I was born and raised in Lansing, MI. I was born on August 23, 1986 at St. Lawrence Hospital. When I was 2 I was taken in by my daycare providers while my parents tried to get on their feet in order to provide for me. When they couldn't, I was adopted at age 5. I don't remember a lot of happiness between 7 and 18, but when I was a sophomore in college I packed my bags and left for school and wiped the dust of that town off my feet.
Today I hardly ever return. It is, to me, a ghost town. Every blue moon when I go to visit, I may drive past my old house, they one I was raised in as a child. I see myself playing on the driveway, being careful not to trip on the raised crack. I remember shaking the ant off my shoe while howling loudly as my sister laughed from inside the house. I remember pretending to re-enact the stories of Cinderella in the backyard. And I remember how I used to pretend the giant gnarly tree in the backyard of the house next door (which my parents owned also) was a secret hiding place and housed magical creatures. I remember how cluttered the garage was and how I don't know why my parents didn't just burn it down, it smelled of mildew. I remember being so afraid of the laundry room I ran in and out whenever my mom asked me to go get something. And I remember sitting against the couch in the living room and smiling so hard at the big tree outside the window, full of beautiful autumn leaves, and pledging myself never to forget how happy I was at that fleeting moment in time.
When I was in high school, we moved to a nice area in a nice school district. But although the outside of our house was beautiful the inside was like a passage of thorns you had to pass through multiple times daily. And I bled out. I believe I died in that house, and going back invokes so much pain and hurt and anxiety and panic that I can't find comfort in knowing that the bad part is over. I'm still shaken from the aftershock. I see my ghost in there all the time, wandering around, trying to please, brewing with anger, screaming in delirium. The only person who calmed me there was my Grandma Jannie, when she would come to visit. I knew the storms would cease if only for a little while when she was there. Sometimes I miss her and her love so much. I see her ghost there too, sitting where she always sat, eating at the table, putting her wig on in the guest room. I see her slathering lotion on her arthritic hands, and me adjusting her hearing aids when they whistled. I saw a give and take, with me helping her and her telling me how sweet I was and how pretty I was. I remember her preaching to whomever would listen about how good God had been to her. She was my angel during those times. May God grant her entry into the kingdom if only for the kindness she showed to this one person!
If I hop on the highway and get off on Saginaw, I can easily maneuver to my birth mother Teresa's house. Whenever I am in town she insists I come over, insists I eat, insists I take all kinds of snacks and things with me. I feel loved, I feel missed. But I don't feel like I belong. I see the ghost of my 2-year old self still wandering, wondering what happened to her mommy and daddy. Wondering how she sees them now but couldn't see them then. Not able to attach because too much time has gone by. Wanting to know why they left. Wanting to know why she still hurts so much. Wanting to know why God caused her to be forsaken by two sets of parents in very different ways. Wondering how she can be an effective parent with the examples she has to follow. Wondering how to break free and pass into present-ness and happy-ness and forgive-ness and still-ness and peace. The little adopted girl and the pre-adopted girl have ghosts that still live in Lansing MI, and going back "home" is a hurting experience for my adult heart seeing them everywhere I turn.
I don't feel as if I belong. I feel as if I've been replaced. My adoptive parents have two more adopted children they are raising. They don't need anything from me, except care when they are old. My birth mother is remarried, and is raising a young daughter, as the ghosts of her first and second children haunt her daily. My birth father is out of state. I don't belong anywhere, or to anyone. There is a wall on either side of me, and a set of parents is on each side. I can see them through holes in the wall, but not touch them or feel any physical contact. My fingers reach out to hold them and they pass through them, just as one cannot fully embrace a spirit or ghost. The torture of not being able to connect is maddening. I feel this is my lot to carry throughout life, and am often sorrowful. I try to pass over by spiritually connecting to my only consistent parent, my Abba Father, who has promised to be with me until the ends of the Earth. This is my last try at childhood. May God patch my heart, heal my sorrow, and help me follow His example to lead my children. May they never feel as I have felt and struggle with what I struggle to overcome daily. May that hurt die with me and may God relieve me from this torment in a timely manner.
Perseveringly,
Monica
Today I hardly ever return. It is, to me, a ghost town. Every blue moon when I go to visit, I may drive past my old house, they one I was raised in as a child. I see myself playing on the driveway, being careful not to trip on the raised crack. I remember shaking the ant off my shoe while howling loudly as my sister laughed from inside the house. I remember pretending to re-enact the stories of Cinderella in the backyard. And I remember how I used to pretend the giant gnarly tree in the backyard of the house next door (which my parents owned also) was a secret hiding place and housed magical creatures. I remember how cluttered the garage was and how I don't know why my parents didn't just burn it down, it smelled of mildew. I remember being so afraid of the laundry room I ran in and out whenever my mom asked me to go get something. And I remember sitting against the couch in the living room and smiling so hard at the big tree outside the window, full of beautiful autumn leaves, and pledging myself never to forget how happy I was at that fleeting moment in time.
When I was in high school, we moved to a nice area in a nice school district. But although the outside of our house was beautiful the inside was like a passage of thorns you had to pass through multiple times daily. And I bled out. I believe I died in that house, and going back invokes so much pain and hurt and anxiety and panic that I can't find comfort in knowing that the bad part is over. I'm still shaken from the aftershock. I see my ghost in there all the time, wandering around, trying to please, brewing with anger, screaming in delirium. The only person who calmed me there was my Grandma Jannie, when she would come to visit. I knew the storms would cease if only for a little while when she was there. Sometimes I miss her and her love so much. I see her ghost there too, sitting where she always sat, eating at the table, putting her wig on in the guest room. I see her slathering lotion on her arthritic hands, and me adjusting her hearing aids when they whistled. I saw a give and take, with me helping her and her telling me how sweet I was and how pretty I was. I remember her preaching to whomever would listen about how good God had been to her. She was my angel during those times. May God grant her entry into the kingdom if only for the kindness she showed to this one person!
If I hop on the highway and get off on Saginaw, I can easily maneuver to my birth mother Teresa's house. Whenever I am in town she insists I come over, insists I eat, insists I take all kinds of snacks and things with me. I feel loved, I feel missed. But I don't feel like I belong. I see the ghost of my 2-year old self still wandering, wondering what happened to her mommy and daddy. Wondering how she sees them now but couldn't see them then. Not able to attach because too much time has gone by. Wanting to know why they left. Wanting to know why she still hurts so much. Wanting to know why God caused her to be forsaken by two sets of parents in very different ways. Wondering how she can be an effective parent with the examples she has to follow. Wondering how to break free and pass into present-ness and happy-ness and forgive-ness and still-ness and peace. The little adopted girl and the pre-adopted girl have ghosts that still live in Lansing MI, and going back "home" is a hurting experience for my adult heart seeing them everywhere I turn.
I don't feel as if I belong. I feel as if I've been replaced. My adoptive parents have two more adopted children they are raising. They don't need anything from me, except care when they are old. My birth mother is remarried, and is raising a young daughter, as the ghosts of her first and second children haunt her daily. My birth father is out of state. I don't belong anywhere, or to anyone. There is a wall on either side of me, and a set of parents is on each side. I can see them through holes in the wall, but not touch them or feel any physical contact. My fingers reach out to hold them and they pass through them, just as one cannot fully embrace a spirit or ghost. The torture of not being able to connect is maddening. I feel this is my lot to carry throughout life, and am often sorrowful. I try to pass over by spiritually connecting to my only consistent parent, my Abba Father, who has promised to be with me until the ends of the Earth. This is my last try at childhood. May God patch my heart, heal my sorrow, and help me follow His example to lead my children. May they never feel as I have felt and struggle with what I struggle to overcome daily. May that hurt die with me and may God relieve me from this torment in a timely manner.
Perseveringly,
Monica
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