When I was three, my mother introduced me to the concept that I had a unique gift as an intuitive empath, capable of sensing and perceiving souls.

This realization marked the start of my journey as an intuitive, a path that has been met with skepticism by many.

Only a select few have stayed close to me for a long time throughout my life. I deeply cherish conversations that bring profound joy, a few laughs, and sometimes even a tear or two. As I grow older, fewer people are interested in spending time with me.

My adoptive parents named me Doretta Ellen Cascinai, but since I was 13, I’ve gone by Dore—a nickname given to me by my Aunt Connie. However, the rest of my family continued to call me Doretta. I was born into an Italian adoptive family in San Francisco, California.

Just hours after my birth, a Western Union Telegram was sent to my parents reading, “NORMAL BABY GIRL BORN LAST NIGHT MORE DETAILS LATER.”

I’m one of the few people I know who has paperwork declaring them “normal.”

Through Ancestry, I discovered that my heritage is 41% Irish, 34% Swedish, 21% Scottish, and 4% German.

My adoptive mother, Frances, was deeply religious, while my adoptive father, Aldo, who was raised in a Catholic Italian family, identified as an Atheist.

When I speak or write about my mother, I can’t help but smile as her warm presence wraps around me like a golden thread.

In contrast, any mention of my father brings a noticeable shift—I feel my expression fade like the tide receding and leaving behind dark, empty eyes. His life was marked by unhappiness, and he was abusive, unfaithful, ungrateful, judgmental, unkind to his children, and involved in troubling activities with “the family.”

His legacy is one of pain, a stark contrast to the light my mother brought into my life.

My parents divorced when I was four. When I was seven, my mother informed my father that I was an empathetic child with unique gifts. Everything came to a head when my father unexpectedly arrived one Friday afternoon, insisting he needed to take me to a weekend church gathering to address what he considered “craziness.” He told my mother this was not normal behavior. Despite her reluctance, my mother allowed me to go with him. I was taken to a church camp during a revival. As we approached, a church leader came to greet us, and I was immediately overwhelmed by intense emotions.

“As we discussed,” my father told him, “I’ll pick her up on Sunday afternoon. Please do everything you can to help her understand that this is not normal. I don’t want anyone to know about this unusual behavior. Her mother is no help; she thinks this is normal, and I will deal with her.”

My father told me, “Someday, I hope you can forgive me. I need you to be normal.”

He turned without looking back and walked to the car, leaving me again. It took me a long time to forgive him.

I was in tears, unable to understand why I was being taken away from home. I hadn’t seen him in over a year and felt utterly undeserving of this.

I felt controlled every moment I was there as if the joy and liveliness I once had were drained from me. The days were filled with endless Bible readings, and I lost my appetite, refusing to eat their food. We were forced to stand for hours and could only sit when we went to the bathroom or ate. I had a deep, unsettling sense that something terrible was intended for me, and I resolved to resist internally. We participated in a few carefully monitored activities, but I had no desire to engage with anyone. At one point, I asked someone why we were all there, but they gave no reply. The entire experience felt shrouded in secrecy.

I cried myself to sleep each night in my bunk bed. On Saturday afternoon, a group of older girls, aged 10 to 12, invited me to play a secretive game with them. They took me into the bathroom, telling me that whatever happened there had to remain a secret and promising ice cream afterward. Then, they put makeup on me, including bright red lipstick. Next, they wanted me to remove all my clothes except for my underwear. They started to help me take off my dress and were touching me all over. I pushed them back, went into a bathroom stall, and refused to come out. The girls tried to pull me out from underneath. They said we would all be in trouble if I didn’t do what they asked. I begin asking for my mother. I screamed as loud as I could. One of the girls said I was crazy. This lasted about 15 minutes. They were grabbing my legs, and I was hanging onto the toilet bowl. Then, the church leader came in. I screamed at him that I wanted to call my mom. He took me by the hand, walked me out, gave me an ice cream, and said I would not tell anyone what happened. I then threw up.

Most other children had already gone when my father arrived to pick me up on Sunday. The church leader was waiting to speak with him, and I was asked to sit on the porch while they talked. I later learned from my mother that the church leader had advised my father to “return me” to foster care and allow another family to adopt me, as I would never be normal. After their conversation, my father drove me home. He then left again. I remained silent for almost two days, plagued by terrible nightmares.

Two weeks later, my mother informed me that the church leader had left the area, assuring me that I would never see him again. She always made sure to remind me that I was normal.