A memory without the emotional charge is called Wisdom

The brain, a magnificent and efficient machine, surpasses even the most advanced quantum computers in pattern recognition and data processing, all while operating on remarkably low energy. It's also a vast archive, storing every experience and associated emotion, a record of our personal history etched into our very being. This archive, however, can become a challenge when we dare to step outside our comfort zones and pursue our dreams.

For me, writing has always been a passion. From crafting poetry as a child to journaling and blogging throughout my life, words have been my constant companions. My life, particularly my adoption story, has fueled a desire to write a memoir. I want to explore adoption from the birth mother's perspective, a narrative often missing from the readily available resources aimed at adoptive parents. Adoption, at its core, is born from loss, a truth often obscured by marketing that prioritizes a happy narrative over the complex emotions involved.

Over time, I began to see disturbing parallels between adoption and other exploitative practices. The realization that some adoption agencies prioritize profit over the well-being of children and families was sickening. It's a complex issue, and while not all adoptions are unethical, the system is vulnerable to abuse, with some couples unknowingly participating in what can be considered child trafficking. The very thought of it makes me physically ill. My own children are my world, and the idea of them being exploited is unbearable.

My adoption story is messy, complicated, and unconventional. As a young mother at eighteen, my entire world revolved around my daughter, Jamie. I was consumed by the fear of SIDS, watching her every breath as she slept. The following summer, my life was irrevocably shattered. I was raped by three men over an entire weekend. Held at gunpoint, bound, and transported between locations, I was subjected to unimaginable terror. My escape came only after they forced me into a scalding hot bath, a crude attempt to destroy any evidence – what we now know as DNA.

As I endured the burning water and the agonizing pain, I looked up at a small, damaged section of the bathroom window and silently cried out to God, questioning my worthiness of love. The morning sun peeked through the opening, illuminating their chilling discussion of my fate. It was in that moment, hearing them plan my murder, that my brain shifted from shock to survival mode. A butter knife, used as a makeshift lock on the bathroom door, became my tool for freedom. I jammed it into the doorframe, creating a barrier. Then, wrapping my jogging pants around my arm for protection, I counted to three, and with the rising sun as my witness, I smashed through the window and dove out, landing on the fire escape. Naked, bleeding, and barefoot, I fled into the alleyway, ignoring the stares of early morning commuters. I ran past a police station, driven by pure terror, until I reached the safety of my brothers' house.

My brothers' place was a sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos of my life. As I ran, the fear slowly subsided, replaced by a desperate need for safety. I barely registered the pain of the rocks and glass embedded in my feet. The sight of their dilapidated house was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I rang the doorbell frantically, desperate for someone to answer. The barking of their German Shepherd, Sambo, filled the air. Sambo, a dog with his own history of abuse, was fiercely protective. He was my daughter Jamie's devoted companion, allowing her to handle him in ways no one else could.

When Sambo finally recognized me, his demeanor changed instantly. He jumped up on the storm door, welcoming me with a yelp of recognition. Finding no one home, I broke into the house, desperate to find solace in Sambo's presence. We shared a moment of understanding, two beings who had survived their own personal hells. I changed my blood-soaked clothes, concerned about my sister's borrowed outfit, a stark reminder of the violence I had endured. Then, finally safe, I collapsed onto the couch and sobbed uncontrollably.

I called my friend Krissy, the last person to see me before the attack. As I recounted the horrific events, she offered comfort and support. My brother Matt arrived home, sensing that something was terribly wrong. He already knew. He insisted that we tell our parents, a prospect that filled me with dread. I was already a single mother, a source of disappointment to them. The shame was overwhelming.

The memory of that conversation is seared into my mind. My brother's words, "Aimee was raped," hung in the air, shattering the peace of our family home. My mother's gasp, my father's hurt, were like physical blows. I felt responsible, as if I had brought this upon myself. My mother's question, "So this entire weekend when we thought you were getting a break…you were getting raped?" confirmed my deepest fears. I was tainted, broken, a source of shame.

For over a decade, I carried the weight of that trauma, viewing the world through the lens of shame, guilt, and low self-esteem. The anniversary of the rape, coinciding with my youngest brother's birthday, was a yearly reminder of my pain. Even when I tried to forget, my body remembered, manifesting the unresolved trauma through self-destructive behaviors. I lived a life limited by the beliefs instilled by my attackers, using my body as a tool to get what I thought I deserved. They stole my innocence, but they did not steal my value.

It wasn't until years later, after a battle with addiction and the near-loss of my family, that I realized the importance of confronting my trauma. Like the overflowing garbage cans outside my brothers' house, the pain and hurt I had suppressed began to spill out into every area of my life. Through journaling, self-reflection, and therapy, I began the long journey of healing. I learned to forgive myself, to release the blame I had wrongly carried for so long. Through meditation and breathwork, I began to move the trauma out of my body, transforming it into wisdom.

True healing comes when the emotional charge is removed from the memory. It becomes a story, not a source of pain. In many cultures, it is believed that those who have endured violent acts have a responsibility to share their stories, to offer their hard-won wisdom to others who may be trapped in similar cycles of pain. We are here to serve each other.

If you are struggling, please know that you are not alone. You are loved, you are worthy, and you are stronger than your limited beliefs. May you find your own wisdom hidden beneath your trauma. I am sending you so much love.

Aimée