Adoption Story Part One: Four Year Old

Kimberly Anne Whitaker

I was born on February 11th, 1996 in a small town in East Tennessee among three sisters and two brothers. I lived with my biological mother who was an alcoholic. Her favorite pastime was drinking and forgetting everything that happened the next day. We lived in government housing that 5 out of the 7 days featured cops attempting to break up a fight in the neighborhood.

Life was rough.

I would knock on doors in my neighborhood and beg for food. A family night meant dinner at the salvation army.

Feeding her children wasn't included in her list of priorities. Alcohol, however, was. Nothing else mattered to her. The good days were when she could get her hands on alcohol.

There were a lot of kids in the neighborhood and I loved the moments I was allowed to play with them because it was only sparingly. I would ask my mom in the morning If I could play outside with them and she would nod in agreeance. . . . hours later when I returned. . . . she had already forgotten I asked earlier. . . . which meant. . . . kimmy is in BIG trouble.

Anytime I heard the words "you're in trouble", I knew what that meant. I'm sleeping in the closet again tonight.

My mother would lock me in the closet and would lean a door so I couldn't get out. I would sleep in the closet all night, with no food or water. My brother would often wake up in the middle of the night and sneak food under the cracks of the door so I could eat. The next morning, she would let me out totally forgetting why she put me in the closet to begin with.

My biological father wasn't any better. He was also an alcoholic and drug addict. I visited him sporadically, more on a convenience basis when mother was busy. He was always nice, but neglectful.

The worst part about it is my mother knew how to get under my father's skin, make him go into a rage...

There were many nights that cops were called over a domestic dispute at my house. My biological mother would throw anything in the house she could get her hands on at my father. The screaming and yelling would make a person deaf. The calls were so frequent that the cops knew my family by name and started threatening they would take all the children if they kept receiving calls.

My biological mother never took it seriously... until one night.

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