By Skye Steenberg
I would say I don’t remember a lot, but unfortunately, I do. Motel rooms that smelt of day-old pizza. The sound of broken glass, silent tears, and the murmur of 911 on the phone. Beer bottles over-flowing the bathtub and those hideous wooden panels that covered the courtroom. The continuous bobbing of balloons that read Congratulations; somehow the same ones attached to the string gripped between my little hands — knuckles turning white. The way the judge smiled, as if this was good — as if losing my mother and everything I have ever known, was good. Upon exiting the brick building, I felt my cheeks flush as I took a sharp breath of cold air. The smell of burning cigarettes — abrasive to my underdeveloped lungs, made me feel like I was slowly suffocating. Or perhaps it was the laughter, the smiles, and the unrealistic expectations of a little girl who just legally lost her mom. I would like to say I appreciated all of the attention, but it was her attention I wanted most.
Adoption comes with loss, that is expected. Alternatively, living a life in the foster system where drugs, neglect, and sexualization are apparent — that is not expected, or at least it wasn’t to me. What once was celebratory eventually became a buried secret, one that felt illegal to discuss. For the first 17 years of my life, I could not speak about my mother, not because I became too emotional but because I quite literally couldn’t get my throat to open. My lungs felt like a prison on lockdown, hushed murmurs berated my tongue, yet no one else would ever witness them existing. I learned to choke it down until the tears dried up and the pressure within my chest released. I was a criminal, guilty of loving someone who did not love themselves and the harsh reality was that I would be serving a life sentence.
My mother loved to garden and spend time in nature. I grew up learning how to nurture seeds when ironically, she struggled to do just that. I would catch salamanders in the pond and eat blackberries off the bush. I spent time going to alcoholics anonymous (AA) and even at a young age, I would help my mother make coffee for the meetings. I felt content with her, even if I did things abnormal to most childhoods. Just as the good memories flood my mind like hot coffee, the bad ones stick like the coffee residue left in the bottom of the cup.
I stood outside our lifted single wide in my Dora pajamas, the depiction of my childhood being stained by a flood of red and blue lights. I got used to dissociating among the stars, as this was often the visual beyond the deconstructing scene in front of me. I liked to focus on something other than snapping handcuffs and dumbed down explanations. I was a 4-year-old who had seen much more than most — I did not need a dumbed down explanation, in fact, one day, I gave a very specifically detailed explanation to a CPS supervisor. Sitting in my booster seat, hair in two pigtails, I explained that fists often flew, glass often shattered, and most importantly, “I love my mommy”. Emphasis on the last part because my mother was my safe haven, or so I thought. She was beautiful, smart and prone to addiction. To her, liquor went down like a wrecking ball; destroying everything in its path. The repair often took a few weeks until construction was halted, and disaster resumed. I loved the way she would comb through my hair with her fingertips and whisper “It’ll be ok baby”. It’s too bad her liquor-soaked breath and purple under eyes were a reoccurring sight.
The pale visitation rooms were represented by their miniscule details; their jaundiced walls, a baby doll covered in old marker and a few sparse VHS tapes. The rocking chair appeared especially battered, with carved shards of wood missing. Where did they go? Was it still whole without them? Perhaps, this is how my mother felt every time she carried me outside and strapped me into my booster seat — ensuring me that the note taking lady would drive me back safely. This continued for years, a court battle unwilling to end. Our visits dissipated over the years, from overnight, to 2 hours every other day, to 1 hour a week, to eventually, nothing. I held her memory in my hands like a ticking time bomb, unaware that I would forever be grieving the death of someone very much alive.
Time went on without her, I excelled in school despite all odds. I participated in sports, such as soccer and wrestling. I appeared very normal but felt the opposite. There were a few cases where this reigned true. One third grade afternoon, I remember feeling my heart race and my blood thicken as I overheard my name being summoned through the intercom. In fear of being in trouble, I wandered down to the office. The office ladies, nice as ever, led me to an empty office room. I sat at the head of a large oval table, unsure of what to expect. The walls were blinding, and I felt so small. In ushered a man in a suit, he declared that he was there to discuss my progress. I felt sick. He mentioned my pastimes and my at-home life; I answered with occasional nods and “mhm”s. It all just felt strange. This would be my life for the next few years.
Life as an adopted child was never easy, but I learned to navigate it. I had no map, no sense of direction, but yet, I learned to survive. What once offered me security eventually became a nightmare. I became a bystander in my new home, like a fly stuck to the wall. I lost all will beyond dissociating. Their bones stood cold, stuck in stone. The external form that was once their physical vessel became subject to deterioration. Breaking into fixations and murmurs. Conscious or not, something was absent. Their minds dissipated into thin air without a trace, locked in another world with no awareness nor sympathy. Empty eyes and a lost soul — they looked but they couldn’t see. I could see and I could feel. Floating bodies and thin air. So much pain or none at all — a two-lane street but everyone was traveling one way, driving blindly with denial. For most of my teenage years, I fell victim to the consequences of drugs, yet I was never the user. I slept with a knife under my pillow because I never knew what adults were present nor what they were capable of. I left that home at the age of sixteen, never looking back.
College offered a purpose to me, a sense of dignity that I could reclaim. It meant breaking cycles and reaching for the stars, the same ones I spent many cold nights gazing upon. Their sparkle in my eye was never an accident, it was a promise. I have learned to trust the universe and how to protect my peace. Healing has become easier, and I have concluded that I was never unlovable; they were just unloving.
As I sit here writing this, feeling the safety of my apartment and hearing the purrs of my cat in my lap — I think to myself, I may have finally found my home. A home that doesn’t rely on anyone else’s happiness; a home that doesn’t crumble at the drop of a pin. That is worth more than I could ever explain because that little girl who grew up in chaos gets to finally breathe. That teenage girl who wanted so badly to escape this world has discovered the will to not only live but thrive. They are I and I am them. I may have been sentenced to life, but I have broken the chains, and I am finally free.