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I was adopted through CHS, in Orlando FL. It was a closed adoption.

I was adopted through CHS, in Orlando FL. It was a closed adoption.

I was adopted through CHS, in Orlando FL. It was a closed adoption.

I was adopted through CHS, in Orlando FL. It was a closed adoption.

how can can i find my daughter that i gave up for adoption so she can have a better life?

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I have a story that I want to share with you in hopes of exposure to see if it reaches the right ones. I have been in the media I have a book out, and I have a dilemma. My story is about Foster Children, you don't hear enough about it in the media, books, etc. I want to be an advocate for Foster Children, Orphans, kids who have given up, etc. I hope this reaches you and I really hope I hear from you soon! Until then, I will continue to smile! I wanted to send you an excerpt from my book in hopes that it helps you understand my story better. Since that article, I have a passport, but no birth certificate, and I have located my brother who I haven't seen in 13 years. We are not talking today because of our past. I look forward to hearing from you soon. Please let me know your thoughts and questions you may have.

Who Am I?

Elizabeth Sutherland

Internships are steppingstones. They provide real world experiences for students transitioning from academic to professional careers. I know all about transitions. As a child, I transitioned from Spain to America and then one placement to another, never knowing stability or a sense of belonging. Then, at age 18, I transitioned from ward of the court to emancipated adult. The transition from dependent child to independent adult could have done me in, as I have seen it do to others like me, but I vowed to conquer it, to succeed, no matter what. I wanted to have a better life as an adult than I had known as a child. Really, now that I think about it, all I have ever wanted is to feel normal, like the lucky kids, the ones with parents to love and guide them.
The internship caught me by surprise that crisp February morning. I had just begun scrolling though my email when the announcement popped up on the computer screen: "Internship in Washington D.C. Deadline April 17, 2004. Apply Now."
Oh, my God, I thought to myself. I could barely contain my excitement, and called in my roommates. "Look at this!" I exclaimed. "I've just got to apply, don't you think?" All three girls agreed, bouncing in unison for emphasis.
I was in my final semester of college, and, I must admit, feeling a bit worn down from years of attending classes, studying into the wee hours and holding numerous jobs. I had no clue what I was going to do after graduation. I just kept my head down and worked hard to complete my undergraduate education, giving little thought to the upcoming transition from college student to adult professional. Oh, sure, I fantasized about taking a break from the merry-go-round of life to travel to some exotic place for the summer, but I did not think myself worthy of such self-indulgence. After all, I was a foster child and therefore had no sense of entitlement.
Despite struggling with self-doubt, I decided to apply for the internship. After all, I might get lucky. Miracles do happen. I figured that if I gathered all the information required to complete the application and sent it in immediately, it would improve my chances of winning. I filled-out the formal application that day, but still had to forward an exemplary class essay, a list of references and a letter stating why I would like to participate in a summer internship in Washington, D.C. It took me several days to assemble everything, but the moment when everything came together, I did the unthinkable; I froze up and could not push the send button on my email.
"Why aren't you sending it in?" questioned my roommates. "You have worked too hard and come too far to quit now."
"I know, but what kind of chance would I have of winning? I'm a foster kid, an orphan, Miss nobody," I rationalized.
My roommates refused to let me off the hook. "You have nothing to lose and everything to gain," they pointed out. "Besides, this could be your ticket to a better life. Don't blow it. Send it. Send it now."
I knew the girls were right. The worst thing that could happen was not to win the internship, a guaranteed outcome, if I did not send the required information. I choked back my fear of being unworthy of such a wonderful opportunity, dropped back down at my desk, threw my hands up in the air, took a deep breath and clicked the send button.
I majored in Business Administration and Computer Information Systems in college, because of how technology relates with so many fields of endeavor, including criminal justice. My ambition is to be a FBI agent, in the field of Crime Scene Investigation. The internship in D.C. could help me get closer to my goal, I reasoned, if only I could win it.
As the weeks slowly ticked by, the anticipation ate away at me. I often found myself sitting before the computer, the tips of my fingers tapping nervously on the scratched wooden desk. Some days, I checked my email five or more times. "Come on. Be there," I commanded the computer, hoping that my wishes would elicit a response about the internship. I just wanted an answer, any answer, even a no answer, because I was so wrapped up in the fantasy of winning the internship. I could think of nothing else.
After nearly a month of endless wishing, praying and nail biting, I received the email. My heart dropped through my stomach, sweat flushed my pores and I began preparing myself for what surely would be bad news. Low and behold, though, the email explained that if I were one of the top ten applicants selected, I would receive a phone call confirming my receipt of an internship. Holy cow, I had somehow made the cut. Now I really was nervous.
Each day seemed like a week, as I awaited final notice of the internship. "Maybe they will select me," I hoped deep in my gut. "No, not you; you're just not that lucky," my mind prepared me for the worst, as it has always done to shield me.
Then, after eleven days of inner-debate, the telephone rang and my roommate, Shanna, yelled from the living room, "It's a man asking for you, Elizabeth! He says it's about the internship."
I never knew the beating of my heart was so loud or that my feet weighed so much as they did that day. I lumbered from my bedroom along the hallway into the living room, where Shanna held the telephone in my direction, her pretty face aglow with a smile of anticipation. The phone weighed a ton, as I put it to my ear.
The voice on the other end spoke softly. "Hello Elizabeth, I am Pat from the Orphan Foundation of America. On behalf of the scholarship program, welcome to the 2004 Internship Program to Washington, D.C."
I have not a clue what I said to Pat. I suspect that I kept repeating the words, "Thank you!" but all I can truly remember is that I couldn't stop smiling, until I started crying, and then I was doing both at once. It was as if I had won a million dollars or been reunited with my birth family. My life was coming together. Maybe I could finally escape my past and start a new life, a normal life, not the life of an unwanted foster child.
The Orphan Foundation of America was the key to my success the last two years of college, providing me $2,500 per semester for tuition and books. In many ways, the Orphan Foundation supported me, much as a family would do for one of its own. More than financial aid, they provided me hope, loyalty and a sense of belonging; what happened to me actually mattered to them. The Orphan Foundation of America made it possible for me to become who I am today, and this organization continues to help other children reach beyond the limitations of not having family support.
I graduated May 8, 2004 from Western Carolina University. Three days later, I was on my way to Washington, D.C. I spent nearly two months in D. C., interning for the Siemens Corporation, where I functioned as an assistant to various executives, including the Vice President of Homeland Security.
Siemens' headquarters adjoined the FBI building. One day, when I finally mustered the courage, I filled out an application to become an FBI agent. I even had an interview. During my conversation with the FBI agent, I told him that I had grown up in placement, and asked him if this would harm my chances of employment. He told me that my status as a former foster child should make no difference; however, like all applicants, I would have to pass a rigid security clearance. That is when I realized that my dream of becoming an FBI agent had less than a snowball's chance in hell of ever happening and I withdrew my application. How could someone else make sense of my past, if even I do not understand it?
All I know about my birth and early childhood is that I was born in Rota, Spain, June 9, 1980. My name is Elizabeth Sutherland. I have no middle name. All I have to identify my origin is a 3" x 5" piece of paper called a "Certificate of Birth Abroad."
I barely remember arriving in the United States, although I think I was five-years-old at the time and I know I did not speak English. A man named James William Sutherland escorted my brother, sister and I on the trip from Spain to America. He brought us to his mother's house in Waynesville, North Carolina one rainy evening, handed us over to her like three unwanted kittens and then disappeared forever.
My brother, sister and I arrived at Nell Dean Sutherland's trailer emaciated, covered in filth and with cigarette burns covering our bodies. Nell Dean told us that our birth mother in Spain had traded us to a street prostitute. The woman who bought us made us beg on the streets for food and burned us with cigarettes as punishment for not being good panhandlers. All three of us had deep round burn marks from head to toe. We had no clothes, except for the ones we wore, tattered rags. I remember having a potbelly that made me look pregnant at age five, probably from malnourishment. Nell Dean said we were so hungry that we tried to eat our own excrement.
The rustic tan and yellow singlewide trailer reeked of mold and mildew. We lived atop a wooded hill surrounded by other dilapidated trailers. Our singlewide had three tiny bedrooms, a kitchen, living room and one small bathroom with a washing machine tucked behind the door. Nell Dean occupied the master bedroom. Her handicapped son lived in the second bedroom. He must have had a terrible accident, because he could barely speak, his fingers curled up into his hand like claws and his eyes crossed. My brother, sister and I slept in the third bedroom, where the three of us shared a twin bed, one small closet and a single dresser drawer.
We only bathed once a week, on Sunday. We three siblings bathed together in the same bathwater Nell Dean had just used to clean herself. She refused to run fresh water for our baths or to allow us to bathe separately, "to save money," as she was quick to point out. Likewise, clothes washing occurred only on Sundays, so we wore the same filthy clothing day-after-day. The ridicule and laughter of other kids mocking my offensive body odor still haunts my memory. At one point, my teacher sat me out in the hallway because I stunk so badly. To make matters worse, Nell Dean's mangy brown Terrier peed on our clothes, but we still had to wear them until Sunday.
When I was eight, Nell Dean's daughter and newborn twin girls moved into the trailer. The responsibility of staying up at night to feed and diaper them fell to me. Also during this time, Nell Dean's parents, who lived a 30-minute cab ride away, suffered illnesses that required regular attention. For nearly three years, I had to give up my weekends to nurse Nell Dean's mother, until she passed. Nell Dean then moved her ailing father into the trailer. Nine people and one mangy dog now crowded the singlewide that could comfortably accommodate less than half that number.
That is when the physical abuse began. Nell Dean had emotionally neglected us since that rainy night her son dropped us in her lap and vanished. Never once did she hug us or say she loved us or show us affection. Instead, she chain-smoked Marlboro reds and treated us like unwelcome guests who her son paid $300 per month to house, feed and clothe; but now, she took to beating us. I can still feel the sting of her slaps across the face, the kind that leave bright red finger marks. Neither will I ever forget the taste of my own blood caused by a metal cowboy belt buckle tearing at my nose and cheekbones, the shooting pain of a hickory limb leaving raised welts that itch for weeks on my back, buttocks and legs or a gut-punch that steals your breath away only seconds prior to puking. We three unwanted children became the outlet for Nell Dean's frustration, and as the walls of the singlewide closed in on her, we suffered the consequences.
Emotional neglect and physical abuse were not the only ways Nell Dean made us pay for disrupting her life. She would not allow us to associate with the other kids in the trailer park. We had to be in the trailer by 5:30 P.M. or she locked us out. We could not watch the television she kept in her bedroom, nor could we open the refrigerator without her permission. She even went so far as to padlock it on occasion. Perhaps most insidiously, there were times when she did not feed us, but when she did, she fed us the same three meals: Cheerios for breakfast, hotdogs or bologna sandwiches at lunch and pinto beans with water biscuits for supper. I kid you not. On the other hand, though, the rest of them dined well and often. Even the mangy mutt ate better than the three of us did, at least enjoying castoff pizza crusts, off-limits to us.
Everyone in the trailer park probably suspected that Nell Dean mistreated us, but because she forbade our associating with the neighbor kids and their families, no one knew for sure. I remember sneaking to a classmate's trailer to eat with her family. Since I kept showing up begging for food, they also noticed my bruises, black eyes and welts. That is when the Department of Social Services started showing up. Nell Dean told the social worker I got that way picking blackberries, which is how we kids made money to buy clothes and school supplies. A DSS worker came to check on us nearly every week after that, but did not removed us. Frustrated by how easily Nell Dean appeased them with her lies, I snuck over to my friend's trailer and called DSS, informing them how Nell Dean beat us and threatened to kill us by putting a gun to our heads. I told DSS that if they did not send someone out to get us, she would kill us or we would kill her.
I was 13 ½ that fateful summer day. My brother, sister and I picked away at the blackberry bushes beside the macadam road that led to the trailer park, pricking our fingers on the thorns and filling our rusty buckets, when a passing car came to a sudden stop and then backed up toward us. A woman in a neatly pressed navy blue dress and jacket and white blouse stepped out of the car and asked, "Are you Elizabeth Sutherland?" I whispered "Yes, Ma'am."
The woman smiled down at me and introduced herself. "Hi. I am Mrs. Jenkins, and I'm from the North Carolina Department of Social Services. I've come to take you away from here. Now come with me, please."
We three children obediently followed her to the car and huddled together in the backseat. My emotions ran wild as my brain bustled with questions. Where was she taking us? What would Nell Dean say? Should I be scared or happy? Was this really happening? Pressed tightly together there in the backseat of the well-dressed woman's car, we three siblings had no clue this would be our last time together.
Nell Dean sat at the kitchen table sipping black coffee and puffing on a Marlboro red as we burst into the rusty trailer and began gathering our few belongings. "What the Hell are you brats doing?" she questioned through a haze of grey smoke.
"They're coming with me," advised Mrs. Jenkins, as she entered the trailer and headed towards Nell Dean.
"Who are you?" Nell Dean demanded.
"I'm Mrs. Jenkins, from the North Carolina Department of Social Services. I'm here to take custody of these children."
A heated debate between Nell Dean and Mrs. Jenkins ensued. Nell Dean puffed away at her cigarette and demanded that I remain with her. I'm not sure why she chose to keep me, although I assume it had nothing to do with caring about me as a person and everything to do with losing her slave and whipping-girl.
That is when I panicked. I cried, screamed and begged Mrs. Jenkins to take me with her. "Don't leave me here! Please! Please! Please take me with you! Please," I sobbed convulsively.
Nell Dean's face turned crimson and I swear smoke shot out of her ears as she cussed away at Mrs. Jenkins. The next thing I knew, we piled back into the car, our meager belongings resting on our laps, and headed into the unknown. I did not so much as look back at the decrepit trailer or utter a single word during the getaway. I felt numb and stared straight ahead, my brain wrestling with what had just occurred and questioning the future. Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.
We pulled up to the DSS building in Waynesville. Mrs. Jenkins separated my brother from my sister and me, and walked him to another car. I didn't even get to hug him good-bye. The last image I have of my brother is that of him wailing, crying and struggling to reach towards me though the rear window of the car that drove him away that day, out of my life forever. His eyes, his frightened eyes, still haunt me.
Mrs. Jenkins tried to soothe my sister's and my tears by telling us that our brother was on his way to a "wonderful" foster family. Even to a naïve 13-year-old, her words smacked of betrayal. On the day that we should have rejoiced over our liberation from the cruelty of Nell Dean, we experienced only heartache and loss. Living with Nell Dean might have been Hell, but breaking up our little family truly was cruel and unusual punishment. To this day, I still do not understand the insensitive policies of a childcare system that pulls siblings apart.
Initially, my sister and I ended up at the Broy Hill Group Home, where we shared our own private bedroom. After a week, however, DSS placed us with a foster family that warehoused children. Kids slept on bunk beds, couches and the floor; anywhere they could rest their weary heads. I remember counting as many as seven kids, not including the foster parents' biological son. Foster kids came and went; some stayed a night or two; others remained a few weeks or several months; my sister and I, though, spent nearly two years there. In some ways, it was worse than living with Nell Dean.
Mr. and Mrs. Inzer were far from exemplary foster parents. In fact, they resembled prison guards more so than they did caregivers. Mrs. Inzer had the social skills of a wolverine. She showed no affection for the foster children in her charge; indeed, she seldom displayed any emotion. Mrs. Inzer zealously avoided dealing with problems or anything involving work or stress. That is probably why she spent much of the day alone in her bedroom reading magazines and watching television. She was a foster parent not for the love of children but for the love of money. What she also loved were Virginia Slim cigarettes, which she chain-smoked, and coffee, gallons of it.
Mr. and Mrs. Inzer's son, Michael, was a dirty rat. He obviously hated living with a house full of foster kids, and he took it out on us at every opportunity. He broke things and then blamed us, or made up lies to get us in trouble with his parents. Michael bullied us at school too, getting his friends to call us mean names, such as "Orphan Annie" and "foster creep," or poking and shoving us at the school bus stop.
Mr. Inzer was a pig: a filthy, disgusting, perverted pig. If there is a Hell, may the Devil impale him on a spit and roast him for eternity. He used to make me put on a string bikini and spread my legs so that he could look at my privates. All the while, he made grunting pig noises and licked his lips. He stared at my breasts too, not just when he made me wear the bikini, but anytime he figured nobody would catch him staring. As a 15-year-old going through a growth spurt, the more I developed physically, the more interest he took in me. I would bet my last dollar that he stalked the other girls, perhaps doing even more to them than he did to me. He was a sexual pervert who the state of North Carolina gave a license to prey on powerless children and then failed to monitor.
DSS should have done a better job of safeguarding me from Mr. Inzer. I told my social worker about the string bikini. She did nothing about it. Then I told my next social worker about Mr. Inzer, who also dismissed my accusations. Social workers came and went. None of them took the time to know me, let alone address my concerns. They even denied my requests for a transfer. That is when I realized they really did not care about me, a worthless foster kid. Like Nell Dean and the Inzer's, the DSS workers seemed to be in it for the paycheck. I finally accepted that I was on my own, with no one else to rely on, so I devised a plan to get myself out of there.
I'm not sure how I came up with the idea to act crazy. I began hiding under my bed, sobbing and pretending to hear voices in my head. Suddenly, I gained everybody's attention: the Inzers', my current social worker, the whole system. That's when I learned a valuable lesson about being in placement: you have to act out to get attention. Nobody heard my voice as a quiet, shy girl, but everybody certainly took notice when my behaviors screamed for help. I guess the squeaky wheel really does get the grease. The next day, my social worker drove me to a psychiatric hospital.
I continued acting oddly, though gradually less so, for six weeks. I actually liked living at the psychiatric hospital. The doctors, nurses and staff made me feel that they cared about me. Somebody was always asking how I felt, did I need anything or just checking up on me, not like the foster care system that pretty much ignored me. Although surrounded by crazy people, I felt safer at the psychiatric hospital than I did in the care of the Inzer's. My therapist attended to me as if I actually mattered, not like a lowly mental patient or worthless foster kid. She listened to what I had to say and offered me what she called "food for thought," insights and observations to ponder. It was almost like having a mother or a father to help me understand how to deal with problems. No adult had ever taken the time to treat me as though my life had value. Instead, adults had made me feel like less than nothing, a worthless burden they were doing a favor to keep alive. As soon as I got comfortable there, my psychiatric evaluation ended with a diagnosis of "acute depression" and I returned to the custody of the Inzers'.
Less than a week of my return to foster care, Mr. Inzer resumed his perverted piggery. I knew I had to get out of there and began acting out again. I returned to the psychiatric hospital for another six weeks of evaluation. I think my therapist finally put two-and-two together and realized that I was acting out to get away from Mr. Inzer, and advised the authorities that a transfer was in my best psychological interest. The only sadness I felt about leaving there was that this time I waved good-bye to my baby sister who, despite my requests that we remain together, DSS refused to transfer with me.
DSS decided that I should go to a therapeutic foster home because I needed individual attention. They parked me at the Crossnore Group Home for about two months and then placed me with Jack and Shirley Simmonds, who lived in Murphy, North Carolina. Finally, DSS did something right for me.
Mr. and Mrs. Simmonds had raised eight children of their own. Now empty nesters in their fifties, the Simmonds' used their considerable childrearing skills to foster-parent wards of the state experiencing emotional and behavioral problems. Neither of them were trained therapists. He was the pastor of a small church and she raised children and kept house. They were humble, God-fearing people who used commonsense and affection (plus a whole lot of religion) as the prescription for the children in their care. They only took two foster kids at a time and they treated use as if what happened to us mattered to them. I honestly think they cared more about making a difference in our lives, than they did the money. I lived with the Simmonds' from 9th grade through my high school graduation. The three years I stayed with them did make a positive difference in my life. In my eyes, they are heroes.
DSS, however, continued to fall short. For the three years I lived with the Simmonds', I pressed whoever was my social worker at the time to see my brother and sister. The pat response was "someday." I saw my sister twice during those years, but never my brother. I did not know if he was dead or alive. It was almost as if DSS conspired to keep the three of us apart. That is why I was so depressed. Not only was I parentless, I no longer had access to my brother or sister, either. One at a time, I had lost all connection to family. "Who am I?" I remember asking myself those lonely years in placement. The answer remained elusive.
Four months before my 18th birthday, DSS called, stating that they needed me to take a DNA test. Why did they need to test my DNA? Was something wrong? Had they found my mother or father? Did it have to do with why I could not see my brother or sister? My depression worsened, as I worried about what the test results would reveal.
When the result of the DNA test came back, DSS informed me that James William Sutherland was not my father and that although my brother, sister and I shared the same mother, each of us had a different father. James William Sutherland only fathered my brother, Jonathan William Sutherland, but who fathered my sister, Melissa Nell Sutherland, and I remained a mystery. I guess that I had subconsciously clung to the hope that he was our biological father, and that some day he would return for his three children and reunite our family. The last remnants of my wistful foster-kid family fantasies now dashed, I sunk deeper into depression. My questioning of "Who am I?" soon found companionship in the question "What will become of me?"
I graduated Andrews High School June 4, 1998; turned 18 June 9th and moved into an empty one-bedroom apartment June 10th. I had barely more than the clothes on my back when I exited placement: no furniture, no bed, no linens, no towels, no dishes, no job, no friends, no family and no adult to guide me. Depressed and disconnected, I fell in with the wrong crowd, who introduced me to alcohol and drugs. I self-medicated myself for a while, as I tried to fit into society. I was so scare, so confused, so alone, so traumatized by my past and so intimidated by the future. I just wanted to belong. Oh, how I needed to feel a part of something...anything.
I began working at Wal-Mart that summer and enrolled at Tri-County Community College in fall. The party group and I separated. I made new friends with fellow Wal-Mart employees of all ages, from 18 to 80, and looked to the older employees for parental advice and guidance. At a particularly difficult time, I approached DSS for help: tuition assistance, food stamps, a cot at a halfway house - something. They treated me as they had prior to emancipation; like an illegitimate stepchild deserving of nothing. As always with DSS, I was on my own.
Working as many as three part-time jobs at a time, I graduated TCCC with an Associate of Arts degree. With financial help from the Orphan Foundation of America and multiple part-time jobs, I graduated Western Carolina University a few years later with a Baccalaureate degree in Business Administration and Computer Information Systems. The internship in Washington, D.C. sponsored by the Orphan Foundation of America quickly followed graduation.
I still remember the pride I felt as I crossed the stage to receive my college degree, and less than a week later, I smiled so wide my face hurt, when I stood on the platform with the other interns to address the U.S. Congress. In my wildest dreams, I could not have conceived that someone like me, a lowly orphan, would receive such an honor. As the other interns responded to the question, "What one thing would you do in your state to improve the foster care system?" I could only think about how much I missed my brother and sister. Frightened as I was, I put on my best smile and told them how important it is to keep siblings together because sometimes that is the only remaining connection to family we have left. Not knowing who your biological mother and father are is already too much to handle, but then losing your siblings in the system destroys any remaining sense of belonging. I am sure I stumbled over my words some, and at one point, I couldn't see anymore, not through the tears. Men and women dressed in their Sunday best stood and clapped. Cameras flashed from all directions. The other Orphan Foundation of America interns hugged me or shook my hand; they understood my emotional answer to the question about improving foster care.
Today, I'm twenty-eight-years-old. I work for a bank during the day and pursue a master's degree in criminal justice at night. I have reconnected with my half-sister, Melissa, and the two of us visited our half-brother, Jonathan, three years ago in New York, before he moved to Alaska, to work on a fishing boat. He is a loner, probably because of his experiences in foster care. Jonathan gave me the telephone number of an aunt who lives in Holland. I called her and learned that our mother is still alive, but in ill health due to tuberculosis. The aunt did not know who fathered me, nor does anybody else. Maybe I will never know that part of who I am. What I do know, however, is that I am one of the lucky kids who survived foster care, despite the many failures of the system designed to protect me. My name is Elizabeth Sutherland, and that is what I know about myself thus far, as I try to put the broken pieces of my life together, in an attempt to understand who I am.

my lost kids

I am a single mother of two. My daughters' are seven years and 11 months old. I was 20 when I had my first daughter and completely unprepared. I knew absolutely nothing about adoption and so I took on the role of young, scared parent. My girls have struggled with me, even more so now with the economic crisis. I believe in my heart that if a show had existed like adoption diaries back when I was pregnant, selfless decisions for my children would have been made on their behalves. I imagine now how much more successful and happy they would have been if given the opportunity to thrive in a two parent home with a prepared, welcoming and loving set of parents and how much easier that decision would have been knowing that I get to be involved in their lives as they grow up. Now that i'm aware of this show, someday I would like to experience adopting a child when i'm on my feet which I would not have before this show came about. Thank you wetv and independent adoption center for opening my eyes to the beauty of creating one family out of two

hello my name is danielle. me and my husban been try to have kids but can't . we been married for 6 years now and would love to have a baby. we live in las vegas.