My Adoption Heartbreak

     I wanted to adopt children for as long as I can remember.  Maybe it's because I'm adopted.  I wanted to give kids in bad situations a safe home.  I understood where they were coming from and wanted to help.  I thought about it often and made many plans in my mind.  I also wanted to be a social worker to help even more children.
     When my husband and I were dating, I told him of my desire to adopt.  Fortunately, he was on board.  I wouldn't have married someone without the same vision.  After we married, it took a back burner as we started our family.  We agreed that we wanted our biological children to be older than those we adopted.  We also didn't want babies.  With that timeline in mind, I was content to wait.
   
     When our children were 13 and 16, we started the process of becoming foster parents.  To be clear, we never wanted to foster.  We wanted straight up adoption; kids whose parents had already had their rights terminated.
     We went to all the classes and we got our clearances.  We had all the home inspections.  We began working with a social worker to find the children who would best fit in our home.  My heart was full!  My life-long dream was coming true.

     On July 15, 2008 we met Krista and Carlie, who were 10 and 7.  They were beautiful girls who looked like they were our own children.  They had been living in another foster home.  This was the third time they had been removed from their biological family.  They had been out of their home for a year.  It looked like a smooth adoption process was ahead.
     As with any transition, there was some bumps.  Krista had been treated as an adult by both her mother and previous foster mom.  She had difficulty just being a kid.   She also had nightmares, so she fought sleeping.   Due to previous issues, we were told the girls could not share a bedroom.  Our 16 year old daughter gladly gave up her own room to share one with Krista.  Carlie just wanted to feel safe.  At seven, she had already experienced things most adults haven't. Yet she was the most loving, lovable little girl.  She made friends quickly and laughed easily.
     We continued to have home visits.  We also had to take the girls to supervised visits with their parents every week.  There were some behavior issues leading up to and following  these visits, but I expected that.

     Our children did a remarkable job of accepting Krista and Carlie into our family.  As my oldest sister did when I was a foster child, Ellysa doted on them and treated them like little dolls.  She played games with them and helped with homework.  Ben was a proud big brother. He loved the girls and even shared his most-prized possession, his gaming system, with them.  I am beyond proud of how open-hearted they both were.  Adoption had always been my dream, but they fully bought into it.
   
     Then the system failed us.

     At parental visits the girls were being told by their mother that they were going home.  This thrilled Krista.  It terrified Carlie.
     Our case worker tried to reassure us.  Everything was on our side.  But it wasn't.  The parents' rights still had not been terminated.  There started to be rumblings that they were actually trying to get the girls, and two other siblings, back.

     My dream was falling apart.

     In February 2009 we attended a hearing to determine if the parents could have the girls back.  It was the longest, most gut-wrenching hours of my life.  We listened as the previous foster mom made the parents looks like nurturing, functioning parents instead of the jobless addicts that they were.  We listened as their lawyer attempted to malign my character.  We listened as their lawyer questioned the therapist we'd been taking the girls to see, implying that seeing a private therapist rather than one through the government was somehow a negative.  There is so much more, but it's not mine to share.
     The court ruled that the girls be returned to their parents at the end of the school year.  I felt like I had been punched in the gut.  Tears stung my cheeks.  I held them in as best I could, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry.  Once my husband and I were out of the courthouse, I couldn't hold them in anymore.  By the time we got to the car I was sobbing uncontrollably.  The pain in my heart was unbearable.
     Now, I had to tell these two sweet girls what was going to happen.  I dreaded that conversation.  When we got home we sat down with all four kids.  We told them what the judge decided.  Krista smiled, happy to be going home even if it was months away.  Carlie fell into my arms, lip trembling and eyes full of tears, begging me to not make her go.  It was heart-breaking!    Ben and Ellysa's responses were equally sad.  Our world, our family, was never going to be the same.

     I'll admit that I began to pull back from the girls once I knew they were leaving.  I was trying to protect my heart from further pain.  I'm not proud of that.   I didn't know how else to keep from hurting more.  The system that saved me as a child was destroying me as an adult.  It was hurting my children and my potential children.
     After the girls went back to their parents, their mother refused to let us have any contact with them.  She wanted to act like the 10 months they were with us had never happened.  I floundered around for a while.  I was left asking "why".  We had done everything we were supposed to do and it still turned out badly.  How could my dream be such a nightmare?
    People meant well, but didn't really understand.  So many asked us when we were "getting more kids".  We never intended to be foster parents.  We never wanted to have a revolving door.  I couldn't put Ben and Ellysa through that.  I couldn't handle that.  My husband saw how wrecked I was.  I know he was in pain, too.  He just hid it better than I did.

     It's been 11 years.  The nerve is no longer raw, but the pain lingers.  Healing is happening.  It's a process, but I know it's happening.  You know how?  I recently hung a family picture that we had taken when the girls were with us.  It had been in the basement for 7 years.  I no longer cry when I look at it.  I've also had some limited interaction with the girls on social media.  I cherish those.
     My dream didn't turn out how I wanted it to, but I would still choose the time I did have with the girls over not feeling all that pain.  They contributed to our family, and I like to think that we had a positive impact on them.  Do I hate how the system screwed us over?  Absolutely!  There is no acceptable reason for the bungling that took place.  But, like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes by having those girls in my life.

My Life: Before and After

     This picture was taken when my sister and I were first placed with our foster (and later adoptive) family in 1973.  I was five years old, and terrified.  The previous year of my life had been more chaotic than usual.  Our mother had died, our father was in prison, we'd been removed from our grandmother's home and were now living with a family we didn't know.  So, I have a lot of conflicting emotions when I look at this picture.

     Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like had my mother lived.  Would I even be alive?  The abuse my father inflicted on us would, no doubtedly, have continued and, most likely, increased.  Would that have made me a fighter or would it have broken me?  Would I have followed the generations before me and become a teen mother, seeking love and safety outside my family?
     To be honest, I really don't think I would be alive today.  I like to think that the inner strength I have now existed then, but I  suspect it would have gotten me into trouble with my father.  His temper would have been my end.  I am so thankful I was rescued from that.
     However,  I weep for the time I lost with my Grandmother.  We stayed in contact through letters and phone calls, but it wasn't the same as having access to her.  I can remember nights I cried myself to sleep because I missed her so much.

   
The picture also brings joy, knowing my life after this went uphill.  I had safety and security that I never felt before.  There was laughter instead of yelling, hugs instead of hitting, peace instead of chaos.  I had a family.
     I'm not saying it was a life free from conflict.  I had so many things to deal with in my mind.  I tended to overthink, to have both sides of a conversation in my mind, to think I wasn't worthy of anything.  And I had secrets which I fought all the time, which made it hard for me to open up or to receive love.  All these things made me "the odd girl out".

     While I didn't always fit in, I always had a place.  The parents I had lost were replaced, plus I gained more siblings.  The picture at the top makes me sad.  This last picture makes me happy.  My second family wasn't perfect but it provided what I needed to heal, and I am forever grateful for that.

What Does Healing Look Like?

     Five years ago my guts exploded.  I had a cyst on my intestine that burst, allowing grossness to flow into my abdominal cavity.  I had an extensive surgery and spent 10 days in the hospital.  Several times the surgeon  told me that he didn't know how I was alive.
     When I returned home, I spent another eight weeks in a recliner because I could barely move.  The pain in my abdomen was excruciating.  Every movement felt like I was being punched in the stomach.
     Two weeks after I got home they removed the staples.  All 22 of them.  They were in various stages of healing and it felt a little cruel to be yanking them out, causing me more pain.  The surgeon assured me that it was healed enough to stay together on it's own.  He could see that the healing had begun. A scar was forming.
   
     Where there is a scar, it's a reminder that an injury occurred but has healed.  But how do you know when an emotional wound has healed?

     A couple weeks ago I wrote a post about my sexual assaults, and many people responded with "now your healing can begin" or "I hope this brings you healing".  Honestly, the healing began long ago.  I wouldn't have been able to write that post if it hadn't.  Emotional healing happens much like physical healing: in phases.  It takes time.  There are levels.  God cares too much to force it all at once.

     My first level of healing began when I was placed in foster care.  Just being in a place where I was no longer being harmed allowed my emotions to begin to reset.  I was still hyper-vigilant, but I was finally in a place where I could just be a kid.  It wasn't always easy.  I had nightmares and was easily frightened.  I had memories that I didn't know what to do with, so I learned how to compartmentalize them, to tuck them away in their individual boxes to deal with at a later time.
     For several years I left those boxes untouched, stowed away like Christmas decorations in the attic.  Occasionally memories would pop up and I would stash them back into their boxes, unwilling or unable to deal with them at that time.  Their appearance stirred up too many emotions, too much pain.

     The next level of healing came during my time in Youth With A Mission.  When I was there I learned so much about God's character.  That, coupled with an accepting environment, allowed some more of the layers to be pulled back and dealt with.  This was where I really began to work through forgiving my biological father.  He had much to be forgiven!  As I struggled through some of these, God began to revel to me where He was during those times, holding me in His arms.
     In YWAM I became friends with guys for the first time in my life.  It was a safe environment, with low expectations.  It was more a commune of brothers and sisters than an episode of The Bachelor, which allowed me to unpack some of the boxes of sexual assault.  This was sometimes a raw experience.
     My husband was one of those guy friends.  He tells the story of how a group of us were playing LIFE.  One of the outdated parts of LIFE is where it forced you to get married.  Well, when it was my time to get married I made the male peg ride in the far backseat of my car.  This was very disturbing for him.  He had his first glimpse into what my life was like, but wasn't bad enough to chase him off.       Our 30th anniversary is in a few weeks.  During those years there have been pockets of healing.  Again, not easy times.  I often felt like I was ripping off scabs.  Healing meant finding my voice.  It meant standing up for myself.  It meant knowing that whatever lay ahead of me had to be better than what I was leaving behind.  It meant that my husband and I weren't always in sync.  It hurt.

     For 10 years we were heavily involved in a local church.  I, we, experienced much healing there.  However, a lot of additional injury occurred, too.  I'm still working through that, so I'm choosing to not include those years in this post.

     I started attending a trauma support group eight years ago.  For the first 2 years I went I didn't speak.  I always sat in the same place, where I could see the door and everyone else that was there.  I observed.  But there was a stirring inside me.  It was the need to unpack some of the heavier boxes. 
     I began seeing a therapist, who was also the leader of the support group.  A few sessions in, it felt like she reached right in and yanked out the boxes.  They felt like balls now, bouncing all over the place.  They didn't fit back together, neatly, anymore.
   
     That process started five years ago.  Am I healed?  No, but I am healing.  It's similar to when my guts exploded.  Even though there was healing taking place on the outside -- evidenced by a scar-- there was still healing that needed to happen on the inside.  Emotional traumas are the same.  At times, I feel like I'm totally normal, whole, complete.  Then there are days when I feel like I'm just holding on by a thread, my emotions bubbling just below the surface. Both of those are okay.

     What about you?  Do you have boxes or bouncy balls?  Healing can start in either place  are you ready to see what yours looks like?