I am Deedee Burnett, and I’m adopted. My parents acquired me at 8 years of age, after having been in and out of half a dozen foster homes. I was also in and out of my birth mother’s care as she struggled to regulate. She struggled with self medicating, struggled to fit into the narrative of what a ‘real mom should look like’, but mostly struggled to believe in herself as a mom.

So I would be taken from her and placed in foster care and then back to her. Removed, returned, removed, returned, more than once, more than twice, more than thrice. The first few years were hazy (ages 8-12), and I can only imagine my presence alone was too much for them. If we look at it from a nervous system stance, my adoptive parents never stood a chance, and neither did I.

By the time I reached puberty, there was war. Rigid, corporal rules rained down as opposed to empathy and connection. My behavior was evaluated and their ability to like me was determined by my performance. They thought my new environment on a cul de sac, with a canopy bed and pillow shams would have some bearing on my personality. They hoped for a good girl, and so did I. We walked around in broad daylight as a collective of vision impaired folks. They waited for their idea of a good girl to appear but I never measured up.

What they got instead was a: (I am still trying to fill in this blank, cause I don’t know what they got). They just didn’t have what it took to meet the needs of a child separated from their birth mother and birth father.

They missed the human components of parenting and took the formulaic route. They kicked me out, more than once and luckily I had great friends’ parents that would take me in.

 They wanted me to get good grades. I wanted to be liked.

 They wanted me to be class president.

 I became class clown.

 They wanted me to go to college.

 I wanted to go to bars, nightclubs and mood Alter which designer, drugs.

 They wanted me to hang out with the student body.

 I gave my body to an army cadet.

 They wanted me to listen.

 I wanted to talk. A lot. And loud.

 They wanted me to be a good girl.

 I wanted them to be good parents.

 I wanted the top shelf. They wanted me to play board games with them after dinner.

 I was so bored of their applied formula that was missing nuance and individuality.

 I wanted a sturdy mom who could whip a recipe-less dinner together.

 They wanted me to produce ideas for after dinner conversartions.

 I don’t talk to strangers.

 They wanted me to ask permission for household basics.

 I wanted them to trust me.

 I wanted them to be silly and loosen up.

 I wanted them to lose their dignity to find me. They wanted me to set up tall, and chew with my mouth closed.

 They wanted me to keep my bedroom door open.

 I wanted to go somewhere that was open.

They wanted me to sign and Initial the rules and regulations of the house

I wanted them to see the signs and read in between the lines.

I wanted them to get to know me underneath the behaviors.

They wanted me to read more.

I wanted a hand resting on my shoulder

I wanted to roll around on the ground and wrestle with them in hopes of

 sneaking in a hug.

 They wanted me to focus and pay attention. I wanted them to drop everything and sit on the couch with their bodies, turned towards me and look into my eyes and ask me questions.

 I wanted to laugh so hard the neighbors could hear.

They called me type A.

Wanted me to get A’s

 I went through their drawers when they weren’t home.

I was looking for signs of love. I was looking for signs of warmth of happiness.

I was looking for contentment and joy. Maybe they had tucked away in the closet somewhere and if I could find evidence of it, maybe I could remind them of it. If anything, I imagine, it would’ve helped me to exhale a little bit and loosen my belt.

Or takeoff my jacket and stay a while.

I never found any.