What is the Stockholm Syndrome? The dictionary would have you believe its a victim developing a dependency to their abuser such that when confronted with their abuser, they would adamantly defend and reject the notion that they were abused. I always understood it to reflect on a type of mind control, but I never fully understood it as I didn't feel like I could relate to it. I was wrong. I can relate to it, and my relationship with the Stockholm Syndrome has nothing to do with Sweden.

At the turn of the decade following a bloody revolution that ended communism in Romania, a brave American traveled to the wrecked and impoverished country that was under the control of the Devil since 1947 and left with me, a toddler who was warehoused by the regime in a single building my entire life. I have been made to believe, through convincing arguments and compassionate pleas, that the orphanages in Romania were built out of compassion to solve a deadly problem of homeless children flooding the streets of Romania. The orphanages provided refuge to the unwanted children and it was a place where they could get access to a meal and a bed to sleep on. The more children that were born in consequence to the birthing mandates left unwanted, the more crowded the orphanages became.

Children all over Romania, myself included, were rejected for many different reasons. Some reasons where moot and had nothing to do with the child, like in my case, others were due to physical deformities and mental retardation. Regardless of why a child ended up in one of the orphanages, each and every one of us orphans were subjected to a very structured form of trauma. I, along with literally millions of other children were exposed to extreme levels of malnourishment, exposure to famin and disease, isolation, and out right abandonment. When I was an infant, I had to learn the hard way that when I was so scared of where I was, who I was around, and where was Mom, I was alone. It was all on me to comfort myself to sleep those cold and quiet nights in the orphanage. I learned to stop crying and I learned through repetition that crying makes you weak. I learned that I was the only one who truly would ever have my back at the end of the day, and I learned that I needed to internalize how I felt if I was going to be the strongest among my peers.

It is true that I was a larger than average orphan child. I am unsure specifically why that was the case, but despite the three years I spent in the orphanage, I had minimal health issues in contrast to my peers. In December 1990 I met my adoptive father for the first time. To him, I was a dream come true. An answer to his prayers to God. He would finally be blessed with his own boy. A son who could carry his name into the future and continue the strong legacy that he shared with five other brothers; all but one whom had their own sons of their own. I was selected, not by him, but by those he trusted. But he knew when het met me that I was his one.

I have these earliest moments of connection with my adoptive father on video for me to see, understand, and reconnect with. These videos are my foothold into my own memory that allow me to explore the realms and depths of my own subconscious mind to truly try and piece together what happened to me in the orphanage and understand where and how I got damaged so I can reverse that damage and reclaim control over my own destiny. For thirty years I have struggled with understanding this damage and these earliest moments captured on camera offer a unique glimpse into something that literally billions of people on Earth cannot relate to or understand. I do not stand alone. Many millions of orphans have survived and thrived, yet billions have perished through the history books.

After a few days of brief interactions with this strange, albiet, brave American, who would become my adoptive father, I was united with his family after experiencing a transnational transatlantic flight that involved 28 hours of travel by plane to get from Romania to America. When we arrived at the airport we were ushered through security checkpoints and had our papers checked by the immigration and customs officials. On the other side of the security exit at the Bangor International Airport, my adoptive father's entire family, and extended family, all gathered around the waiting area anticipating my first steps in America. Cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents were all present. They dressed up, drove a while to get to the airport, collectively had to manage coordinating at least 10 different vehicles parking, and all sat around waiting hour after hour for the two of us to walk through the gate security checkpoint.

Unlike my best friend, when I met my new family for the first time I did not understand it like he did. When I met my new family I did not greet them with a wagging tail and puppy kisses galore. When I met my new family, I was confused, I was tired, and I was overwhelmed. I literally was jet lagged from being on a 28 hour flight and I went from people speaking Romanian to me, to speaking German, to speaking English all within a near single day. Literally for years prior I never once left the orphanage and yet on this one day, I had traveled more places than most could have dreamed. Unlike my best friend, who was genetically prepared to happily greet his new family, no matter who they were, I was damaged by what happened to me in the orphanage.

I was forced to learn that nobody cared about me. Nobody wanted me. Literally, that was what I understood and knew my entire life. Genetically I knew that I had a mom and a dad, but psychologically and mentally I didn't understand what that even meant. All I understood was how to get myself to sleep alone and terrified at night. I was 2 years old. Thats what I was good at. Everything else didn't matter. I knew that I needed to consume my food, and act in accordance with whatever rules were in place so I could get my next meal. No matter how much I protested or hated it, I would internalize my own feelings and rock myself to sleep. Depending on how intense the day was, I could be rocking my head back and forth for literally hours on end. Sometimes rocking while sleeping.

When I arrived in America, I was physically and psychologically damaged by what happened to me in the orphanage and I didn't realize that I was just rewarded by God himself with my adoption. The family that I was adopted into was a picture perfect idea of a family that just became whole in the eyes of millions. However, I did not understand. I felt rejected - even by the family who just went through incredible odds and defeated defeatism to have a son, I felt rejected. I only understood rejection. That's all I could feel. Furthermore, on top of being in an entirely new environment, coupled with my own state of being, the new people who adopted me were not addressing me by the name that I had in the orphanage. No, they were proud to have their son and they gave the high honor of choosing his new name to, who would become, my grandmother, the very same grandmother who taught me about the wolves and the spirit that dogs have inside of them that make them man's best friend.

Insert reason here. Literally. I didn't speak English. I didn't recognize these people. I didn't know who they were. Everything was new. I was meeting so many people so quickly that it was such a dramatic change in environment that it literally felt that I had fallen into the rabbit hole and I was Alice in Wonderland. I was scared. I rocked my head back and forth so much. I kept rocking. Night after night. I kept rocking. I was trying to make sense of it all. I was trying to understand what happened to me and why. As a child, I didn't know and I couldn't know. As an adult, the relentless pursuit to find understand the why took me so far down the rabbit hole that this short 1776 word letter doesn't have nearly enough capacity to convey what I learned.

When I step back and reflect on how incredible, in so many different ways, my adoption and childhood was among my adoptive family, I revert to the notion that I was misunderstood, mischaracterized, and misrepresented by so many with the rare exceptions coming from brief moments by my grandmother. It wasn't until I was much older that I was able to take a step back and reflect. How come I didn't appreciate what I was given? How come I didn't understand it? Why did I reject it? Why did I reject the family that chose me? My best friend never rejected me, and that saved my life. Why did I reject them? It was because that is all I knew. I only understood rejection. I only understood how to reject and be rejected. When anything else happened, I would rock my head back and forth and try to put myself to sleep.

How does this relate to the Stockholm Syndrome then? Well, what if the family that adopted me did abuse me? What if the family that adopted me abused me out of their own lack of ability to stay regulated when faced with a damaged hurting child that is lashing anger and rage towards you literally night after night? Was it abuse or was it all justified? When I look back at these tough questions I can only reflect upon who I am today to decide those answers. I believe firmly in my heart now, after going through what I went through, after seeing what I saw, after learning what I now know, that it was not abuse after all. I was convinced in my mind that the family that adopted me, out of pure love, were rejected because I was damaged. I was not like my best friend. I was damaged. And I used my survival skills to call their love towards me abuse to survive.