I am evidence of abuse

My existence, the life I led, was set in motion by an original trauma, intentionally inflicted on my real mother and myself. I learned that my real mother wanted to keep me but was dissuaded from doing so by her church in the final weeks before I was born. She’d worked overtime for months to buy baby supplies. And when she gave birth, she remained under gas mask anesthesia until she had signed the forms they demanded she sign.

Now you imagine signing legal documents, as a minor, under anesthesia, for something as life-altering as giving away your child because your parents and church demand it.

I do not believe that my adoptive parents were aware of the way I was acquired for them. I believe that they probably would not have accepted me if they knew what had been done to my real mother.

They certainly tried to be good parents, but they started from flawed assumptions and then continued to inflict damage through the guidance of their religious beliefs.

Now, with the benefit of knowledge, I can see how lies and dogma created a situation where my abuse was hidden, not only from them but also from my real mother, my real father, and the state of Idaho. The actions of a lawyer and his assistant, with the acknowledgement and cooperation of the surgeon, buttressed by the pomposity of not one but two pastors from two rival Baptist churches, who conspired to destroy the emotional well-being of my real mother, simply for daring to want to raise me as her son.

I am processing

I’ve gotten all the puzzle pieces. There’s a lot I’ve got to make sense of… but I have all the pieces.

The struggle just to put together the story of my birth has been exhausting, and the mental discipline to process everything is grueling. I intend to survive this process, and put the story together so maybe what happened to me could be something other people could learn from, or find cathartic, or make something positive out of… I don’t just want to sit with my story jutting out of me as a nervous trigger.


I’m in a period of time that is often called a “reunion” – but I find the term itself complicated.

The people I’ve met are all disconnected from the event of adoption, most of them were not alive at the time I was taken. I’ve met my younger sisters, on both my biological father’s side and my mother’s side. I’ve met my nephews and nieces, cousins, and a brother on my father’s side, all younger. There was no reunion there, as there had never been a union.

Similarly for my biological father, whom had never had any idea that I existed, that I was alive. No union there either. The terms that are used for these moments are borrowed terms, and have no real map to the experience.

Mark Twain

“Plain clarity is better than ornate obscurity.”

“Some authors overdo the stage directions; they elaborate them quite beyond necessity; they spend so much time & take up so much room in telling us how a person said a thing and how he looked and acted when he said it that we get tired and wish he hadn’t said it at all.”

– Mark Twain.


Aging changes the difficulties settings in one’s life.

As I get older and start to reflect more, I understand just how complicated it can be to try to fix some things that went wrong.

Trying to find a way to a conversation that could start the healing process becomes completely obscured with the passage of time.

My body is a landscape of scars I animate through ferocity of will to push through the pain.