Overcoming an Inconvenient Life

By Beni par Dieu

Dear Reader, curiosity made you pick up this book. Perhaps hope will compel you to read it. As victims of any form of abuse-be it emotional, mental, physical, or sexual-we are brainwashed by our tormentors to believe that not only do we deserve what we are getting, but also that we are alone. We're told no one will believe us or, if we tell, we will be the ones blamed. This is what the monsters who torments us want us to believe, so they carefully groom us to be quiet and compliant. Silence is their best weapon and their protection. I finally, through faith, found the courage to raise my voice and to share my story of the years of abuse I was subjected to. By doing so, I took away their power over me. I hope that in reading my story, you, dear reader, will see that you are not alone, that you never have been because there's others just like you. Once you have read about my journey, I sincerely hope that you will find your own courage, faith, and strength to raise your voice against the abuse the innocents are suffering each and every day. May you find peace and forgiveness for yourself as you travel along with me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641917346

Book preview

Introduction

First, I’d like to thank all the people who encouraged me to share my life’s story. Well, okay, the three people who encouraged me. This is their fault.

I would also like to thank the CFP editorial department and Seth Oakman, my publication specialist, for aiding me in telling my story.

But, to be honest, this has been something I’d thought about for a long time, but I kept putting it off for one reason or another. Frankly, I really didn’t think my story was anything important or interesting enough to share with strangers. Also, years ago, I didn’t have the knowledge I’ve gained, and I worried about what revealing many of my dark secrets would do to the people I care about. Causing them any more pain is simply not an option for me. I will, because of that, take steps to keep the identities of everyone involved secret. This unfortunately, includes the guilty as well.

It is my hope that my journey through life, the things I’ve experienced, the knowledge I’ve gained, and, most importantly, the strength I’ve found, will help someone who might be going through some of the same things, or, God forbid . . . something worse. At the very least, I want you to know you are not alone.

Addendum

Dear Reader,

In order to avoid confusion, I wanted to clarify for you my changing descriptive titles for my adopted parents. At first, I didn’t understand why I would, in some cases, use the title adopted dad or adopted mom and then in other stories, use dad, or mom. All of these titles refer to the same two people, the parents who raised me.

When using adopted mom, I realized that was my way of expressing the emotional distance I felt between us. Same thing with my adopted dad. When using the dad or mom titles, these were the times I felt an emotional bond with them.

As you will see, I rarely felt any kind of emotional connection to my adopted mother.

Dieu/Inconvenient

Prayer

Lord, hear my prayer. May the words that I have put down in this book find their way to a lost and broken soul and, with their truth, guide that soul to your loving light, where they may find peace and the strength to rise above their pain and suffering. Let them feel the power of your love so that they can finally find the gift of forgiveness, for themselves. I ask this in the name of your son, Jesus.

Amen

Chapter One

When I entered this life in 1949, I became what was known as a baby boomer. My beginning seemed to predict a perilous journey, filled with close calls, dangerous people, and events that would test my resolve to remain in this world more times than I can count. I was born in a very small town that didn’t have a doctor, or even a hospital. It was the storage room of a general store that substituted as a delivery room. Whoever was there at the time, to help deliver me, was a very stubborn person. I was stillborn, and, according to what I’ve been told, it took this person around twenty minutes to get any signs of life from me. I have always believed this story because, since I was dead on arrival, I somehow connected with what people refer to as the paranormal. Throughout my life, I’ve had strange, unexplainable things happen to me, and I also have certain gifts that, without a doubt in my mind, come from God and have, I know, saved my life more than once.

I don’t have the answers to the questions of who the person was that delivered me, or even why my birth mother was in a town she didn’t live in. These are questions that will never be answered since my birth mother is dead and never spoke the truth about anything anyway.

My first memory, which I’m not sure of since it has a dream like quality to it, was of someone carrying me in their arms, down a flight of concrete or cement steps. I believe this person was my birth mother’s oldest brother, and that I was around two years old, the age at which I was taken from my birth mother.

It was dark all around us, except at the bottom of the steps, where there was a small landing, and a porch light, which was on. When we reached the last few steps, a door under the porch light opened, even though we hadn’t reached it yet. It was as if we were expected.

I remember feeling so safe, and warm in the arms of whoever held me. When other arms reached out to take me, I still remained unafraid. I think this might have been the first time in my life that I felt this way, which would explain why I still carry this memory in my heart.

As to why I was taken from my birth mother, that’s where things get really muddy. I was never told why her older brother and sister had traveled across several states, in the dead of winter, to take me from her.

I suspect, in my own dark heart, where things lurk that I don’t want to acknowledge, that they had become aware of certain physical abuses that might have been happening. Keep in mind, I have no proof of this suspicion, except for my knowledge of certain things I should never have been aware of until I was an adult. This is what leads me to believe my suspicions of what went on is, in fact, true. Thankfully, I have no memory of anything that happened to me when I was with my birth mother.

I do know because her brother told me, and I always did believe in him and what he said, that when he and his other sister finally arrived in the town where I was, the weather was close to freezing. They finally tracked dear old mom down, enjoying herself at a barn dance. To be precise, according to them, she was in a car behind the building, having sex with the town drunk.

I don’t know if I was in the same car, or another one, but I was found with only a diaper on, and a bottle of cold sugar water. Since I’ve suffered from bad teeth my entire life, I know this is true. Also, I had severe malnutrition and rickets. I believe that had they not rescued me, I would not have survived too much longer.

My journey to my adopted parents wasn’t through normal channels. At that time, everyone was young, and single, and not set up or capable of taking care of a two-year-old, much less a very sick one. However, my birth mother’s brother did know of a couple, who, although they’d been married for three years, who had no children yet, so maybe they’d be willing to take me in, until they could find something permanent.

My next memory is lying in what I believe was a hospital bed and someone, a man, sitting quietly in a nearby chair. I know I was still very young. It seems like this memory is not that far removed from my first memory, so I think the man in the chair must have been my future dad. But, it could have been the one who had rescued me from my situation. I know I spent much of my early years in the hospital because I was so sick.

In fact, most of my earliest memories always involved me being sick. I was told by my adopted parents that because my birth mother hadn’t bothered to see to it I got the necessary shots needed to protect me from all the childhood diseases, I was constantly coming down with them, not once or even twice, but three times in each case, and every one of them as severe as the time before.

Back then, when a child came down with smallpox, and maybe even chickenpox, the household would be quarantined. The state health department would come out, and hang huge white banners with giant red letters: quarantined. Everyone inside was trapped inside for the duration usually around three weeks. My poor future adopted mother was the lucky person who was trapped with me. I suspect this totally annoyed her. My future adopted dad had to stay away, so she and I were on our own.

This one particular time that I remember was during the heat of summer. This was pre-airconditioning times, so the only way to stay cool indoors was to open doors and windows, and, if you were lucky enough to have a fan, all the better! We didn’t. So the windows and doors were opened, but the screen doors were locked so I couldn’t go outside. This would have been okay, except the little neighbor boy, Tommy, and I loved each other, and a silly screen door wasn’t about to separate us! In spite of his mom sternly telling him to stay away, he snuck out of his house and headed for mine. I saw him coming, and when he went into our backyard, out of sight of his mom, I snuck out of my room to meet him at the back door. My adopted mom was in the kitchen, so she never saw me. When I discovered the screen door was locked (so I wouldn’t be able to go out and play), we both stood there for a moment, looking forlornly at each other. We then placed our hands on the screen and leaned in for a kiss through it. He went on home, and I went back to my room.

A few days later, Tommy’s mom came over, stood on the front sidewalk, and yelled for my mom. When she went to the door, Tommy’s mom unleased her fury at her. Seems Tommy had come down with the same disease I had! Boy, was she mad! Turns out Tommy’s dad was an abusive jerk who enjoyed using his wife as a punching bag, and once he found out his son was infected by his wife’s carelessness, he blackened her eye before taking off to the docks, where he worked. She, in turn, blamed my mom who, in turn, blamed me. That’s the first time that I remember seeing her really angry, and for the first but not the last time, I was frightened of her. Funny thing is, no one blamed Tommy!

Sometime after Tommy and I got better, his mom came over and apologized to my mom, and that’s when it came out about the abuse. My adopted mom was a no-nonsense kind of woman, so of course she couldn’t understand why anyone would put up with that sort of crap, as she put it she asked Tommy’s mom why on earth she wasn’t fighting back. She believed that if you stood up to a bully, their cowardly nature would come out and they’d back down. Problem solved.

About a week later, in the afternoon, someone started pounding on our front screen door and shrieking incoherently. Mom and I raced to the door, to behold Tommy’s mom, her hair standing on end, her eyes bloodshot and tearful, and pitch-black mascara running down her cheeks. When she saw Mom, she swayed and grabbed the screen door for support. Mom opened the screen just enough to catch her and asked what had happened.

Oh Lordy, she sobbed, I’ve killed him! I’ve killed Earl!

Before she could sink back into hysterics, Mom got a fine grip on her and spoke softly to her to calm her down. Once it seemed Tommy’s mom had some control, Mom told her to show her what was going on. As they headed over to the house next door, neither one noticed that I was tagging along.

We entered the house and headed for the kitchen, where we beheld a wondrous sight. There was Earl, sprawled out on the kitchen floor, covered in grease and fried potatoes. Near his head was a huge cast iron skillet. On his forehead was a robin’s-egg-sized bump that was turning interesting shades of black and purple. Tommy’s mom started to sob, saying she didn’t mean to kill him. He had just walked up behind her and had grabbed her hair, and, without thinking, she had swung the skillet full of hot potatoes at him. Before Mom could kneel to check for a pulse, a beer-scented belch emerged from between his lips, followed by a loud snore!

Mom looked at Tommy’s mom and gave her this advice: Whatever you do, when he comes to, do not show any fear. Don’t clean any of this up and leave him right where he is. Once he’s clear enough to understand you, pick up the pan, show it to him, and tell him to never touch you again.

At that point, she noticed me, standing there wide-eyed and taking it all in. Her face became thunderous, and I knew that I had incurred her wrath once again, and I was in big trouble. She grabbed my arm and marched me out of the house. As soon as we got home, I broke away from her and headed for Lady, my four-legged protector. As was often the case. I spent the rest of the day in the dog house with her, until my daddy came home.

The reason I remember this event so clearly is because it became part of our family story, often told over the years to lots of laughter. The only part left out is Mom’s reaction to my presence at the scene, but that part I’ll never forget. Whenever this event was brought up, usually by my dad, it was easy to see the pride he had for his wife in his eyes. I know that had he known what kind of man Earl was, he probably would have paid him a visit.

We never knew how things went after the big event. Not long after, a For Sale sign showed up on their front lawn, and Earl moved his family away.

Another memory I have during the time we lived on the West Coast involved a trip up north to visit my mom’s brother, the one who knew my birth mother’s brother. This must have been in early spring because there was still snow on the ground, which I had never seen before. I remember helping my uncle and dad build my first ever snowman, and my hands going numb from the cold. Maybe that’s why I got sick . . . again.

I came down with one of the childhood diseases, chickenpox, I think. There’s a strange hallucination I remember that’s connected to this round of illness. I’m in bed, in a dark room. Past the foot of the bed, on the opposite wall, is a door. I see it open, and a shaft of light shines into the room. That’s when I realize the door is only a couple of inches high, and I’m a giant. Someone appears in the doorway and starts to walk toward me. As they approach, they grow taller and taller, and I start to shrink, until, when this person reaches my side, we are both normal sized. The person reached out and touched my forehead. After that, I remember a lot of yelling and being bundled up and rushed out to the car. As we drove down the driveway to the road, we saw that someone had come by and knocked the head off of our snowman. I was so upset and started to cry. Why would someone be that mean? That’s the first time I remember feeling rage. As we drove to the hospital, I dreamt of taking revenge on whoever had destroyed the work of art my dad, my uncle, and I had lovingly created. I wished them dead.

On another trip to my uncle house, another event took place that stamped itself on my soul. We went to a river somewhere near there, to camp and fish, two things my dad and I loved to do more than anything in the world. At some point, I had walked to the river’s edge, to look for likely fishing holes. Somehow, either the bank gave way or I stumbled, but, next thing I knew, I was in the water and being swept downstream by the raging current. As I was rushing around a bend, I remember looking at the high cliffs on the opposite side and thinking how fun they’d be to climb. That was another thing I loved to do, climb and explore. It’s hard to explain, but I don’t remember being afraid. As I rounded the bend, beyond the cliffs, a glowing arm reached out of nowhere and I was plucked from the icy water. Yes, that’s what I saw, an arm enveloped in the most beautiful pearly white glow I’ve ever seen! I then remember being held in a bear hug, and my dad’s voice saying, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.

Memories can be tricky things, but this memory, and that arm, still remain as vivid to me to this day as when it happened. Looking back, I believe, and always will, that it was God, using my dad, to save me. It was God’s way of letting me know that Daddy was my anointed protector. Since Dad had been a marine sergeant during WWII and served in the South Pacific, God couldn’t have found a braver, more stalwart person to watch over me. During those early years, I had two protectors, Dad and his dog, Lady. I suspect that that’s the reason why I was so fearless as a child. I felt safe from adopted mom and the world.

Perhaps this is why I was such a handful at the best of times and the bane of my adopted mother’s existence. I wasn’t a sweet, compliant child who could quietly play with dolls, stay clean, and wear frilly dresses. How does that poem go? What are little boys made of? Snips and snails and puppy dog tails? Yep, that was me, 100 percent tomboy, and always muddy! I loved playing in the mud with Lady, looking for snakes, and best of all, finding handfuls of slugs so I could have snail races. The front of our house had a huge picture window, which would take my mom a long time to clean, which she did once a week. So once a week, I’d go on a slug hunt and head for that clean window. Somehow, I had figured out that on a clean window, the slugs, as they made their way up it, would leave the most amazing slime trails! It was one of my most favorite things to do. Yes, I was a horrible, awful child. I don’t think I engaged in this activity out of any sort of mean intent. It was just . . . fun. When Mom would see what I was doing, she’d run out, and I’d run for Lady because I saw the look on her face. I don’t know how long I did this. Hopefully, I had, at some point, learned not to do slug races on a clean, or even a dirty window, for that matter!

One other favorite bug I had back then, and still like to this day, are the ones called ball bugs. I loved them so much, I’d gather a bunch up and take them to bed with me. Of course, I’d have to sneak them in so Mom wouldn’t take them from me. I’d put them in the pockets of my shorts so she wouldn’t see them. Naturally, she’d find the squished mess in the morning. Thankfully, that’s something I’ve outgrown.

One laundry day, which was every Friday, stands out in my mind for the sheer terror it held. There were lines and lines of towels, white sheets, and clothing gently swaying in the sunny breeze. It had rained the night before, so the air was fresh and there were muddy puddles everywhere, including, you guessed it, under the lines of laundry. Lady and I started a rambunctious game that combined hide-and-seek with Chase the Leader.

In the midst of our hilarity, I heard the back screen door slam against the house. I looked up to see my adopted mother thundering down the steps with murderous rage stamped on her face. I ran to the far side of the lines of laundry, wanting to be out of her sight. Lady was by my side. Frozen, I watched as her shadow grew on the white sheet in front of me, then saw as her arm swept the sheet aside. That action caused the clothes pins holding the sheet to give away, causing it to fall down into a mud puddle. She had stopped, and when the sheet fell, she looked from it to me, and my breath caught in my throat. I had seen anger and rage before, but this was the first time I saw murder. I knew in my heart she was going to kill me. Lady knew it too, because the next thing I became aware of was a warmth against my legs and a low threatening growl. I looked down, and there she was, my Lady, her teeth bared, eyes fixed on my adopted mom, standing between me and death. At first, Mom didn’t notice Lady because she was so focused on me, but as she advanced closer, the growl became a snarl, and Mom finally noticed Lady. Still intent on getting to me, she moved to one side, thinking to go past my protector, but Lady moved to intercept her. Mom then tried to move to the other side, with the same result.

Realizing she wouldn’t be able to get to me, she stopped and simply stared, at me, at Lady, and the mess in the mud. Slowly, sanity returned to her face, and she just looked . . . defeated. Turning, she pulled the ruined sheet out of the mud, pulled the other items that were mud-spattered, and silently walked back into the house. For once in my life, my brain kicked in and I knew it would be best to stay out of sight, so I crawled into Lady’s dog house and spent the remainder of the day there. I even remember watering the rose bushes next to Lady’s house to avoid going into her domain, to use the bathroom. When I heard her later on, hanging the redone laundry, I stayed still and quiet. Other than the times I had to hide out in Lady’s house, life was pretty much wonderful, filled with traveling, adventures, love, and laughter. Dad was passionate about knowledge, learning new things, and sharing these things with his family. He never went anywhere by himself. It was always the three of us.

I remember lots of trips to wonderful places: Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, Mesa Verde. I learned about the underground volcano that caused the geysers, how the Colorado River carved the Grand Canyon over eons, and the mysteries of the Anasazi. On the way to all these beautiful places, if Dad spotted a roadside historical marker, which Mom started to call hysterical markers since Dad would do anything to stop at these even if it meant making a U-tum in the middle of the road, and of course, every museum.

It was during one of these trips that something really strange happened, which all three of us witnessed and is completely unexplainable. We were traveling on a desolate two-lane road that was like a roller coaster with cool rolling hills making us go up and down. Dad would step on the gas while climbing the hill so we’d go really fast then we’d float over the crest and down the other side, while we’d all yell, Whee! This road was in the middle of a desert, and there wasn’t any other cars, so we could act silly.

As we crested one of the hills, we all saw an old pickup on its top, several hill crests away. Silence filled our car as we drove on toward the wreck.

I don’t remember how many crests we went over, but as we topped each one, the details of the wreck grew clearer and clearer. It was a faded red truck with wooden side slates. It must have been hauling a load of fruit because we saw oranges and apples rolling down the pavement. The back wheel on the driver’s side, which was facing us, was still slowly spinning, and steam was coming out of the engine compartment. There were no signs of life anywhere.

When we finally reached the last crest before the wreck, we discover . . . no wreck.

Upon reaching the area where we thought the wreck had been, Dad pulled over, and we all got out.

We searched everywhere, along both sides of the road, even though we could see for miles. I guess we couldn’t wrap our minds around what had just happened, searching for something that wasn’t there because maybe, just maybe, we would uncover something, some little thing that would explain what had just happened. I walked both sides of the road, hoping, at the very least, to find an orange or an apple.

The only maybe evidence that we found were some really faded skid marks, located about where we thought the truck might have been. They were barely visible and could have happened during another event, so we couldn’t really say we’d found anything at all. This was talked about over and over during the years, and speculation ran the whole spectrum, from Twilight Zone theories to gas fumes causing us to see things. I have no answer for what happened, I only know that it did.

We also visited ghost towns like Virginia City and Tombstone.

Since Dad and I were both huge fans of Westerns (Dad was, until his death, a John Wayne fan.), visiting these places was, in our minds, visiting heaven. I believe it was when we visited Tombstone that another strange event happened, to me.

There were reenactors strolling along the boardwalks, and two gunfighters shooting it out in the middle of the street. Saloon hall gals came and went from a nearby saloon. As I often did, I wandered along the boardwalk, away from my folks, past the bat wing doors of the saloon, just taking everything in. The saloon was near the edge of town, so just beyond the other building sitting next to the saloon, there was only empty desert.

When I stopped and stood, watching the people, I realized that everything had become eerily quiet. I no longer heard the out-of-key piano banging a tune from the saloon, or even hear the people on the streets talking. I became aware of an undercurrent, a . . . something, another layer of reality, that was under the one I could see, trying to come into focus. I noticed what looked like small misty dust devils starting to appear on the street and on the boardwalk opposite me.

They were moving just like dust devils, back and forth, as they came more into focus. They also started to grow, until they looked more like transparent people instead of dust devils. As I watched, I felt I was about to witness something marvelous, strange, and unique. All I had to do was be very still, and wait.

Dad’s voice calling to me cut through the silence, breaking the spell, and making the other, something, fade away. My disappointment over the disappearance of that, other, actually hurt my heart. I knew I had missed an opportunity to see something special that no one else could.

Years later, when I visited the Little Big Horn Battle site, I could sense that other, but I knew that was something I didn’t want to see! I’ve discovered that these undercurrents also call to me when I visit other battle sites, such as Gettsyburg, which has a really strong undercurrent. Since I have no desire to witness the horror that lingers at these places, I only visit them during the day, when it’s harder to perceive that other undercurrent.

When we weren’t having adventures, I’d create my own at home, or if mom was willing, she’d take me to the nearby park where all the wonderful playground equipment waited to transport me to anywhere my heart and mind desired. The monkey bars became a precarious bridge over a chasm that had a raging river at the bottom, the merry-go-round was my brave stallion, swiftly carrying me away from the hole-in-the-wall bandits who wanted my gold.

I never really played on the seesaws because that always required another kid, and I mostly was a solitary child. I didn’t make friends that easily, so it was hard to find someone to get on the see saw with me. But there was always the most wonderful ride of all, the one ride that promised joy beyond imagination, the beautiful slide! There it sat in all its gleaming steel beauty, waiting patiently to help me reach heaven and then allow me to fly back down to earth. I loved that slide, and always looked forward to climbing to glory.

It was a hot, sunny afternoon when we finally reached the park. The picnic tables had mothers with babies, and the rides were full of kids. Since there was a line at the slide, I ran to the nearby swings and slowly swung myself back and forth while watching for the opportunity to get on my favorite ride. Finally, the line came to an end, and I ran over, grabbed the first rung, and started climbing into my imagination. On this particular day, I was Penny King, climbing up into the cockpit of Songbird, my uncle’s plane, because we had to rescue some lost hikers. When I reached the top, I stepped onto the platform and prepared for takeoff.

I launched and found myself experiencing searing pain! I could even smell burning flesh! Screaming, I grabbed the sides and tried to lift myself off the burning steel and return to the platform, only to discover there was a boy sitting there, who promptly started kicking at me to get me to go down the slide and get out of his way. Just as his foot connected with my face, I heard my mom yelling my name and telling me to get down.

Dizzy from the pain and the blow to my face, I let go and tumbled about halfway down, leaving behind blood and pieces of flesh, before being able to grab the side again and pull myself over and off. No sooner had I landed in the sand adopted mom arrived, reached down, grabbed my arm, hauled me to my feet, mostly, and dragged me home. I was crying the entire time. Once in a while, on the nightmare trip home, she would shake me and tell me to stop making a spectacle of myself.

The only other part of this event that I remember is not being able to sit down for at least several days then having to use a pillow for a while after that. I don’t remember ever returning to the park. I hope I was able to since it was such a fun place.

In 1954, I became Dad and Mom’s legal child, when the adoption process was completed. This was just after my fifth birthday. The first thing I remember about that day is . . . horrors . . . having to wear . . . a dress! A pink frilly dress with white socks and white shoes. I still have the photo Dad took of me that day, and I don’t look happy. I also remember him telling me what an important day this was, and to be on my best behavior.

I remember entering a strange large room with more wood in it than I’d seen in my entire life. The walls, floor, benches, and tables were all made of wood. There was a wooden fence with a gate in it that separated all the benches from the front of this room. On the other side of the fence was two large wooden tables with wooden folding chairs. Aside from me, my folks, and the stranger with us, the room was empty, and silent. As we made our way to the front, and the stranger opened the gate, I saw an empty expanse of gleaming wooden floor and near the opposite wall, a couple of steps leading to a tall, solid wood stand with a strange but beautiful round picture embedded in it. The picture was of an odd-looking person wearing a weird hat and holding a spear. At his feet was a small bear, and they were looking out over a large body of water that had some pirate ships sailing toward them. This convinced me we were in the Throne Room of a King that ruled over a Magical Kingdom!

We seated ourselves at one of the wooden tables, and the stranger walked off to a door located over to the left of this room, which he opened and disappeared through. He was gone for a short time, and, after returning, another door, behind the stand, opened. A silver-haired gentleman dressed in a flowing strange black dress walked out and went to the tall stand. This must be . . . the king! He had a small wooden hammer, which he smartly rapped on the stand. I guess this was to make sure we were all paying attention.

The King and the stranger started talking to each other, as the stranger kept handing papers to him. This seemed to go on for quite a while. Then the door that the stranger had gone through earlier opened, and another stranger entered the room and went up to the stand where the King was. The three of them then started whispering to each other. When they stopped, both of the strangers headed to the room on the side, opened the door, and entered. The door closed behind them, and silence once again ruled the Throne Room. I sensed something was wrong because my dad started to fidget in his seat, casting worried looks toward the closed door. I got scared because I was smart enough to know that if something worried my brave father, it was bad.

After what seemed to take forever, our stranger reentered the Throne Room, handed a sheet of paper to the King, and turned to smile at my folks and me. Whatever crisis had occurred was over.

The stranger then sat down in a chair next to my mom, and the King, after reading the paper that had been handed to him, looked up, and . . . right at me! This is it, he’s going to tell me I’m the long lost princess of his Kingdom, and that I would be going to live in a beautiful castle in a faraway land! As long as I could take my dad, I’d be willing to go. The King leaned forward and called my name. I felt the gentle pressure of Dad, his hand on my back, encouraging me to stand up and go to the King. I slowly walked about halfway across the gleaming floor, stopped, and curtsied. I wanted the King to know that I knew the proper way to behave as a Princess.

When I looked up, he was smiling at me. He then asked me such silly questions. Did I love my parents? Well of course! Was I happy? Again, yes. Did I feel safe and loved? I didn’t understand why he was asking me these things, but I remained polite and answered, Yes, sir, to each question. He then looked at my folks and told them it was easy to see I was a happy, well-behaved child, and that from this day forward I would be known as their legal child. He then rapped the stand with his little hammer, got up, and walked out of the door behind him. I was, for a moment, frozen in place, and confused. Wasn’t I going to his Magical Kingdom? Dad came up and took my hand, and told me it was time to go home. Oh well, maybe I wasn’t the princess of a Magical Kingdom, but I was my daddy’s princess, and to me, that was all that mattered!

At this point, I have to take you to years into the future to fill in the events that occurred that day, and that I really wish my dad had told me about long before I tried, on more than one occasion, to establish a relationship with my birth mother. Had I known, I would never have wasted my time, or my heart, on this person. The stranger with us was, of course, the lawyer who was handling the adoption for my folks. Hidden behind the closed door of that room he had gone into was my birth mother and one of my half siblings. The point where the other stranger came out was when she had sent word, through the court clerk, that she wasn’t going to sign the last, most important paper—agreeing to the adoption—until she was able to speak to the lawyer.

Was she having second thoughts about giving me up and realized, after three years, that she loved me and wanted me back? Oh no, that wasn’t it at all! She wanted to use me as a bargaining chip to hopefully get rid of another one of her kids! She wanted my folks to agree to take this additional child, in return for her signature on the papers! It is not known what the lawyer said to her, but he returned sans child and with the signed papers.

I was told who this child was. Years later, on more than one occasion, this same person tried to do hateful things to me. Apparently, he was resentful that I was the only one lucky enough to be raised by someone other than mommy dearest. (The irony of that is priceless!) I never once said anything about what I knew to him. What would be the point of causing this person additional, pointless pain? Since I’d had a lifetime of that kind of pain, I sure wasn’t going to inflict it on anyone else, no matter what. Although I have always been so thankful that I was blessed with a wonderful adopted dad, finding out what had happened that day has left a wound on my heart. I never let my dad know how much this information hurt because I didn’t want him to feel bad about anything or to think I didn’t love and cherish him. I always felt so blessed to have had the life I did in spite of the events that later occurred. I know in my heart that had I been stuck with my birth mother, my life would have been an unending nightmare, and I more than likely would have died at a very young age.

Over the years, I have always told people that after the adoption, we went to opening day of Disneyland to celebrate. In my mind, that’s exactly how it went, but that’s not the truth at all. I have no idea why I have always associated the opening of Disneyland with my adoption. Point in fact, Disneyland didn’t open until almost a year later. Maybe because nothing else stands out in my mind between these two events, I simply linked them together.

The day Disneyland opened was a big event, and I was one of the lucky kids who got to be there, along with my cousin. He and I managed, somehow, to get to the very front of the crowd and stand right next to Mr. Disney himself as the dedication was done and he cut the ribbon with giant scissors. Before the ribbon made it to the pavement, we were racing for all we were worth into a brand-new world full of marvelous rides and wonderful adventures. As my cousin and I ran pell-mell down Main Street, USA, we spotted the wonder of wonders, a giant, gleaming spaceship, off to our right! Wow! Without having to say anything to each other, we both turned that way and headed for our first grand adventure. The day sped past in a blur of whirling rides, submarines, and sea monsters, barbershop quartets, food, and sunburn.

When the sun finally went down, that’s when the real cool stuff started happening! Fireworks lit up the sky, and magic happened! Tinker bell flew down from the Matterhorn to the street in a beautiful blue glow, sprinkling golden fairy dust as she descended. It was awesome!

We revisited Disneyland several times before we moved away, and each time was a grand journey into Walt’s imagination since he was always adding new things, rides, and theme areas to the park. The last time I was there, they were working on the Haunted Mansion ride. Wish I had been able to stay long enough to experience that one!

There’s only one other event that happened while we lived in California that, strangely enough, I don’t remember, but judging from all the pictures I’ve seen, I should. I don’t understand why this is such a blank spot.

It may have been for my fifth birthday and was the actual combination birthday/adoption celebration. There’s lots of kids, all