A piece of my story: Part 1

Whenever you meet someone new, they want to know your story. 

They want to know what makes you tick. They want to know where you came from and how you got to be where you are today. My story is perhaps different 

from most people's, and it has certainly made all the difference in who I am today.

At a young age, I noticed that my life was different than that of my friends. You see, 

my mother was an alcoholic. She had been ever since she was a teenager.

Ever since she left her sleepy Wisconsin town and ran away from home when she was about 15.

After that:

She had a bad first marriage.

She met my father.

They split-up.

The drinking got worse.

Well, enough about her life! After-all, this is my story, not her's.

As a young child, I can remember taking care of my three younger brothers while she was out of it.

I was seven and I did not understand what was wrong with her. Don't get me wrong.

 There were good days. Really good days.

On these days, I can remember watching her crochet beautiful blankets and being so amazed 

at what she could create. We would paint each other's nails and I would bask in the warmth of

peace. I did not have to worry about making dinner, or about helping my brothers with their homework.

Then before I knew it, the clouds would roll in, and the good days would be over. 

She would trip and stumble and I would know that it was time for me to be the adult again. 

Time for me to be the protector. 

My mother was an inactive member of the Church, but we would go every now and then. 

We went with a particular couple that had befriended my family.

Who was the couple you ask? Well, they were Brother and Sister McCarthy.

I loved going to Church. I loved Primary and everything about it.

I loved the peace I felt there as I sang primary songs and learned

about how Jesus loved and watched over everyone.

Prayer became a major thing for me, even at the tender age of seven.

I was intrigued with the idea that when I spoke, someone would listen and speak back.

When I prayed, I felt loved; I felt safe. 

When knowledge of my home-life became public, the McCarthy's stepped in.

The took us in while my mother went to rehab. There, I got to be a kid.

I could run and play. I had someone to take care of me. I had parents. 

Parents that would help me with my homework. Parents that would tuck me in at night

and rub my back until I got sleepy. As time passed, I no longer thought of my

mother. I was content in my new world.

Well, my mother eventually completed her rehabilitation. She wanted her children back.

My brothers could not wait to go back. I, on the other hand, was dreading it.
I had heard her promise before that the drinking was done with. I had tearfully watched as
her promises were broken. I realized that I was done. I had enough.

I decided that I never wanted to go back, I wanted to be adopted. 

The McCarthy's did not want me to go back either. 

Thanks to them, I never had to.

Adoption papers were drawn up and my mother relinquished her rights.

From that moment on, she has been known as Lisa.

From that day forward, I no longer referred to the McCarthy's as Brother and Sister McCarthy.

They became mom and dad. 

Many people upon hearing my story, cannot believe their ears. They instantly give me a pitying glance

and applaud my bravery. They congratulate me on recognizing, as young as I was, that I 

deserved a better environment. They credit my strength at enduring. I just see it as taking lemons 

and making lemonade :)

As I have grown older, I realize that I am grateful for the life that I have had. I am 

grateful for the family that I was born into. The Lord was watching out for me. He knew 

what he was doing and his wisdom never ceases to amaze me. I look at how my early

childhood could have been worse, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I am certain that

 I would be a completely different person had I not experienced what I had....but that is a story for 

another day.........