling. I didn’t see my blood as my siblings. Because in order to survive, in order to not cry yourself to sleep each night, you have to force yourself to believe a lie…..a story that goes against your heart. Just like with Stockholm syndrome, one is forced to bond with their captors in order to survive.

Now as an adult, my only thought was that this could have been my mothers final attempt to keep me. Even 5 years later, she still wanted me. I could have fit back in. I would have thrived. I was loved. Love causes you to thrive in ways you never could imagine.

Was this her attempt to keep me with her?- Her now 10 year old Haitian daughter that was adopted without her permission? Was this her attempt to keep the family together? She didn’t sign the adoption papers. She didn’t sign any papers. She just had me in the orphanage so that my illness would get better.

Was this her final attempt to make sure I knew I was loved by her and that she was sorry? Did she alert the authorities when my adoptive mother took me to the border?

People at the border said no….so my adoptive parents smuggled me out.

When border patrol at the airport denied my exit under the suspicion of kidnapping, my adoptive mother paid a motorcyclist to smuggle me and my white sister out of the country. I remember the motorcycle ride. We went over the Hills, around the banks. He drove fast. I think she took the plane.

I was being abducted all over again. But legally I was theirs…..they didn’t want me taken from them. I was their prized possession. They went through great lengths to get me, even though I was not available. They paid a lot of money for me. According to them, I opened their spiritual womb…..but I didn’t choose them.

Everything else is blurry. And I cry as I type this. Why can’t I remember? Has my memory suppressed things in order to protect me?

I remember talking to my adoptive parents later. It was a stressful ordeal. But were they running from something? We never returned to visit my family and when I turned 12, my mother died.

To know my mother died looking for me makes me super sad. It makes me angry that she could not keep me. It makes me teary when I think about her not being able to afford a lawyer to get me back. It makes me sad that she was forced to call me by my adoptive name and not the name she lovingly bestowed upon me. My eyes water each time I think about her struggle.

Her struggle to get me back.

So what was that smuggling all about? I’m in my 30s now and would love to ask my adoptive father but unfortunately we are no contact. I can’t deal with him. Forgiveness is not flowing in his direction. Forgiveness will NEVER flow in my adoptive mother’s direction.

Why do I not forgive two people who raised me?

I won’t forgive people I do not love.

I can’t forgive someone who knew that what they were doing was wrong.

I will never forgive someone who uses God to justify their evil deeds.

Was I loved in my adoptive family? Maybe. But not real love. My adoptive family loved the idea of me, but they did not love me. They could not love me fully because I believe they knew my family fought for me. And their anger at how the family fought was projected on me.

I never felt real love from them. I only felt love that came with a checklist-conditional love. Maybe my psyche knows that the incident at the border was my mother fighting for me.

Till Death DO US Part.

It took death to bring the rest of us together. And with this new found family, this different love. This love that feels unconditional, I can begin to live.

Forgiveness is like a band-aid that can backfire. Some wounds need to breathe.