Hello lovelies. Late night. 😐 Things at times for us, can get pretty dark. Our lives have been pretty dark. We thought back to a memory, that we are lucky to have for the moment. It’s both good and horrible. The one thing our adoptive family did their best to do was appear to be the perfect family.
Even acts of kindness in our family was cruel and twisted. We remember sitting in room with our child care worker (back when we were good lookin’) crying our eyes out. One of the only times we actually cried. We blubbered about how we were oh so lucky to have such a great family.
The child care home we were in knew what my family was up to. They didn’t buy our adoptive families story from the beginning. When they started asking questions, we were pulled out, sealing our fate, for decades and decades. The official excuse was financial. The actual motive was to hide trauma.
They even hid it, in plain sight. We celebrated our (We think) 14th birthday out our child care home. Our adoptive family came up to see us, which was a considerable trip. They showered me with all kinds of fancy gifts, dressed in their best. We would have had them arrested had we known the torture we actually suffered.
Katy, Elizabeth, Dana, Matt, Mark, Kayleigh and many others suffered that trauma as well. It’s their memories, just as much mine (Mike). Unfortunately our memories are compartmentalized by alter, it seems and our memories come and go. We didn’t remember what happened.
After our family left, we broke down. We ended up in the staff office crying our eyes out. We felt so horrible for all the other kids in our cottage that weren’t blessed with the gifts that we were given. That’s the disgusting, despicable and disheartening part of living with torturers. Their gifts were a ruse. A game. An act.
A really bad attempt, to be loud and proud, declaring themselves to be the finest parents at the children home I was at. So much so, my adoptive mother started baking cookies for the entire cottage.
Perfect little family. However, even during a birthday celebration visiting us, we were told “Not to talk black”. Turns out we are tri-racial, a fact, of which they knew they adopted us. Disgusting at every possible, human level.
For us, even acts of kindness had to be questioned and not trusted. Our life was over after that child care home.
There comes a point when that suppressed trauma bubbles up. We liken it to a sunken cargo ship. Every once in a while, a box, a bag, a piece of luggage comes floating to the surface. All of us feel used right now. Embarrassed and ashamed. When you don’t realize that you are the victim(s) of horrible atrocities, you accept the role that was given you. You are the aggressor and the abusers, saviors.
That role is the awful person. The terrible son. The devil brother. The peice of shit that couldn’t get his act together. We were the dark, black abomination in our home. Looking back now, all we want to do is reach into time and scream at the top of our lungs at the young man in the mirror, in his room at that children’s home. To scream and yell and protect the version of ourselves that had no idea what had hit us. To shriek, even, “You, most certainly are NOT the Devil – The opposite”.
The lies. the “You’re children are pigs”. “You’re the devil”. “You are the one that’s sick”. “Go ahead, call the police, this isn’t abuse”. No one knew, outside of our family, the horrors that went on in that home.
“Don’t leave any marks on him” – “We’re going to handcuff you to a car”…. On and on. When you live with DiD, even the worst of assaults and trauma is forgotten almost as soon as it happens because it’s not just you it’s happening too.
It was just awful. Every time we acted out badly, the louder we screamed, the only way we knew how to scream – We were the ones at fault simply by existing. We couldn’t escape their torture, lies and awful manipulations, even hundreds of miles away.