The story of a boy really began on april 18, 2006. The adoption took place just a couple days ago. July 18, 2007 to be exact. I didn't know things would take this direction but it all felt natural and comfortable. Journalling this will help me keep the spirit of my adventures with my new son.
He is a survivor, to say the least. His story is unbelievable. I don't even know where to begin really. It has been a year and 3 mo since he has been with us so my memory has been somewhat obscured by the present. His memory is doing the same. This is probably a good thing for him and maybe me too.
He had so many events to reveal. He still does but they are less frequent now than in the beginning. He was so matter of fact. I was not capable of responding. I felt so inadequate knowing these things. I didn't know what to say. Mostly I would hold him and say I'm sorry. There is no earasing these atrosities. There is no consoling. My ears were taking in too much. I really did not know what to do for him or for me. We still had to deal with everday ordinary things like the bath, meals, checkers, playing, work and just stuff.
It's better now. Much better. I think he has stepped away from it all. He just visits those places now and then. Of course he was ready to step away the minute he stepped inside. Inside our home, our life. He needed to know his relation to all the family members as soon as he met or heard their name. It was so interesting how quickly he established his place. He was satisfied and comfortable with his spot, almost as if born into it or dropped down onto a soft feathery something that allowed him to gently bounce or float before settling in.
In the beginning he seemed to have become unleashed, free. So free it was scary and out of control. So free, so fast and furious, climbing, jumping, running, flying if he could . Somewhere, anywhere. a couch, a counter, bed, chair, a ledge, a wall, any little brick that protuded had his feet securely planted,klinging desperately to anything anywhereIt didn't matter as long as he was moving He was grasping , reaching, trying to become part of something, anything. I could only watch dumbfounded constantly reminding him and myself that it was my job to keep him safe. It was difficult and I was incompetent. It was too much. The moments were filled with his anxieties and mine. We had to keep moving forward. He had to keep moving, keep talking, endlessly. Every evening bath came with its story. Stories of his mistreatment, his beatings, his severe abuse. The stories were matter-of-fact, present tense and emotionless. It's the way it was for him, it was just the way it was. The belts, table legs, electrical cords, bat, and fist were all devices to deliver the message of control or no control. How could these things be true? Why would anyone think that this was O.K.? Wasn't there someone with the sense to stop it? He never told, he couldn't or else there would be another reason for another beating, maybe the fatal beating. He had to survive, he had to live.
It was almost as if he felt comfort in knowing that a slight slip or misstep would cause the fall , the injury or insult to his already shaken and scared body. Walking a very fine line was the every day, ordinary existence.
It was a battle field . He was the soldier. He was the prisoner. How long could he go without food and water? Not much longer. He had to sneak the water. He had to use the toilet water to prevent dehydration. If they heard the faucet there would be another beating. This little prisoner was in solitary confinement No one to protect him. And for what? What did he do ? What does any 7 year old child do to warrant such a hideous punishment. This little boy, so shaken, battered beaten and scared inside and out, survived the battle. His heart kept it's beat, his breath did not fail. But his memory keeps it and it always will. Bits and pieces seep out now and then. Sometimes the same story, often a new one. What is the future? Can he overcome this abuse. Will he ever really know that it wasn't because he talked in class? Will he ever know that it wasn't his fault? Does he believe me when I say that I love him, or that he is so smart, or funny, or handsome? Is there a remedy for this that will guarantee a strong, stable, self confident man who can handle his emotions?
He seems to be OK. He seems happy. He plays, dances, sings, and he can make me laugh. He testified in front of a grand jury. Afraid, and hiding under the table. but he did it and he is proud that he did. He said they need to be in jail. They do, for a long time.
He is a survivor, to say the least. His story is unbelievable. I don't even know where to begin really. It has been a year and 3 mo since he has been with us so my memory has been somewhat obscured by the present. His memory is doing the same. This is probably a good thing for him and maybe me too.
He had so many events to reveal. He still does but they are less frequent now than in the beginning. He was so matter of fact. I was not capable of responding. I felt so inadequate knowing these things. I didn't know what to say. Mostly I would hold him and say I'm sorry. There is no earasing these atrosities. There is no consoling. My ears were taking in too much. I really did not know what to do for him or for me. We still had to deal with everday ordinary things like the bath, meals, checkers, playing, work and just stuff.
It's better now. Much better. I think he has stepped away from it all. He just visits those places now and then. Of course he was ready to step away the minute he stepped inside. Inside our home, our life. He needed to know his relation to all the family members as soon as he met or heard their name. It was so interesting how quickly he established his place. He was satisfied and comfortable with his spot, almost as if born into it or dropped down onto a soft feathery something that allowed him to gently bounce or float before settling in.
In the beginning he seemed to have become unleashed, free. So free it was scary and out of control. So free, so fast and furious, climbing, jumping, running, flying if he could . Somewhere, anywhere. a couch, a counter, bed, chair, a ledge, a wall, any little brick that protuded had his feet securely planted,klinging desperately to anything anywhereIt didn't matter as long as he was moving He was grasping , reaching, trying to become part of something, anything. I could only watch dumbfounded constantly reminding him and myself that it was my job to keep him safe. It was difficult and I was incompetent. It was too much. The moments were filled with his anxieties and mine. We had to keep moving forward. He had to keep moving, keep talking, endlessly. Every evening bath came with its story. Stories of his mistreatment, his beatings, his severe abuse. The stories were matter-of-fact, present tense and emotionless. It's the way it was for him, it was just the way it was. The belts, table legs, electrical cords, bat, and fist were all devices to deliver the message of control or no control. How could these things be true? Why would anyone think that this was O.K.? Wasn't there someone with the sense to stop it? He never told, he couldn't or else there would be another reason for another beating, maybe the fatal beating. He had to survive, he had to live.
It was almost as if he felt comfort in knowing that a slight slip or misstep would cause the fall , the injury or insult to his already shaken and scared body. Walking a very fine line was the every day, ordinary existence.
It was a battle field . He was the soldier. He was the prisoner. How long could he go without food and water? Not much longer. He had to sneak the water. He had to use the toilet water to prevent dehydration. If they heard the faucet there would be another beating. This little prisoner was in solitary confinement No one to protect him. And for what? What did he do ? What does any 7 year old child do to warrant such a hideous punishment. This little boy, so shaken, battered beaten and scared inside and out, survived the battle. His heart kept it's beat, his breath did not fail. But his memory keeps it and it always will. Bits and pieces seep out now and then. Sometimes the same story, often a new one. What is the future? Can he overcome this abuse. Will he ever really know that it wasn't because he talked in class? Will he ever know that it wasn't his fault? Does he believe me when I say that I love him, or that he is so smart, or funny, or handsome? Is there a remedy for this that will guarantee a strong, stable, self confident man who can handle his emotions?
He seems to be OK. He seems happy. He plays, dances, sings, and he can make me laugh. He testified in front of a grand jury. Afraid, and hiding under the table. but he did it and he is proud that he did. He said they need to be in jail. They do, for a long time.
3 comments:
Life is an on going journey. This is the beginning of a new journey for you and your family. I couldn't be happier for you!
I'm so happy Londyn is finally home. It's good that those memories are fading too. He's a bright boy and i'm glad i got to meet him. Take care of you and that will take care of him too!!
love,
Nikki (annie's daughter!)
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