Not every beginning has a good start

 Every day waking was a death wish. Yes even as far as 2 I can remember the physical and mental pain i endured. The world is a dark place. Even in Bogota Colombia.  So you would think being adopted would have a wonderful ending. Or did it become the worst nightmare.?Coming to America would be a blessing, or would it be the worst thing to happen to a human. So one of many memories I do have of the system down their  was we were always poor.  We all slept in an open room, all the kids scared. Some were mean. Some were sweet,others were just coping. Each day we all hope we would get our parents, or new ones. I dreamt through many times of being in the foster care system that this family wouldn't hurt me. 

Not just the mental, but the physical. How do people say " what a sweet child, lets adopt this kid, and give her/ him a good life. Not really knowing what pain the child had truly been through.  To pity a child, and adopt to fulfill a void in there own personal lives and try to use religion or get some kind of attention for points into heaven. Now I know some adopt truly with the good intentions of loving and supporting a child that has been through hell, those are the few precious, loving soul that this world needs. 

I remember the first time I met her. She was tall(of course a giant compared to me, a child) she had long hair. Stocky, but white skin. Her features weren't soft, but rough. Her hugs were rough, but I could get use to it. Maybe she could be a mother, but not sure why she had to be my mother. Where was my mamma. Maybe she went to the store and was coming back. I remember that one foster home where my step dad showed the videos of AMERICA, maybe we were all going with her. Damn, that faint sting still linger in my thoughts of how when he slapped me because I broke his VCR. I wanted to come to that country that every one said was the GREATEST NATION EVER. Truly, if i knew back then, what i Know now, America was just a filled off empty promises and broken dreams

The first night, i remember going into the kitchen with all the people, singing, dancing, and cooking. I loved the people. This is MY people. I remember the white lady telling me to stay in bed, her spanish was kind of weird, but i understood it. All of a sudden she comes in, yanks my arm and spanks my butt. Ouch i winced, also waiting for more blows. It came. waiting for the hit to the face. She pointed her finger at me telling me that i shouldn't be here, but in bed. She takes me and marches me down to our room. Im crying, i grab my Simba and lay crying, hating this lady. How can this white lady hit me. Not even know that that is all i knew. I went to sleep. Maybe in the morning, MY mamma would come and get me. She never came. America here i Come. I felt i had no other option, but she owned me. 

Fighting to accept the facts of life

 How do you accept the fact that at even of the age of 31 you feel disconnected. You cry and cry wishing your mom was around. Wondering why you don't fit in. You cry for hours and wonder how you can love your children the way you  never shown to love. How do you cope? how do you change, be better, be what you are told you can never be. How do you make sure you never make the same mistakes your "mother" did. When I say "mother" I mean Adopted mother and my Biological mother. One was a fanatic, religious. She felt that the Bible was to be followed accordingly. To not show any form of love but to defeat and destroy and all in the name of Jesus.  All focus was always, " you are the wrong one here, you are the child. i do nothing wrong ever". Then of course the constant rumors of my BIO mother, she was a prostitute. She had many children out of wedlock. She made money laying on her back or slinging dope. 

1994 I got adopted. I was born, as far as I know,  Eliana Suarez(later on in life, i found out that my possible full name was Eliana Suarez- Lopez- De Balboa) from Bogota, Colombia. I remember a lot of my country, a lot is bad, trust me there are goods in it. The hills do sing, from what i remember. the grass was greener in the country. The water was nice a body temperature.  The skies were nice and just a different smell was around us was of that of the open country. Unless you lived in the city. The smell was very different. You could smell the motor oil, the different spices. The smell of trash.  But the music. It was always around. You heard it even when you didn't want to hear it. It all was about expressing. Even as a child i remember always dancing, and singing. Music was life. Even when i lived in the orphanages and the  nuns made us sing hymnals. 

Each day i will write more of my story, please feel free to comment, email me. Tell me how i wrote this what i need to do better. ect