Committed: reflections of an abandoned girl

My biological-sisters and I were adopted in 1980, when we were 3, 5, and 7 years old; I was 3. I do not remember my biological parents at all and for years, the circumstances surrounding our adoption, were, um, altered. The family story goes that when my new mom and dad came to pick us up, I was wearing a red dress coat that was too big for me. When I saw the couple who were now my parents, I screamed, “That’s my brand new Daddy,” and ran into his arms.

From that moment on I was Daddy’s little girl. He was my Daddy, and I was simply his little girl. He spoke up for me when my older sisters were picking on me. He was a buffer between me and my mom as I got older. He cheered me on during track-meets and basketball games. He made sure the boys in the neighborhood treated his daughters with respect. He was the first man to say that he loved me.

The tension between my parents was always there, although I would be lying if I said I noticed. I did not until I was about six years old. My sisters were away at sleep-away camp and I was home with my parents. I wanted to be with my sister’s but I was too young. So, I got to spend time with my parents alone. But they were arguing a lot and I spent a lot of time in my room reading. I did not know why, they were angry. The more they argued, the less I saw my dad. When my sisters came home from camp our parents told us they were getting separated. My world was shattered.

The less I saw my dad the more I felt like something was wrong with me. I remember thinking that I was the reason he left. I remember thinking that my sisters would hate me because I made him leave. My mom told us that he was an alcoholic. I wasn’t sure what that meant. What I was sure of was that there was something in the house that kept him away and I was certain it was me. But then, he moved back in with us until the summer I would turn nine. When my sisters and I returned from summer camp we were told that my parents were now divorced and Daddy would not be around.

I didn’t hear from him again for a LONG time. He barely came by and when he did he was drunk. He fought with my mom and we girls tried to find normalcy in this crazy situation. There were attempts to share custody, with us going to his small apartment on weekends, but after a while that fizzled too. I did not see my dad again, or at least regularly until the summer before he died in 2000.

I spent many years trying to figure out what I did to make my dad leave. As cliched as it sounds, I spent many years looking for a replacement. My mom (an RN) who worked two full-time jobs to ensure that my one of my sisters and I could attend a private school in Manhattan, and was trying to raise three children with a man who had no interest in co-parenting, was exhausted all the time. She was angry. She once let it slip that adopting us was a mistake further proving that the problem was with me. After I was raped, any voice of doubt that remained was quieted. It became easy for me to give my body freely. I was certain that because on the inside I was devoid of something, the outside was all that mattered.

I began dating a young boy who said he loved me but whose life was in complete opposition to mine. I was college bound and he was headed to jail. Yet, his family made me feel loved and accepted. They took me in when my mom kicked me out, and when I found myself pregnant at 17 a month away from starting college, his mom told me to have an abortion. “Kristina, don”t start your life like this. Don’t have a baby with my son. He has no clue what being a dad is about.” He wanted me ton have his baby but when I mentioned all the things that entailed, he had a change of heart. I listened to his mom but knew that my relationship with her son would never be the same.

Two months after starting college, I began dating some one who told me that I was “just not wifey material.” Our 18 month relationship consisted of me doing and lying about whatever I needed to in an effort to convince him to love me including a pregnancy which I was determined to see through for love. After I lost the baby, it suddenly hit me: I was good enough to have a baby with, but not good enough to even be called his girlfriend or wife.

Something snapped and I realized that I had to change some things.

I look back over my life and my relationships and I don’t blame anyone. At 33, I am married 7 years, and after two years of marriage, I became a mom. But I am realistic about my self-esteem issues and how they continue to plague my choices. I know that my dad’s choices shaped my own and I know that my mom’s choices were just as influential. When I chose my husband, I chose a man whose family values were in line with my own and who is committed to parenting. I chose some one who believed that marriage was work, but that it’s worth it. And more importantly, I know that even if my husband and I divorce, our daughter will never feel like an abandoned girl.