I am not your little orphan Annie.

Content Warning: This article contains potentially sensitive topics including adoption, child abuse, and alcoholism, and is intended for readers who are 18 years of age or older. If you prefer not to read about these topics, or are under the age of 18, please click here.

By Michelle Riess
Originally posted in 2019. Updated 2023

In May 1982, Annie was released in the United States. Annie is the story of a 10-year-old girl (Aileen Quinn) who lives in a New York City orphanage in the 1930s due to the death of her parents. Eventually, she is adopted by the billionaire Oliver Warbucks (Albert Finney). The film is based on the 1977 musical of the same name. The 1982 film, and the process of casting the role of Annie, were advertised heavily and my adoptive parents really pushed it on me. This article isn’t intended to be a critique of the film, but to demonstrate the impact unrealistic adoption stories, like Annie, can have on the overall adoption narrative; and how that perpetuates the harmful savior mindset in some adoptive parents — as it certainly did in mine.

At the time of Annie’s release in 1982, I was five years old, and my adoptive parents made it a big part of my life that year. As I share elsewhere on this website, I did not know that I am adopted until 2017, at age 40, when I accidentally discovered my adoption after completing an Ancestry DNA test. Despite this, my adoptive parents knowingly pushed this material on a child they fraudulently adopted while they simultaneously manipulated that child (me) into believing she was their own biological child. I’m sure anyone reading this can see how twisted that is. The film E.T. came out right around the same time as Annie and was a worldwide success, especially for kids, topping US & international box office charts for the year. Yet they never pushed that film on me, or any other popular movies or television shows that year, so they obviously had clear intentions regarding Annie.

As a child, I had mixed emotions about Annie. I liked the music and, of course, Annie’s loyal dog, Sandy. But some parts of the film made me feel sad and anxious despite reassurances from my adoptive parents that it was a happy movie. “Look at everything Annie has now!” was the basic message they repeated to me anytime I felt uncomfortable, as though money alone can, and should, sufficiently replace the loss of an adopted child’s entire biological family, siblings, ethnic identity, culture, etc. It just does not work that way, but I was a young child being actively manipulated by my adoptive parents, so I innocently believed whatever they told me — and they knew it. And it wasn’t just the film. We saw stage productions of Annie. I had all the Annie books and records. I was given virtually every Annie toy & item known to existence — the dollhouse, the car, the dolls, bags, clothes, even the official Annie wig, and dress. You name it, I probably had it.

I was Annie for Halloween that year, too. I didn’t ask to be Annie for Halloween — it was selected for me by my adoptive parents. Originally, my adoptive mother wanted me to be the raggedy orphanage version of Annie (of course she did!) but this was the time before Amazon & Halloween superstores, so she was unable to find the right kind of brown boots that Annie wore (because my costume had to be perfect.) I remember her being so frustrated by this. So instead, I was the much more polished version of Annie at the end of the film after she is “rescued” by Daddy Warbucks. I wore my official red & white Annie dress, official Annie wig, and black tap shoes. I even had a little heart locket just like Annie’s, because, of course I did.

In November 1982, Annie was released on VHS. I vividly remember my adoptive father taking me to the local video store (that’s how we watched movies at home in 1982 – lol!) and him begging to purchase one of their copies of Annie on VHS. I remember the store being resistant to selling it to him, but ultimately he succeeded. It was the first movie we owned for our new VHS player, and they made such a big deal about it to me; so much so that I still have that VHS tape in my possession because it feels almost criminal to get rid of it despite the feelings I have towards it now.

Naturally, my birthday party that year was also Annie-themed — again selected by my adoptive parents. I mean, doesn’t every child who doesn’t know they are adopted as part of an illegal adoption ring dream of having an Annie-themed birthday party??? (…crickets…) Yeah, definitely not…

My Annie-themed birthday party took place at my adoptive parents’ home on Saturday, December 4, 1982. My actual birthday is November 30, but they waited until that weekend to have the party. In 2017, after my accidental adoption discovery, I learned that December 4^th is a monumental day in my life. This day is sometimes referred to as Gotcha Day by adoptive parents, but I am uncomfortable with that term and its darker implications; especially considering the incredibly unethical circumstances of my adoption — and, of course, my 40-years-too-late discovery. December 4^th, as it turns out, is the day that my mother, Hollie, reluctantly handed newborn me to the adoptive parents after being lied to by them about their backgrounds & intentions, being lied to by her own Ob/Gyn who was entrusted with her medical care, and being lied to by the attorney the adoptive parents paid to find them a healthy, white newborn.

This is the same attorney who arranged my adoption despite knowing it was 100% illegal for him to do so. The same adoptive parents who used fake first & last names and provided false background information about themselves so my biological family would approve them for the adoption, but also so they could never find them (or me) in the future. The same adoptive parents who did not even tell their own families they were planning to adopt until I was already in their home. The same adoptive parents who promised (verbally & in writing) they would tell me about my adoption as a young child, but knew they never really would. The same adoptive parents who had to testify in the eventual trial against their own attorney about my illegally arranged adoption — and their willingness to participate in & conceal it. The same attorney who very obviously appears to have lied under oath repeatedly during his court testimony.

I do not feel adopted; I feel like stolen goods taken during the course of an elaborate jewel heist. If you have any questions left in your mind about why the term “Gotcha Day” bothers me so much, just read the last two paragraphs again until it starts to make sense. Surely the significance of this date was a detail not missed by my adoptive parents while planning my Annie-themed birthday party that year on December 4^th — my “gotcha day.” It just oozes with ickiness and puts their grandiose sense of entitlement on center stage. [Related: The Problems With Gotcha Day, written by an adoptive parent]

My Annie-themed party was quite elaborate for 1982 home birthday party standards. Today, kids’ parties are out of control, but in 1982, my party was about as good as it got for the average middle-class/upper-middle-class child’s birthday party. There were all sorts of officially branded Annie decorations. There was a custom-made Annie cake. I don’t remember what food we had, but knowing my adoptive parents it was probably extensive. They hired a magician. They played the Annie soundtrack. They played the film on the television in the background, which may not seem like a big deal now, but many families at that time didn’t own VHS players, let alone movies just released on VHS. I wore a red and white velvet dress with white tights and black shoes that gave off obvious Annie vibes; I’m honestly surprised they didn’t make me wear the Annie wig too. (lol!) I’m sure there were plenty of other details I overlooked in all of the excitement of the day — but you can get the idea.

This party, like most of the events my adoptive parents hosted over the years, was a performance — and a heavily photographed one (like all of their parties, holidays, vacations & fancy dinners were documented.) It was my adoptive parents showing off to the other parents in our wealthy town, building their façade (because they had much to hide), and making an absolute spectacle of me in the process. I don’t think anyone — adopted or biological — would appreciate looking back on all of this knowing the truth behind it. While I’m sure I was very happy to get so many presents that day, in reality, the only ones who truly benefited from this performance were my adoptive parents’ egos.

I am certain my adoptive parents were trying to recreate the feeling of the final scenes of the 1982 film, where they celebrate Daddy Warbucks’ acquisition of Annie with an epic celebration at his mansion. This party was over the top — there were elephant rides, fireworks, clowns, magicians, music, and even a US President was there. Eventually, Annie and Daddy Warbucks perform the song “I Don’t Need Anything But You” while tap dancing in front of President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

While my adoptive parents’ house certainly was not Daddy Warbucks’ mansion, it was a beautiful, large house in a very nice town in southern New Jersey in the suburbs of Philadelphia. It was about as close to Daddy Warbucks’ mansion as any middle-class child (or adult) in 1982 could imagine. If it hadn’t been December, they probably would have had elephant rides and fireworks in the yard just like in the movie. (lol!) Had it not been for his historic Latin American trip that week, I’m certain President Ronald Reagan would have been there too. (lol!)

As I look at the party photos now, especially after being lied to about my origins for four decades, I cringe uncomfortably. I just don’t know what my adoptive parents were thinking on so many levels; as a parent myself, it’s honestly impossible for me to relate to most of the choices they made. This party, for example, made a mockery of my adoption, my personal experiences as an adopted child (even as one who didn’t know she was adopted because they knew), but especially the great sacrifices my mother, Hollie, made on that same day six years earlier. I look at the little girl in the party photos and she doesn’t have a clue about what’s going on or what is coming her way. It’s so sad. [Related: Gaslighting by a Parent]

If I had known I was adopted and I chose to watch Annie and talk about adoption openly with my adoptive parents, that would have been a completely different situation.

If I had known I was adopted and I chose an Annie-themed birthday party on my gotcha day, (or to dress up as Annie on Halloween) that would have been a very different situation.

That was never the case though; my adoptive parents made sure I never had that opportunity. For forty years, they crafted a web of lies with made-up facts & background stories intended to answer questions that would ultimately reveal I was adopted if they had been honest.

Over the years, we traveled a lot. If there is one thing I appreciate most from the life I had with my adoptive parents, it was their ravenous appetite for very expensive vacations. We went on dozens & dozens of cruises and extravagant vacations all over the world. We traveled so much that in the early 90s my adoptive father decided to open a travel agency as a side business. He had a small agency that he ran by himself out of his primary business office with two branches: the generic cruise branch and the exclusively gay travel branch. As a young woman, I sometimes helped with the generic travel business (no pay, of course!) because I enjoyed traveling so much and had aspirations to be a travel writer, though my adoptive father was solely responsible for the gay travel branch. I helped him by maintaining his websites, creating newspaper ads for both his generic and gay travel agencies, and helping with some of his regular cruise customers. Throughout the mid-80s and into the mid-90s, we would typically sail on 2-4 cruises per year; sometimes more. By the time I was fourteen years old, I had been to five continents, sailed on over two dozen cruises, witnessed a volcanic eruption in Hawaii, and stood in King Tut’s tomb — something many adults will never achieve in their entire lifetime. I loved to travel, but the problems that plagued my home life also traveled with us.

On many of the cruises we sailed on, there was a passenger talent show and anyone could sign up. My adoptive father, who enjoyed theater and singing since his youth, would frequently participate in these events. When I was young, my adoptive parents would often suggest a duet between my adoptive father and I singing “I Don’t Need Anything But You” from Annie. I always declined and, thankfully, they never forced me to do it, but the fact that it was suggested on multiple occasions is honestly stomach-turning. Again, at that time I had no idea that I was adopted, and they knew everything. To suggest a duet from Annie, where Daddy Warbucks “saves” this young girl strongly suggests this is how they saw themselves in relation to me. Their behaviors and attitudes toward me over the years overwhelmingly support this. I mean really — out of all the songs in the world we could have performed together, why suggest that song, (and only ever that song) especially since I did not know the significance? It’s truly sickening.

One time when I was quite young, probably not long after Annie was released, my adoptive mother was getting ready to go out to dinner. While sitting at her makeup mirror, she made a fantasy comment to me about my adoptive father being Daddy Warbucks and her being Grace Farrell — the beautiful young secretary of Daddy Warbucks portrayed by the amazing Ann Reinking. She was referencing a scene from the film where Reinking’s character, Grace Farrell, and Annie are singing & dancing while getting ready for a night at Radio City Music Hall. I understood her reference to the film, but little five-year-old me did not agree — at all. I remember responding to her very matter-of-factly, but innocently, with something like “I think you’re more like Miss Hannigan,” the mean, drunk character who ran the orphanage where Annie lived. My assessment was honestly fair, but obviously she did not like hearing that and she immediately slapped me across the face in response. That moment, and her rage-filled face, is just as vivid to me right now as it was that day. Again, I was only five years old. That is the first time I can recall her hitting me across the face, though certainly not the last. The thing is, what I said to her was so accurate — she even looked and acted like Miss Hannigan a bit, especially the drinking (no offense to the very lovely & talented Carol Burnett!) She had a very similar reaction when I called her “Mommie Dearest” one time after a particularly harsh physical punishment (who, ironically, also had an adopted daughter named ‘Christina.’)

Growing up, my adoptive mother’s mother (my adoptive grandmother) lived with us. She moved in with my adoptive parents shortly after they were married in the early 1970s, and remained in their home until she died in 1999. I felt close to my adoptive grandmother, or at least as close as I was able to feel to family members considering the incredibly dysfunctional and abusive environment I was raised in. She never hit me, never physically or emotionally abused me, and despite her somewhat hardened outer shell, I could tell she loved me. I also loved her; I still do. I called her Yia Yia, the Greek word for Grandmother.

Over the years, Yia Yia (my adoptive grandmother) suffered from some debilitating medical conditions, and eventually, was unable to walk, stand, or even care for herself. By the time I was 15 years old, she needed a lot of help with her activities of daily living. My adoptive mother did not work outside of the home at any point after I was adopted yet somehow, as a teenager, it inexplicably became my responsibility to be my adoptive grandmother’s caregiver. My adoptive mother did nothing towards her own mother’s care, other than maybe bringing her a glass of water or throwing a frozen meal in the microwave for her from time to time. This is, sadly, not an exaggeration. Even as a teenager, I always thought it was strange that my adoptive mother always claimed that she “couldn’t” help with her own mother’s care, yet a minor (me) was fully expected to. I loved my adoptive grandmother, so at the time, even though it was extremely difficult, I couldn’t allow her to be neglected, so I always did what I was told to do. It was honestly terrible, and not something a minor should ever be forced to do; especially when there are fully capable adult family members who are not already helping. (i.e., my adoptive mother.)

Some of the things that I was required to do for my adoptive grandmother — as a minor and young woman — included: dressing her, bathing her (full body, including breasts & genitals), feeding her, transferring her to/from the wheelchair, transferring her to/from the recliner, transferring her to/from the bed, and transferring her to/from the toilet. I did everything from wiping her to changing her soiled diapers — and she suffered from severe gastrointestinal issues that frequently resulted in her accidentally soiling herself. There were times the diarrhea was so severe that it came out of the back and/or sides of the diaper and I sometimes had to cut her out of her nightgown to avoid getting feces everywhere. (take a moment to let the reality of that statement sink in…) These diaper blowout situations, which happened regularly, were particularly difficult to deal with, especially without anyone helping me. I remember many times standing next to my adoptive grandmother as I assessed the diaper situation, and her crying in shame as I tried to figure out what to do to help her. It was awful for me, but I’m sure it was so incredibly humiliating for her, too. In addition to all of this, I also co-managed her multiple medications and glucose monitoring (finger sticks) with my adoptive father. This is the kind of care I provided to my adoptive mother’s mother as a minor five days per week (often more) while my adoptive mother sat nearby with her feet up, drinking, smoking, and watching television.

During my last year two years of high school, my adoptive grandmother attended an adult daycare program so my adoptive mother could have “a break” during the day… (I just threw up in my mouth a little…) Now, for the sake of fairness, I want to give my adoptive mother some credit. She wasn’t always sitting around smoking, drinking, and doing nothing. She was obsessive about keeping the house clean and organized, and like everything else in her life, she went to extremes about it. If there was a crumb on the floor, it could throw her into an instant rage depending on how much she had to drink and what kind of mood she was in. She was also an amazing chef (her parents owned a restaurant) but strangely, she never tried to teach me anything about cooking and would actually make me leave our very large kitchen when she was preparing anything because she would claim I was in the way. By this time, she also didn’t cook dinner for her own mother anymore, even when she was already preparing dinner for me and my adoptive father. Her mother was given frozen microwave meals instead.

My adoptive mother’s life was exceptionally comfortable; she didn’t work outside of the home, my adoptive father gave her whatever she asked for, and she had hours to herself every day to do whatever she wanted in that big, beautiful home with an inground pool, hot tub, and full bar. But, regardless, she claimed she needed a break during the day so, per her orders, my adoptive grandmother was sent to adult daycare. During that time, she would do her daily housework, watch television, smoke a pack or two of cigarettes, drink straight gin, and sometimes drive to local stores to get the things she wanted (usually cigarettes, gin, clothes, food, etc.) Though she didn’t drive very much, when she did, she was often intoxicated at varying levels–even when I was a passenger in the car. Every Saturday morning for most of my childhood and into my mid-teens, I had private Greek language lessons through our local Greek Orthodox church. Most Saturdays, she would bring a thermos with her that she would claim was filled with coffee but actually contained alcohol. She would literally drink this while driving and while waiting for my Greek lessons to finish. One time when I was in my mid-teens, we stopped at a store after Greek school and she had an incident in the parking lot where instead of reversing out of the parking spot, she actually went forward and over the concrete barrier and into the bushes. This caused some minor damage to the front of her car. Rather than acknowledge this, she created a story about how she had let me drive (I had recently obtained my learner’s driving permit) and that I was the one who caused the damage. I was fully expected to comply with this story, which I did. Another time when I was in my early 20s, she must have somehow banged her car into mine and caused damage to the driver’s side of her car. I did not see the incident happen, so I can’t say exactly what happened, but rather than being truthful about it, she acted like she had no idea how it happened and naturally I was blamed for it. Again, I was just expected to accept the blame, which I did. Even the garage door frame of the home was damaged from when she would attempt to pull the car into the garage but would hit the house instead. Her continuously dented and scraped car (and house) was clear evidence of her impairment, but still, my adoptive father didn’t see anything wrong with it and just accepted all of her ridiculous explanations. He continuously enabled her in so many ways, and never questioned her, even when safety was clearly an issue. Thankfully, she never caused a crash or injured anyone.

On weekday afternoons, my adoptive grandmother returned home from adult daycare shortly after I was dismissed from school. As a result, I was required to come straight home from school every day so I could greet the adult daycare bus when it arrived at our house. Consequently, I was not allowed to participate in afterschool activities or see friends except on very rare occasions. When she arrived home, little 5’3″ and 105 pound me would push her heavy wheelchair up a folding ramp into the house to start her afternoon routine, which always began with an urgent visit to the bathroom. Often she already had an accident in her diaper by the time she got home, which was solely my job to deal with. When my adoptive father returned home from work in the evenings, most of these responsibilities transferred to him. My adoptive mother also did not help him with her own mother’s care when it was his turn. At some point, my adoptive parents hired an aide to help out on some weekday mornings. There was usually no outside help over the weekend, except when she was much closer to her death.

When we were traveling, as we frequently did, my adoptive parents would temporarily admit her to a nursing home for the duration of our itinerary. I always felt guilty when we would go away on luxurious vacations, often for two weeks or more, and even over the Christmas & New Years holidays, and she was sent off to a crappy nursing home all by herself. It just felt so cold and cruel — and this was her own mother! But my adoptive mother was a narcissist, and all that mattered was what she wanted, her happiness, her comfort, her image, and that everyone else compiled — or, as I learned from a very young age, there would be literal hell to pay.

Many people throw around the term narcissist too freely these days to describe the difficult people in their lives, but that is not the case here. Even though she was never officially diagnosed (because she refused to go to doctors; she always said she didn’t believe in doctors, which actually contributed to her early death in 2010) looking at all of the evidence now, it is quite clear that she likely had Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD.) Like most narcissists, she would never acknowledge that there was anything wrong with her. If you ever made the mistake of suggesting that something she did or said was wrong, you would instantly be met with insults, rage, and often, in my case, physical abuse. The overwhelming attitude was “How DARE you suggest that anything is wrong with me! I am perfect, but now let’s talk about all of YOUR flaws!” Obviously this is very scary and hurtful behavior to a child, especially when it is coming from a parent over long periods of time. Reading the DSM-5 diagnostic criteria for NPD is like reading an illustrated description of my adoptive mother where virtually every box is checked off. Even my therapists and psychiatrist since my discovery in 2017 acknowledged that a Cluster B Personality Disorder (or combination) was very likely her diagnosis based on the multiple types of abuse I experienced in her care, my adoptive parents’ bizarre relationship, and even the unethical, illegal circumstances of my adoption. Unfortunately, since she is deceased, there will never be an official diagnosis regarding her mental health; but my experiences with her for 33 years speak volumes and strongly support this type of diagnosis. [Related: Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers]

Sadly, when I was away at college, my adoptive grandmother’s health began to decline, and she required more intensive care at home. As a result, she was no longer able to attend the adult daycare program and was home with my adoptive mother all day. Even now, it is difficult for me to think about how my adoptive mother must have treated her and spoken to her during that time. It breaks my heart to think about my adoptive grandmother trapped there, unable to help herself or escape while laying in her soiled diaper for nearly an entire day — every day.

During this time, my adoptive mother openly continued not helping with her own mother’s care, and instead, made my adoptive father come home from work each day during his lunch break to care for her. The rest of the day, my adoptive grandmother was placed in a recliner or in bed wearing a diaper (which was not changed until my adoptive father returned home.) I wasn’t there, so I cannot say exactly what my adoptive mother did or did not do, but based on the years I spent caring for her, my adoptive mother rarely helped, even during times when it was very obvious that I was struggling and needed assistance (ex. diarrhea diaper blowouts.) That’s why I say it is very difficult for me to imagine her doing anything for her beyond the bare minimum at best. She was physically capable of doing all of the tasks that I did for her mother, but she vehemently refused, and my adoptive father just accepted it.

When I would come home from college during this period, my adoptive grandmother would frequently have screaming and crying outbursts, which were always described to me by my adoptive parents as “problems with her medication.” I now wonder if there was more going on that caused her to have these episodes. She would yell things like “I’m going to call the newspapers and tell them what you’ve done!” or “Help!” repeatedly, or even her heartbreaking mantra, “Mom!” — which she would often chant over & over again as a way of soothing herself, I believe. As a young person, I used to just laugh off these episodes because I was scared and didn’t know what else to do; I wish I could have been more supportive of her (emotionally) during that time, but there were already so many other serious issues going on at home that I wasn’t able to deal with as it was, and didn’t have the capacity for it at that time. A part of me feels like I failed her, though I know it wasn’t really my fault. It’s heartbreaking; what a terrible way to live. I hope she knew I was trying my best to help her with what little I had to offer at that young age…

Throughout my college years, my adoptive mother frequently reminded me of the burden I had (according to her) “selfishly” placed upon my adoptive father by going away to school — financially and because of the responsibility of my adoptive grandmother’s care. This, along with some other serious issues with my adoptive parents at that time, placed an inhumane level of stress, fear, shame, and guilt upon my shoulders when I should have been preparing for my future, but wasn’t able to. Eventually, I did return to their home out of guilt to resume my adoptive grandmother’s care until she died in 1999. [Related: the Parentification of Children]

Looking back on all of this, especially now as a parent, I am disgusted by their behaviors and parenting choices. They openly robbed me of so much of my youth, while they hid in plain sight from public scrutiny behind all of the gifts, vacations, experiences, material wealth, parties, a big house, etc. It was all a charade. I think back to this time in my life, and honestly, I’m not sure how I made it through. As a mother, I feel so incredibly sad and angry on behalf of that young woman and everything she went through completely alone while everyone on the outside believed she was living a beautiful life. Honestly, at that time in my life, I’m not sure if I even believed I was worthy of help which is heartbreaking. I wish I could go back in time and rescue my younger self and show her the motherly love, safety, and respect my own three children feel every day. I would tell her that she is beautiful, funny, creative, and talented in so many ways, and to always follow her heart and her passions. I know that funny and caring young woman, who had the potential to do anything she wanted in life, would have gone so far if she had been in the right environment — just like her three sisters have. [Related: Hidden abuse amongst affluent families]

In 2017, after I accidentally discovered that I am adopted, a lot of things in my life began to make perfect sense, including everything I’ve written about in this post. I came to the realization that I wasn’t really a daughter to her; I was there to serve her ever-evolving needs in life, to tend to her ego, to give her an easily accessible outlet for her sadistic tendencies, and — most importantly — to legitimize her in the eyes of the people in their lives. Adopting me was never about being a parent; it was all about playing a character and making it seem like we were a normal family to everyone on the outside. I cannot express this strongly enough — we were not a normal family, not in any context. The layers of dysfunction, lies, abuse, and toxicity that existed within that family dynamic are horrifying; no child should have ever been placed in that home. As I discussed in other posts, there were no pre-placement home studies or any other type of investigations made with my adoption; it was simply an exchange of money and lies. Eventually, the shady attorney my adoptive parents paid to find them a baby was indicted and found guilty for the adoptions he illegally arranged — including mine.

I wholeheartedly believe my adoptive parents actually thought they saved me from a “destitute” life they wrongly assumed I would have as the child of two unmarried teenagers. They fully believed in the adoption narrative, just like everything they saw in Annie, and considered themselves to be my saviors. In my adoptive mother’s mind, I owed them for “saving” me and she made sure I paid them back for every penny — first with my youth, and now with my adulthood. The ironic thing is my biological parents, Hollie and Rick, (I now just refer to them as my parents) raised three smart, successful, and kind daughters despite being young parents. It is very obvious that my three younger sisters were very loved, well cared for, and treated with respect and dignity as children, and as adults. I cannot say the same about my adoptive parents. Over the years, my adoptive mother always took the opportunity to remind me “how lucky” I was to be living there. I know in my heart she meant it, and that she did not love me the way a mother is supposed to love her children. I have the psychological wounds and cigarette burn scars on my body to remind me of that fact every day.

The reality of the situation, looking back now, is that I would give up everything I had growing up for the opportunity to remain within my biological family; or at least to have the knowledge that they existed from the safety of a different adoptive family that was actually qualified to raise an adopted child. There is no question in my mind; no amount of money, travel, toys, clothes, fancy things, and experiences can ever replace the love, and the relationship, between a loving mother and her child. That was all I ever needed. Nothing more.

I was not your Annie.

You did not save me.

You destroyed me.

.

“By ignoring the complex reality of adoption, we are also corroborating a sentimental narrative that drives a billion-dollar, for-profit adoption industry whose sole purpose has been successfully shifted in modern American history from finding homes for children who legitimately need them, to supplying hopeful prospective parents with kids to call their own.” –Liz Latty (read more)

P.S. Learn more about adoptee rights here: adopteerightslaw.com

Am I adopted? How to find out if you’re adopted. I think I might be adopted. Am I adopted quiz. Clues you are adopted. Red flags adoption. Adoption. What if I’m adopted? I think I’m adopted. Adoptee. Late discovery adoptee. Adoption disclosure. Chrissy Gellura, stockholm syndrome, child abuse, child manipulation, severe child abuse, What if I am adopted but don’t know. I am adopted. Adopted but doesn’t know. IDA. Christina Gellura. Adoption fraud. Late discovery adoptee. held captive by parent, adoptive mother, sadistic abuse, child abusers, Michelle Riess.