Silence of the Lambs

From Wikipedia: A lamb does not bleat when it’s killed, making it a suitable object of sacrifice because this signifies its willingness to succumb to its fate.

Animal behaviorists affirm that injured sheep don’t vocalize, but their physiology under such conditions indicates no willingness.

Mama did not bleat when I was taken. Her silence was neither involuntary nor instinctive. Her silence was commanded. I cannot imagine her unnaturally muted torment. I am afraid to try.

I was not silent. But because my bleating was presumed meaningless it was deduced that I, too, accepted my fate willingly.

For a thousand hours, I bleated in protest of my obliterated world. I bleated in protest of my obliterated self. I did not exist without Mama.

I was no one.



Imagine looking in the mirror and seeing… nothing.

I wondered what I was, not who. With every strange face that hovered over me, I waited for my definition. Was I a receptacle? A mechanism? What was my function? What feat must I perform?

No answer was forthcoming.

I cried louder, hoping with new hope she could hear and that at some magic moment the features of a strange face would morph into those of Mama.

No. At least, not yet.

If I accept this foul liquid, will Mama reappear?

If I accept your embrace, will Mama reappear?

Scanning, scanning, scanning. I was ever-vigilant.

Minute after minute. Hour after hour. Face after face, not Mama.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Eventually, protest was eclipsed by despair.

I became lethargic, a leaden heap. My heartbeat slowed. Sleep was intermittent, shallow. I had no sense of day or night. I wanted to disappear. I refused the bottle. I turned away from the strangers. I stopped growing. My bleating grew weak and dispassionate, until it stopped altogether.

I accepted my fate, and became the lamb.


6 responses to “Silence of the Lambs

  1. Wow. This post is awe inspiring.
    And so very true for many of us.
    Thanks for writing it.

  2. Oh my oh my. I just found your blog, and am stunned. These keep turning in my mind, back and forth:

    “Her silence was commanded.”

    “I bleated in protest of my obliterated world. I bleated in protest of my obliterated self.”

    This makes the inhumanity of infant adoption the way it is practiced in the US crystal clear. For someone commanded that silence, and someone ignored your screams.

    I’m anxious to read more, and have got you linked.

  3. asacrificiallamb

    Thank YOU for reading it and for your affirmation, Issycat.

    Margie, I am especially inspired to continue the story when a special amom hears, really hears. Thank you so much.

  4. This and the rest is just a tragically good read. As an adoptee, I thank you for sharing this really hard stuff. It’s important.

  5. asacrificiallamb

    Thank you, Skim, for saying that. It is incredibly difficult to write about. Which is why it’s going so slow!

  6. I sometimes think of my baby self screaming and screaming, mama never comes! Quite tragic to envision and soul wretching to feel.
    YOU NAILED IT, sadly.
    I so hope a million people will really read this. Thank you for sharing.

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