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Eden’s Secret Journal - The story of an older adopted child, by Brenda McCreight

Book excerpt:
My name is Eden and I am 13 ½ years old. I am writing this story about me because my therapist said I should. She said if I write down all about my life then maybe I will understand it better. I don’t know if that is true, but I might as well because if I don’t I will probably have to go to another therapist and do some other weird thing. The last one made me make clay people and kept showing me naked dolls. That was really gross. At least this one lets me write my story on her computer and then I don’t have to talk to her as much. So here I go.

I was born to my parents who could not take care of me. Isn’t that a strange thing? Lots of social workers told me that I was a very pretty baby and a good baby. They said my parents had problems with drugs and alcohol and could not handle a baby. I don't understand that. I think they should have stopped taking the drugs and alcohol and just taken care of me. People keep saying when I grow up I will understand that it isn't so easy to make that kind of change. Maybe that is true. I don’t know yet. I still think it is weird to have a kid if you can’t take care of it. My therapist says I should let out my anger about this. I don't think I really have any anger. But my therapist seems happier if I hit a pillow and yell at least once in a while, so I do that. I'm afraid if I don't she'll take away my computer time and bring in the naked dolls. And anyway, sometimes I like to make people happy.

I don’t remember my parents. Someone said I lived with them till I was three. I can remember a nice lady who used to sing to me, but that could have been a foster mother or it could have been my mother. Someone else said that my mother used to visit me in my first foster home, but I don't remember that either. I have some pictures of her, but when I look at them it makes me cry in my head so I don’t like to look at them. I don't have any pictures of my father and no one ever tells me anything about him anyway.

Sometimes late at night when I am in my bed alone I can almost remember a smell. When I have the almost memory, I feel warm and happy. My therapist said that is probably a good memory of my mother. I don’t know why she thinks that. One of my foster parents had problems with drugs and alcohol. I knew about it before the social workers knew about it and the reason was because she smelled so bad. All tobacooey and stinky. So, if my mother had the same problems, I don't think she smelled too good either.

Here is something I hate. I hate it when I cry in my head. The tears won’t come out of my eyes like they do with other kids. It feels like they are stuck inside and drowning my brain so I can't think and I can’t hear anything either. I always wanted to cry like other kids, but I always wanted lots of things like other kids and I never got them...

The book is available from Adoption Press

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