HOW ADOPTION CHANGED MY LIFE

HOW ADOPTION CHANGED MY LIFE- By Victoria Savage- Matranga

As a former foster child, I can say without a hint of doubt that adoption was the absolute best thing that ever happened to me. I was moved around a lot when I was in foster care; I never had a stable home, and nothing was certain. I lived in constant discomfort, fearing being sent away. I knew I was being moved due to my behaviors. I lied and manipulated without remorse. I was angry, and I showed it every day through tantrums and raging fits.

I didn’t care about what my foster parents were going through; I just wanted someone to pay for my pain. Eventually, I was placed in an institution for kids who had severe behavior issues.

We were considered “unfit” for family life.

The amount of depression and anxiety I felt was unfathomable. I was on constant guard; I didn’t know what to expect, and I definitely didn’t trust anyone.

Back home with my bios, I had watched National Geographic growing up. I knew what would happen to an animal when it was vulnerable: the others would pick on it until one of two things happened: 1) it would leave, or 2) it would die.

I was determined not to let number 2 be my outcome. So I portrayed a tough outer shell while on the inside I was a very frightened little girl.

All I wanted was to go home. I wanted to go home even though home was unsafe, but it was home. Home was a false sense of safety. My home was all I knew. But home wasn’t allowed.

I got into fights with the other kids. I never used words when it came to communicating; I either roared, barked, hissed, grunted, growled, or bellowed. As time passed, I slowly took on the behavior of the animals I watched back home. No one wanted to be around me, which was what I wanted, but that changed the moment I met HER.

I met her in person, and I was stunned at first by our meeting and how she got on my level.

I didn’t go easy on her; I was angry, and she was the only other person around for me to unleash my wrath on.

I figured she would send me away like the others, but she didn’t.

The more things I destroyed, she would look at me with a smile and say, “I love you more, and so does Jesus.” I was confused, to say the least. Why did she always say that to me? I didn’t know this Jesus. Why did she always say that Jesus loved me more than whatever bad things I did? With every outburst or venomous word I spat at her, she never once retaliated; she never yelled, screamed, or hit me. Her calm demeanor made me furious. I wanted her to yell at me; I wanted her to fight back. I wanted her to confirm that what everyone said about me was true. But she NEVER did.

I have attacked her physically, emotionally, and mentally. I rejected her touch when she tried to hold me and love on me.

I was wary of physical touch because whenever my dad would touch me, it always left a mark.

I remember I had just set her kitchen on fire for the third time. Yes, you read that correctly; it was the third time. I was ready; surely she would lose it now. But I was wrong yet again. She cleaned up and looked at me with that same smile and look of understanding. “I love you more, and so does Jesus.” That was the last straw for me. “Who is this Jesus you keep talking about?” I yelled at her. She didn’t just worship and praise him on Sundays; she did it the whole week. I could hear her at night, playing the piano, talking, and praising this Jesus.

“Who is He?"

Or better yet, "Where was He?" I asked, near tears.

“Where was He when I couldn’t get up off the floor because the beating I got was so bad? "Where was He when I was chained up outside in a shed with the animals we had?”

"Where was He when my siblings were taken, and I was left all alone?”

I remember her response as if it happened yesterday.

She looked at me with tears in her own eyes and said three words that broke what little fight I had left. She looked at me and said, “He never left.” “He was there with you on the floor, whispering in your ear. He was with you in the shed while you were chained. He never left you alone when your siblings were taken.”

"He was also preparing my, Yes to be your mom.”

I can recall up until that point I had never cried in front of an adult because I didn’t want to look weak. I can remember sitting in our living room, completely shattered. No matter what I did, she didn’t respond with anger or resentment. I was completely undone; I couldn’t provoke her into retaliating. I can remember sitting on our floor as she handed me a stack of paper and matches. She sat next to me and said, “I don’t know what is so broken inside of you where you feel like you have to destroy things. But let’s do it together.” She handed me the paper and the matches, and we sat there lighting the paper on fire (it was controlled this time). With every paper that I ripped, something inside me began to break and shift. The tears I held back for so long began to silently fall down my face. For the first time since I was taken from my bios, I began to feel again. We sat there for the longest time. It was in that moment I felt a peace I had never known. I felt the loving arms of God himself hold me, and I’ve never felt so safe. The touch I felt didn’t cause pain, nor did it leave a mark.

To be continued.