Sincerely, I’m the Ghost of Alicia
I was born in The Summer of Love, 1967. But love was not enough to help my mother. No one helped her. They told her that I would ruin her life. Me, a tiny, helpless newborn infant!
My mother fought hard to keep me. She wouldn’t give up on me. She wouldn’t sign. I went to a wonderful foster family who really loved me – especially my two big teenaged foster sisters! Mom visited me but it was hard and the pressure was on her. After six months I never saw her again.
Then just a week before my first birthday my foster Mom put me in my car seat and she was crying. They took me to the house in New Jersey with the plastic covers on the furniture. They handed me over to my “new Mommy.” I had three big brothers. And then I never saw my Mommy Lento and my sisters again.
I learned to play the game. To be the Barbie Doll new Mommy and new daddy wanted me to be. I was a good little actress. By high school, I got to be known as “the life of the party.” But it was fueled by alcohol and that was not what new Mommy had “bargained for” I often heard her say. So I drank more.
I almost made it through college – like I was expected to. I cut, I binge ate and purged, and I drank. DUIs, suspended license. It’s hard being a disappointment. Never being able to be the girl they wished for and wanted. THEIR little girl, who of course would not have eating disorders or drink.
New Daddy died. He was the only one who saw me and seemed to like what he saw. But then he was gone. New Mommy sold our house, the one I grew up in. She met a man and moved with him. So, I came home from college to no home.
I rented a room and I got a job.
Then the car crashed. I told the police I left my license home. They said, no problem. Bring it to court. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have one. Revoked.
I called my job and told them I’d be in tomorrow. I knew I wouldn’t. My car was impounded and I couldn’t get it back. That meant I couldn’t get to work. That meant I’d lose my rented room.
I went to three drug stores and bought OTC sleeping meds. Half a dozen boxes. I cleaned my rented room, including the fridge. I wrote note and I went to sleep.
The police found me and called New Mommy. She still couldn’t look at me, or what once was me. She couldn’t face the final disappointment. She sent one of her “real” sons, my “brother.”
Another adoptee suicide statistic. Alicia: 1967-1995.
No one cared while I was alive. Will they care now? How many have to die?
Submitted by Mirah Riben