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Adopted and abused by a religious extremist: Today I might be a political refugee [1]

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Date: 2025-06-17

Last week I made lots of details public about the man who adopted me and abused me on my personal social media. I come from a family of “Leopards Eating Faces”, they learned uncomfortable truths last week. Today I share part of my story of child abuse and trauma here.

I was molested by the man who adopted me the first year after my grandmother passed away. Just after New Years 2010, following a conversation I had with him around Christmas Eve. I had frostbite and was prescribed Vicodin for the injuries. I did not in fact “feel more comfortable” when the man who adopted me, then proceeded to wash me as my hands were bound during my frostbite days. I felt my skin crawl. If I said one word it was because it was in response to a question or to fill the uncomfortable silence. Every time since 2010, when I see his eyes in person, I see the shame he carries for this act. I see nothing else in his eyes.

Maybe it was the only time, maybe not. One time is a crime. One victim is enough.

Nothing else about the details matter, that act….closing the door and washing me, was a forever betrayal. We talked about his internet secrets just a few days earlier. It’s how I got frostbite, sharing that conversation with someone else on New Year’s Eve. He couldn’t risk me telling the woman who adopted me, not a third time and a third person in less than 8 days….so he closed the door and committed a crime. He knew what we discussed just a few days ago, he can claim to have been drunk during that conversation at Christmas….I remember everything. Details are fuzzy, for instance, I’m sure the door closed regular speed after that statement, but it plays in my mind Loony Tunes fast.

People tell me that they wish they had a memory like mine, I tell them its a torture few can understand. I can’t forget my worst memories. I separated myself from my extended family for years, not because I didn’t love them or miss them, but because I wasn’t able to experience so many bad memories all the time. Not their fault that my brain remembers so many things, but I didn’t need more reminders than I already experience from the daily smells and sounds.

I’d like to get more involved in regenerative agriculture and agrivoltaics and because I am diabetic, eventually get master’s in public health studying emerging infectious diseases, statistics based epidemiology for when physical activity is no longer a work option. The farm of my grandmother is used to fund a religious foundation today. A camp for other families, other children.

Instead of stripping the soil bare with fertilizer from Saudi oil, then sending our food to feed Chinese animals, I think it’s possible for a farm to feed people locally. It’s what my Grandmother’s Farm did. I’m not an environmentalist, I’m being a steward of God’s creation. We have sunshine, water, and land at home, we just need to use it more like our grandparents did. I’d like to plant trees instead of always cutting them down. We have such potential in our heartland to grow food and re-grow social connections, we are wasting our potential by continuing down this path.

I can’t visit part of my family because the man who abused me is partial owner of the land. I was adopted for a religious purpose and abused and abandoned when I told the truth. I have a lot of shared cultural experiences that don’t match my physical appearance. It’s difficult to view myself as anything other than one of the stolen children, like I’m a colonial trophy for the people who adopted me. I understand Juneteenth as few people with my skin tone ever will, it wasn’t a boat and an ocean, but the intentions of my adoption were the same, to convert a heathen child through force and conquer land.

My former profile here has the first draft of my grandmother’s eulogy from 2009. My family didn’t know I was an atheist at the time, so it was strange to give that speech in the church where the people who adopted me had been married and the place my grandmother now lay in a casket. My profile name currently comes from a line in a Weakerthans song, that lyric inspired a meditative hobby (a story for another time). As I walked around the church grounds practicing that eulogy or maybe just after, I listened to the following song in my headphones. Christine Fellows is the wife and collaborator of Weakerthans lead singer John K. Samson.

Yesterday I sent “Vertebrae” to another extended family member and mentioned that it wasn’t a sad song. I probably should have clarified that I mean sad in tone and music quality, the lyrics definitely are sad. It’s funny my autistic brain chose this pattern, this loop to close in memory association:

“Why when you know you should go ….is it so hard to leave?”

Last week I made an email tip to the Lincoln Project that included a charitable foundation tax information document. This was before I knew of their “Pink Mafia” series. I come from a politically involved family and was groomed in a financial planning office where a client later became famous for his hate speech radio show. The Minnesota terrorist means that I can only feel safe if my family believes me and the bad man who adopted me goes away. I need help from the rest of my family now. Maybe lots of help, thankfully my family has many veterans who understand being called by their conscience.

And if not my family, then this last week has shown me that America is full of people wanting to help.

“We the people, We got each other’s back”

That’s what I learned on Saturday, Americans protect each other if you ask for help. Americans step into the void and face unknown fear because their morality gives them no other option. I’d rather not….but we are here now, so it’s decision time. You freeze and you die, I know because I had frostbite.

The threat of stochastic violence to me personally will be higher than I prefer for a long time in my current location. The man who adopted me is a coward, but other people act on their violent fantasies, so my calculus regarding my future might have changed this month. I’d rather not, but it feels like the wise decision to protect myself. Other places can become home if I need to leave.

The woman who adopted me and my brother are still in the “How could the family not know?” stage. Grief has 5 stages, and learning that you live with a predator is a similar thing. They are at denial, which is fine, we all process differently.

The events in Minnesota only strengthened my resolve. The roommate of the MN killer reminds me of myself. My family. I am neurodivergent. Predators find neurodivergent people to be perfect targets because they know they are socially awkward to begin with, so warning signs get missed. Injuries explained away, etc.

Same with images of the family in “Gone Girls” on Netflix, they just wanted their stuff back. It made sense to me. It’s an autistic routine thing, I don't feel like explaining if your aren’t neurodivergent. You don’t have to need it or like the stuff, but it feels weird if the things aren’t in your home anymore. The family from “Gone Girls” also are shown in footage as I often look, not just comfy and loose fitting clothes, but there's a body language and facial expression of people who’ve been abused.

Again not going to explain... IYKYK, sorry you also had a life of trauma. “Trauma” will be the only tag I place on this diary today, but I don’t mind others being added or suggested.

Instead I’m going to focus on the future, the positive. I’m listening to “Living More” by Rae Spoon today as I finish writing this. I won’t link the song because the album art is graphic. “Not Dead Yet” by Rae Spoon is an incredible album, my cancer concerns are different from Rae’s, but that's been my song of 2025. I need a dance party break as the sun rises over the mountains.

Thanks for reading. If you decide to share words of encouragement or a personal story, I appreciate you. I likely wont respond to anything else today but will read every single reply here at a later time.

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