Faded Memories

 At first I thought it was a language barrier, and then a lack of trust. The language came, though, as well as a certain amount of trust, but the memories never came. It was almost as if their lives began when they came to us, the time before wiped out by trauma or just by choice. Gone. The fruits of trauma remained, leaving us to wonder, “Was it this? Did this happen to them to make them behave or respond in this way?”

Our children came home at various ages, from infancy to almost 8. Amazingly some of the younger with greater emotional scars than the oldest. I longed for each of them to be able to give me some glimpse into their past. If I could just know a little, I could better help them heal. How painful it was to see someone walk into the house that our child had never met before, and to watch one of our children completely fall apart in tears and screams, terrified. We could certainly guess, and either way we knew that the only answer was love, time and trust. For him to learn and believe that he would never have to leave us, and that we would never make him go with anyone that would harm him.

Another child has been home years longer than he was a part of his orphanage and foster home. Why does he still hoard and hide things? What broke something within him making him feel that these things might someday be withheld from him? Why does he still chose a lie over truth in the simplest of questions. It is ingrained in him. Will he ever trust us enough to give us the truth even if it hurts?

Our youngest to come home from another country wasn’t even two when he became a part of the family. His trauma has been heavy. His first nights home were sleeping on top of my chest. He was terrified and wouldn’t even allow me to lay him to the side of me. Slowly over days and weeks he moved to a cot next to my bed, and then to his own room with me sleeping next to him. Finally he slept alone in his room with his door open, still running into our room in terror many nights. Years later, his little soul has healed so much. There are still meltdowns, rages, his screams laden with his fear spewing out, his vulnerability exposed completely. “You are going to send me back! You are going to kick me out when I am 18!” Once calm he admits that he knows we would never in a million years do either of these things, but does he truly believe that we won’t? What did he experience in those first months of his life that scarred his heart so terribly?

If I am honest, part of me wants to hear my children’s memories so that I can help each child heal from their emotional wounds, and part of me feels such a selfish, personal loss at not getting to have those memories shared. Not just the hard ones, but everything else as well. What did they eat every day? Did they have to brush their teeth? How often were they taken to the bathroom or to shower? What did they do during the day? Were they allowed to go potty at night? Were their caregivers kind? But nothing. I should be grateful that for two of my children the first meal they ever remember eating was spaghetti in our hotel room in their native country. This they remind me of every time we have it at home. I am thankful that each one of them truly has come so far, their trust and love apparent in each of them. I can’t help but hope, though, that someday I might be surprised by just a little glimpse of who they were before they were ours.