Blacked out memories are often signs of trauma. My childhood consists of many blackouts. I guess there were events in my life that my mind chose to shield from me. If these events are worse than the memories I do have, I am grateful for the mercy.
As disturbing as that sounds, I must add that my parents loved me very much. Even as a child, I knew they did. And they had beautiful qualities I was lucky enough to learn from. The problem was, the love they had for me wasn’t strong enough to overcome the madness they were trying to escape. My mom wasn’t able to choose me over her thirst for the bottle, and my father wasn’t able to always put my well-being above the anger he held toward my mom’s addiction. That resentment grew into domestic violence which I tried to shield my mom’s drunken body from with my own. Most of the time, I failed and felt shame for doing so.
I wish I could tell you I’m okay with that, but that would be a lie. However, what I can tell you is that my parents’ actions have lead me to where I am today, hence why you are reading this bio. I am India Rigmor Adams, and I am an author. The first novel I wrote, Serenity, is partly my story, but I gave that innocent girl a much better chance of survival. The truth is, sometimes, too much to bear.
It took many years into adulthood for my ‘angry’ stage of healing to finally appear. Maybe that is because it wasn’t until the third grade, when I was put in a temporary foster home, that I even realized something might be off about my childhood. It wasn’t until a judge asked me what I wanted that I knew how much I appreciated having a choice. That choice? I was a child who wanted desperately to go home.
To adults who have an understanding of abuse and what it looks like, it’s hard for them to understand why an innocent wants to return to the chaos, but the truth is, it’s all I knew. It’s all most kids from abusive homes know. I hold no grudge against whatever adults or school system had my family investigated; they were trying to save a little girl who was drowning. But the blisters on my hands, due to the strangers I was forced to live with, was too foreign and complicated. My mind was still spinning from being taken from school, without my parents’ knowledge, by other strangers telling me my mommy wasn’t being a ‘good’ mommy due to her drinking.
The judge listened to my request and allowed me to return home. He, and the other adults trying to save me (HRS), were unaware of the domestic violence, and I refused to tell in fear of being removed again.Â
Without my guardian angels, my life became… well, that’s where my books come back into the picture. Vultures sense the dying and they swoop in. My vultures didn’t wait for my death. They each took a turn and a bite while I was still alive and exposed. And every bite altered me, my heart, my soul, and how I would handle the next attack.
In attempts to overcome all the tragic events I’ve experienced, I wrote for eight years before ever publishing one manuscript. In that process, I realized there are most likely many survivors like me, and I desperately want them to know they are not alone. That’s why, in every song, poem, book, novella, or novel I have written or write, there are pieces of me; pieces of my past and hopes for the future, and many wishes for what could’ve been, as well as my regrets for what was. I may not speak of all these pieces—share with readers which ones are truly mine—because some are too gruesome. Some truths could hurt family members. Those pieces will most likely stay hidden in the characters that bring my sorrow into the light so that my heart will no longer be in the dark.
Create light… and there will be no darkness.
