I don’t remember much about my birth mom. She was beautiful. And she could sing. I remember she would sing to me all the time. She would sing while she put the bows and pigtails in my hair. I would sing with her. We would harmonize. Her with her beautiful and powerful voice. Me, with my high pitched kid voice.
I loved her. She was my world. Beautiful. Sweet. Doting. I know she loved me.
Unfortunately, she loved heroin more than she loved me.
Imagine, four years old, and your mother is on the kitchen floor. You don’t understand death. She’s laying there, staring at the ceiling. Eyes open. Staring. Blank. Nothingness behind them. But you're four. You don't get it. It's a game, right? Just a game. She's going to wake up and tickle you and chase you through your home and brush your pigtails and kiss your face.
You’re so hungry. You just want her to make you something to eat. You’re four. You shake her. She doesn’t respond. You think she’s playing. Her eyes are open. She’s awake. You don’t understand. Her eyes are open staring at the ceiling. Dull. Unseeing. Just wake up and make me something to eat.
You cry. You scream at her. She doesn’t move. You still don’t understand. You are four. You shake her. Her eyes just stare at the ceiling. Unmoving. Unblinking. Unseeing. You're so hungry. You just want a hug. Wake up. I'm so hungry. And tired. It's dark now. Aren't we supposed to get ready for bed?
You get in your pajamas by yourself. Why isn't she helping? Why didn't she come upstairs, too?
She smells bad. You are hungry. You snuggle her. Why are we still in the kitchen? Why aren't we in our bed upstairs? She doesn’t snuggle back. Your bows are falling out of your pigtails. There are knots in your hair.
You open the fridge and eat cold hot dogs.
You snuggle her some more. She’s peed herself.
You cry for her to snuggle you back. To sing to you. You sing to her. Loud. Waiting for her to sing back. She's quiet. She just stares at the ceiling.
This goes on for a few days before the police come. You don’t understand. You just want her to sing to you again. To hold you again. To brush your pigtails and put new bows in your hair.
You are taken to the hospital. You are poked and prodded. But fed. Food is good. Hot. Warm.
"What's your name?" A stranger asks.
"Lyric." Your voice small.
"So pretty. Just like you." A gentle smile from a stranger.
Eyes diverted. Looking away. A gentle hand on my head. The stranger leaves.
You are alone though. Strangers come and go from your room.
Then someone drives you to a house. It's another stranger. The house is strange, too.
There are a lot of other kids there. A woman who is older than Mommy. Not as pretty. When you ask her to sing to you, she rolls her eyes and takes you up to a room. It's not your room. It's not your house. No one reads you a story. No one sings you lullabies.
You can’t sleep. So you sing.
You get yelled at for making too much noise.
You cry. You get in more trouble.
The other kids are mean.
No one puts your hair in pigtails with bows. No one sings with you. No one loves you.
You move to another house. And this is what your life looks like for the next twelve years. Ignored. Unloved. Moved around.
You make trouble because then people pay attention to you.
Otherwise, you are ignored. Except when you make trouble. Or sing. Your voice is loud and strong. It’s your power. It's the only class in school you are recognized in.
But you fight with everyone. All the time. You are lonely. Unloved. Despised. Home after home. School after school. You fight at school You fight in the homes. Rage and loneliness fill you to the brim.
It doesn’t matter. You just sing. And fight. And when you are alone in the shower you cry.
Your eyes close at night and you see her. Dead on the floor. Eyes open. Staring. Cold. But you still miss her. Every part of you misses her. Misses her love. All day. Every day. An emptiness left where her love once lived.
When you are almost sixteen, you get dumped in yet another home. This one has two moms. Only two other kids. They are older, like you. But they belong to one of the moms. You are the only foster kid.
It doesn’t matter how much you fight with them. How much trouble you cause. They refuse to fight back or be mean.
Instead, they seek to understand you. Gigi and Rhonda. That’s the moms. The kids are two boys, Jason and Kenny. They are older than you. They don’t give a fuck if you scream. Fight. Sing, or what. But when you are cool with them, they are cool with you. They play video games with you when you act right. They help you with your homework.
You don’t get sent away. This is home.
The boys graduate one year away. They leave for college.
Rhonda and GiGi just keep you.
After you turn eighteen, they stop getting paid by the state, but they don’t care. They let you stay. You are theirs. They let you know it.
They help you apply for college. You get scholarships and grants. You get your degree in performing arts.
You sing. You don’t fight as much. You learn to adapt.
You still don’t really have friends though.
You find spirituality and “witchcraft” in an effort to feel connection and to feel powerful. You burn candles and ask the universe to deliver love and acceptance.
You fall in love with a girl and she breaks your heart.
You fall in love with another girl. She breaks your heart.
You graduate college.
You sing. You fall in love. You get broken. Repeat.