When we put the thorn in our hearts, we know we understand. And still, we find a way to survive.
I howled like a raging volcano erupting a power within, forcing out my cries to heaven. My little body was wrecked with my own grief of knowing, a deep knowing at eight, but undeniable, that my path was going to be alone. My rabbit howled.
I sat on the floor behind the passenger seat and talked to God and wept, never at that point understanding why I was adopted, why I had no family, no real home life like all the other children, why I was left alone all the time. Often days would go by without food or seeing them. And when I was around, I was stuck in a van or being molested, never a hug, a mother’s concern, a kiss. I watched other children being loved and wrapped in affection. All this came to the surface as I realized my truth, my dire circumstances.
She came out after six hours of visiting, never looking at me, but instead reached to the back seat and checked her Hawaiian buns, brought the package up to the front passenger seat, opened them, and proceeded to eat some on the drive home. I sat in silence, my heart breaking. That seared my little soul. I also received no food that night either. Somehow it was okay with me, and from that night on I never looked upon them for anything. My only guarantee of treatment was rape on a daily basis, neglect, and beatings.
At eight I knew I was alone, and family would never be my gift. I would forge my way to survive with a foreboding glare upon me through this gloom of childhood. I felt the residue in every fiber of my being of the howling. It lasted with me for some time, fresh, right there on the surface. It was self-awareness that was very heavy for a little girl to carry.
When we put the thorn in our hearts, we know we understand. And still, we find a way to survive. This was the first time my rabbit howled, and there were more to come.
