ALL MY LIFE I have heard people talk about love. Everyone says that love is enough. Love is the answer. Love heals all wounds. I believed it all. So, when you were three days old, I took you from your birth mother’s arms and brought you home from the hospital, absolutely certain that if I filled you to the brim and more with love, I could guarantee you a lifetime of happiness and security and keep you free from all harm. I was wrong.
I thought that no one could have too much love, so every week I bundled you in the car for a trip to the prison to visit your birth mother. I thought it would sustain you and give you more security to know your history, your ties, your past. I never knew the confusion it brought about in your mind.
I thought that I was loving you when I introduced you to your extended birth family. I thought it would comfort you to see people who looked like you, with light coffee skin and soft curly hair. I thought it would ground you to know your roots. I never knew the insecurity it brought about for you.
I thought I was doing what was best when I said good-bye to you at ten months old and sent you off to live with your “real” family. I didn’t know, until years later, the terrors you experienced during those six months away from me.
When you came back at sixteen months old, an anxious, frightened waif, I thought that enough love would heal you. I didn’t realize how wounded you were, how deep were your scars, how damaged was your sense of self and sense of trust.
At four, when your “mother” surfaced again, demanding visits, I had no choice but to comply. I didn’t realize the horrific memories you had no words for, which were buried deep inside you. I didn’t see them beneath the surface of your beautiful, sweet, loving spirit.
At seven, when the memories exploded into a wild frenzy of words and dangerous behaviors, I still kept believing that love would pull you through, and your precious being would remain intact. And so I kept loving you, holding you close to comfort you as you whimpered exhaustedly after every destructive episode. But love was not enough.
You needed therapists and hospitals to help you feel safe. You needed more stability and security than my love could give you. You needed a promise of permanency. And so I fought for you. Between visits to you in the hospital, I visited lawyers and courthouses, until I finally had the piece of paper that guaranteed we would be a family. I thought that showing you this proof that said you had a forever home and a promise of everlasting love would soothe your soul and help you put the past behind you. But my love for you, no matter how strong and deep, could not erase the past.
Some days were better than others, some weeks, some months, some years. But always beneath the surface was this wariness in you and an uncertainty about your place in the world, in your community, in your family, in my heart. I tried so hard to anchor you through this turbulence with love. I wish love had been enough.
You are eighteen now, legally a man. The law says you can go where you wish and do what you want. And so you have disappeared into a world I do not know. At first it was for days at a time, then weeks, now months. I feel terribly sad not knowing where you are, how to reach you, if you are safe, or if I will ever see you again. I don’t know if you even remember or believe how much I love you, how special you are, how much potential you have. It breaks my heart that in eighteen years I couldn’t convince you of these truths. I am so sorry. Forgive me, please.
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