Dear Dads

Dear Adoptive Father,

You ruined me.  I was an innocent child and you completely and utterly ruined my childhood.  Many times I’d cry myself to sleep, trying to figure out how you could be so loving one minute and such a fucking monster the next.  Did you think it was funny to lay down on the floor in front of the bathroom when I was using it, wiggling your fingers under the door pretending like you were going to come in?  Yeah, not funny.  My screaming for you to stop only made you antagonize me further and I’d hear you laughing as you walked away.  To this day, I have to lock the door to the bathroom and turn on the overhead fan, even when I’m home alone, to drown out the memories and the screams of a little girl.

Many a Saturday morning I’d be watching cartoons while Mom and C (asister) went out shopping and you’d come in the den, stand in front of me while facing the television and pull down your pants, shaking your ass in my face.  Again the screams for you to leave me alone…again the laughter. 

Then there were the times you’d flip the switch and get angry.  You’d turn into a monster and scream at me like Mom always did…calling me a piece of shit on more than one occasion.  Telling me to stop eating because I was getting fat.  Is it any wonder I ended up with an eating disorder? 

Then there are the memories that are still hidden.  Those nights that I’ve flashbacked to…but only just far enough to know that things had gone horribly wrong on some level and I truly wasn’t innocent any longer.

I have tried to find forgiveness in my heart for you, but all I feel is…nothing.

Dear Natural Father,

It’s been almost a year since we were reunited.  The day I got a response to my letter to you was amazing.  I totally believed you when you said that you couldn’t wait to share your life and family with me.  Why would I have thought any different?  After all, my reunion with C (natural mom) and her side of my family tree had gone swimmingly and I felt completely accepted and loved by each and everyone I’d met.  You’d think I would have learned by now not to trust anyone.  Shame on me.

I sent you a Father’s Day card.  You responded that it was the best Father’s Day card ever.  I think I had hoped that you would have realized that Father’s Day was also my birthday but was willing to let that slide.  I knew you were busy taking care of your wife’s grandson because his mom was going through a hard time and I didn’t want to come off sounding bitchy, but really, I was/am hurt.  I just want to be accepted. 

Fast forward through June and July and C happened to ask me how things were going between us.  I made excuses for you, saying that you were really busy and couldn’t really talk.  In actuality, I had no idea what was going on, just that you had stopped writing.  I dropped you a message on July 27, C dropped you a message a few days later and I finally got a response on August 1.  Telling me that nothing was wrong, the dead air between us had nothing to do with me.

What the hell am I supposed to think now?  It’s been four and a half months now with no correspondence whatsoever.  I guess I was hoping you’d at least have the balls to tell me that it was too much for you, that you’d rather not have a relationship with me, now or ever.

The revengeful, bitter adoptee part of me is seriously considering closing the FB account I started specifically so we could be in touch because I’m so fucking angry. 

The scared, rejected adoptee part of me is worried you wouldn’t notice.

Have You Ever Said This?

I'm linking from The Declassified Adoptee's (Amanda <3) blog today, because I think it explains an adoptee's angst much more eloquently than I could...lol...and probably more nicely too.

"But You Don't Know What It's Like!"

Coffee Talk With Christina: Part One

Way back on August 6, I was whining endlessly lamenting the fact that I was experiencing writer's block.  I asked for some help and I'm finally getting around to taking the time to answer the commenters' questions.

Diane, from An-Ya asked me the following (her words are italicized):

"Tell me about you when you were 10. Not quite a little girl...not yet a teen...what were your dreams? Did those dreams come true? Did your dreams change as you entered your teen years? If so, why did they change?"

I was an odd child.  All through my childhood, I was strange.  Never comfortable in my own skin...embarassed when people noticed me.  Fifth grade was no different.  I had the stupidest hair cut...ever.   And my glasses...well, let's just say, I don't call them "ugly ass glasses" for nothing. 

Don't believe me?  Take a look at this picture.  Second row, second in from the left.

It's okay, you can laugh.  Hell, I can laugh now.  But back then, I knew I was ugly...knew that I didn't fit in.  Knew that my teacher hated me...but that there was nothing I could do about it.  I loved the Fall and the Spring when I could escape to the woods and climb trees and make up stories of how I was actually a princess that was being help captive, far from my family and castle.  THAT was my dream.  That one day, my family would come looking for me and save me from the misery that was my life...a dungeon from which there was no escape.

My dream didn't come true until two years ago.  July 11, 2008..the day of first contact with my natural mother.  On that day, I was freed from the dungeon. 


"If you could travel back in time and talk to yourself...what would you say? What words would you use to comfort your 10 year old self?"

I spend a lot of my therapy sessions comforting my five year old and eight year old selves.  I am learning how to give them the love that I lacked from my adoptive parents...and to help them see that I can keep them safe now.  That it's 2010 and everything that happened, happened in the past...it's over.  I'd tell my 10 year old self to hold on.  That one day, she's going to grow up and have friends to talk to and to love her.  That it doesn't matter whether the teacher likes her, or teases her for her stutter.  None of that matters...because I love her.  And I haven't forgotten about her and the pain, loneliness and abuse she's going through.

"10 years old was a hard age for me. I am interested in how it played out for you...and anyone else who is reading along."

Every age was hard for me.  Not trying to be a smartass here...it's just how it was.  Oddly enough, I don't really have many "memories" of those years, per se.  I just remember how I felt.  Empty.

Anyone else want to share on the questions that Diane asked me?  Feel free to use this as a jumping off point to discuss. 

Thanks Diane...I'll be answering the other questions from that post in the coming days.

Let Me Introduce...

Keeper. 

I was going through some random Photobucket pictures, specifically searching for "Speak No Evil" photos and I came across the below image.  It is haunting me tonight because it really does look like an older version of my eight year old self...aka Keeper.  In my therapy sessions, I've described Keeper as having very piercing eyes, but no mouth.  Here she is:

The Appendectomy

This blog post by my friend Linda got my creative juices flowing. 

The girl in the story got pregnant, but her parents told everyone that she had a "tumor".  And instead of fessing up once the girl had her baby, the parents made up an elaborate lie about how a baby just mysteriously showed up on their doorstep with a note pinned to his clothes.

Me?  I wasn't a tumor.  I was an appendix.  At least that was what my grandparents told some of the older relatives in the family.  They said that my mother had had to have emergency surgery when in actuality, she'd given birth to me...their first grandchild.  I was the first niece born in the family...the first one to give birth to the family's grandniece and nephew.  But because of how my life's puzzle was put together, I had to read my uncle's jubilant Facebook comment when my cousin had her daughter. 

"Today, we welcome baby Maggie to the world.  And with her birth, I become a great uncle!"

I know it's got to be just as strange for them to turn their thoughts around and see that I'm actually "here"..but it doesn't make it hurt any less.

I am the appendix ripped out of my mother's stomach and tossed away in a sterile bowl.

Adoption is an emergency appendectomy

Sleepy Happy Grumpy Mopey...

In a funk.  Yup.  I'm definitely in a funk.  The past few days I've been toying with different posts but every time I go to start writing, it all comes out sounding like crap.  Verbal vomit, if you will.

Therapy is on hold for two weeks...she's on vacation this week and I'm on vacation next week (SQUEAL!).  I definitely need a break from work..and I can't wait to spend some quality family time with the kids and Steven.  It starts with a town concert that Maddie's singing in, continues with beach days, the zoo, playgrounds, picnics, natural family reunion and a birthday party for the son of one of my best friend's.  Chock full of fun..chock full of love. 

A lot of you know that I've started a separate Facebook profile for my adopted self.  I know that I should be strong enough to combine the two..adoptive life vs. natural life..but it's difficult for me.  In my head, I'm still the fragile girl who had to please EVERYONE.  Had to remain quiet lest she anger her parents.  I hate that I'm still afraid of my mother's wrath...that I still crave her approval...and am afraid of hurting her...I hate those things.  But it's hard to undo 36 years of fear overnight.  I wish it were easy.  I wish that I could truly be free for one day from the pain and the grief..and the feelings of guilt when I post pictures of my kids on Facebook and I hear from my natural mother that she lets my adoptive mother comment first so that she doesn't seem to be stepping on anyone's toes.  I want to yell at her in those moments and say, "To hell with that!  Comment when you want!!".  But I'd be hypocritical.  Because I understand why she does that.

July 11th..A Double Edged Sword

Last year I blogged about what July 11th means to me...here's the link to that post:

July 11, 2008 ~ The Day My World Stood Still

A day later and I blogged an entirely different post...

July 11, 2009 ~ The Day The World Stood Still For My Sister

Today has been rough...today instead of celebrating my reunion with my natural family...I am grieving for my sister who is still in mourning.

Healing On The Boulder

I'm going to be honest here...therapy sucked tonight.  I'm feeling really shitty and not in a good place at all.

This morning in the shower I had a body memory.  I remembered hearing my mother screaming at me...and how my entire body tensed up, waiting for her to shake me...or slap me.  I put the memory out of my mind and went about my day...or so I thought.  As the day wore on, I felt a massive migraine and the beginnings of a panic attack coming on.  I wanted desperately to cancel my therapy appointment...wanted to just go home and crawl into bed, listening to the hum of the air conditioner.

But I went.

And she had me invite Five to my boulder.  Five was able to throw her scared feelings about our adoptive mother into the water..and after what seemed like an eternity, was able to toss the crap of the screaming and the pain of the stinging hand to the river.

But while her pain dissipated, mine was multiplying...inexplicably I was having a hard time breathing.  My therapist had me try and connect to my Wise Self...trying to help me see that I was safe..and that nothing bad could happen to me on the boulder..but it didn't work.

It felt like there was a wall in front of me, and my chest couldn't expand out enough to take a deep breath.

Suddenly, as my breathing got more and more shallow, I realized why I couldn't breathe. 

When my mother and sister would go off on a shopping excursion, they'd leave me at home with my father.  Not realizing that instead of saving me from a day of walking from one end of the mall to the other, they were leaving me to the Big Bad Wolf.  I'd run from him...and he'd corner me...pressing me up against the wall. 

I began to cry and explained what I was remembering to my therapist.  Gently she guided my thoughts back to the boulder and I threw the panicked feeling of not being able to breathe into the river.

Eventually, the feeling was washed away..and my breathing slowed...inhale..exhale..inhale..exhale..

...but I'm in pain tonight.

Weighty Issues

My head is like a bowl of mush.  I've been feeling like I can't form a complete sentence without sounding like an imbecile so I've been avoiding this blog.  Possibly it's because I skipped therapy last week and even though I thought I was okay with that, my anxiety and depression levels have risen substantially in recent days and I seriously think I'm losing it.

Truthfully, this post might make me sound shallow..but it's my blog so if you don't like, screw (lol).  I hate the way I look.  I've gained a good 50 pounds and when you are only 5'3", that weight adds up quickly on small bones.  I don't look in mirrors if I can help it...and believe me, that takes a great deal of finagling when there's a full length mirror in the bathroom across from the shower.  I hate getting pictures taken of myself...unless they are from the neck up only.  I'll hide behind people so nothing shows except my face..and again, that takes finagling because they always put the short ones in the front. 

Last week, we had a retirement party for one of our colleagues..and the office busybody was bustling around taking pictures of each table.  I tried to hide..I really did..but it didn't work.  And the next day when she passed out our copies of the pictures, I could have sunk down into the floor and sobbed.  I feel really gross.  Seeing myself hammered home the fact that I am not healthy.  And it hurts like crazy.

At my last therapy session two weeks ago, I'd told my therapist that I really want to start doing things to make me happy.  That I need to start taking better care of myself emotionally and physically.  So tonight, she asked me what I've done to fulfill that wish.

I came up with one thing.  Only one thing out of fourteen days.  I took off to the beach for the day with Chase, my natural sister and our mom.  And that day was magical...aside from the frigging bathing suit business.  We dug in the sand and made sand castles...jumped in the waves and laughed as the water splashed us.  Watched a guy on a surfboard being pulled along behind a kite.  Was awesome.

But when she said, "And what else?" I had to admit, I had nothing.

I've decided that I'm going to pack my sneakers in my car tomorrow and start walking again.  Working my way up to jogging/running.  I need to figure out my life...and if I can get healthy, hopefully that will aid in my healing.  I'm tired of the weight that is wearing me down.  And the thing is, I'm not just talking about my body's physical weight...it's the emotional weight as well. 

On a completely different note, the day before we went to the beach, my amother asked to borrow our shovel so she could go to my grandfather's grave and dig a bed for his flowers.  I knew it was going to be hot out so I told her I'd go help her.  The kids and I picked her up and away we went.  Three-quarters of the way there she said, "Hey, do you mind if we go to your dad's grave so we can water his flowers?".

::thud::

My heart started racing, and I began to panic. 

"Sure.  That's fine."  I heard myself say.

While on the inside, I was shouting...You frigging idiot..what are you doing???? 

We got to the cemetery and were digging around Bumpa's stone...planting more flowers, watering the existing ones..while the kids danced merrily around my jeep.

After several minutes I mustered up my courage.

"Hey Mom...I don't mind driving to dad's cemetery, but I'm going to just sit in the car and the kids can help you water, okay?"  I kept my head down and kept digging.

I can't honestly remember what she said..probably something like "Are you alright?  We don't have to go...".

"No, we can go..it's just that I'm just finally realizing that I haven't been honest about some of my feelings..and I'm just trying to honor my truths...".

"Well, if you are sure...the kids can help me water the flowers and you can pull the car up past the stone.  I appreciate you being able to share that you're uncomfortable..".

And so, that's what I did.  The panic eased...and afterwards, I felt lighter.  I guess that's another thing I did for myself to make me happy.

Two things.  It's a start.

Adoption Carnival Eight: Little Girl Lost

Grown In My Heart is once again hosting a carnival.  This time it's about poetry..

Write a poem about adoption. Simple…then link to the original post using Mr. Linky.

Here is my entry.  It's basically about my life..but because I'm adopted, makes it all that much more raw for me.


Looking through the mirror
Wondering what kind of life she leads...

Do her parents rock her to sleep every night..
Or does she clutch her worn out blankie for comfort instead?

Does she pretend to be a princess in a far away land..
Or does she just pretend to be anywhere except where she is?

Has she ever opened up a box of cereal when one was already started?
Did her parents laugh, or did they break a spoon on her behind to teach her a lesson?

Were there bedtime stories and kisses and hugs before bed..
Or was she told, "Watch out for the boogeyman", and sent upstairs alone?

Has she been praised for her intelligence, sense of humor and compassion...
Or has she been ridiculed and called names?

What kind of friends does she have? Loyal, trustworthy, loving?
Or has she ever had her best friend pretend that she's turned invisible?

Are her parents proud of her...
Or have they called her dirty...or a piece of shit?

Has she felt the warmth of a parent's embrace...
Or has she felt the hot sting of a hand across her cheek?

Is she innocent..
Or has she lost that innocence and been told that she's a liar for telling?

Does she have a secret spot that she goes to when she plays hide and go seek..
Or does she use that spot to escape the terror in her room?

Does she look at her childhood photo albums and see her toothy smiles...
Or does she wonder why her face looks so sad?

Has she heard funny stories about her older sister growing up before she was born..
Or has she heard about the time her mother put her sister through the kitchen wall?

Was she told "It's okay" when she forgot to close the windows during a storm...
Or did her father throw her down on the bed in anger and lock her in the room?

Can she look at herself and see where she gets her nose..her eyes...her ears...
Or does she resent the differences she sees?

Does she know what unconditional love is..
Or has she been told that her parents would like to send her back?

Has she ever had a steady boyfriend..
Or is her life littered with Mr. Wrongs?

Is she content with her weight..
Or has she felt the shame of starvation, or binging and purging?

Does she love her life...
Or does she look through the mirror and wish she was me?

A Curious Case of the Creepy Crawlies

Tuesday was really rough.  Really rough.  All day I felt like my skin was crawling.  Truly crawling with a billion little worms moving and squirming, driving me crazy. 

Got to therapy and talked about it..told her that I was terribly agitated and couldn't really figure out what was going on specifically...just that it was uncomfortable and I needed help.

Back to my boulder we went.  Our intent was to throw the "creepy crawly sensation" into the river.  But no.  I felt like something was holding me back...or someone.  My therapist asked me who or what I thought it was..and as I sat there, on my peaceful rock, Keeper showed up in her long white nightgown and the big green eyes..her dark hair blowing in a nonexistent breeze.  I asked her why she didn't want me to throw the creepy crawlies into the river and the only thought I had as I asked her was that she was protecting me.  Protecting me from the secrets. 

In digging further, I came to understand that she was afraid that if she did tell the secrets, all the parts of me would be completely overwhelmed.  And that she wouldn't be needed anymore.  Eventually, we (my therapist and I) were able to convince her to let me put the awful feeling of my skin crawling in a huge jug..instead of the river.  That way she could still guard it, but I'd be able to function.  Found out that Keeper doesn't sleep.  She can't.  She has "lived" this way her entire life, saving the bruised and injured parts of my psyche from the floodgates of memories and pain.  A very shitty way to live if you ask me. 

Now, dear friends and readers, I am well aware it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what the secrets could be.  But I, as well as Keeper and Five, am not ready to say them yet.  I'm just really scared...

I know this is going to be bad.

Fun and Games

I'm back to feeling "okay" after my therapy session the other night.  I ended up back on my boulder, watching Keeper rock while sitting in a huge rocking chair...surrounded by ginormous soft red pillows, and clutching the security blanket I'd been attached to as a child. 

As I sat in the chair in the office, my therapist told me to ask Keeper, this little eight year old Christina that I'm beginning to get to know, what her "job" is.  Since Keeper can't speak, I saw her pick up a large, gold padlock.  She just sat there, staring at me...swinging the padlock back and forth.  She's the guardian of the secrets..and doesn't trust me enough yet to let me in.  I was told to ask her what she does for fun...and she just stared, cocking her head to the side.  She doesn't know what fun is.  Does she want to learn how to have fun?  She just stared.  Not yet. 

Then, it was time to invite Five on the boulder.  She showed up wearing a pink party dress with white tights and Mary Jane patent leather shoes.  She was quiet as well, but agreed to sit in a small rocking chair and listen, holding onto a very worn teddy bear.  At my therapist's prompting, I asked Five if she wanted to have fun.  She started to look anxious..I could tell immediately what the problem was.  Her mother.  She didn't want to make her mother angry...didn't want her to know about the boulder...didn't want to have fun if she was going to just get in trouble later on. 

I asked Five if she wanted to throw the fear of her mother finding her into the river..carrying the fear away with the water..and she did.  It took awhile, but at last, she understood that her mother would not come for her on the boulder.  That it is a safe place, far from the prying eyes of her captor.

Before Keeper and Five left me alone on the rock, I took Five in my arms..and we cried together.  I told her how sorry I was that she was scared...sorry that she couldn't enjoy being a little girl and have fun.  The tears poured from her eyes..and mine...as we sat there.  I didn't want to let her go...but I promised that she could return any time she wanted.  Keeper was just watching us from her perch on the rocking chair...and I told her that she was welcome as well.  She stared..and nodded.

It's a start.

I'm angry though.  Yes, yes..I AM an angry adoptee.  I shouldn't have had to constantly look over my shoulder...I should have been able to have fun.  I'm not even sure I know how, even now. 

Just Call Me Screwy Louie

Been taking a little bit of a break from thinking about anything adoption related. I've been experiencing strong flashbacks in therapy and while my therapist has been trying to "calm me down" before I leave our sessions, I still find myself extremely tired, agitated and irritable for a few days afterwards. There's only so much a girl can handle and I think I've reached my limit.

I have other issues that are on my mind at the moment too. I think I've mentioned that my Credit and Collections contracting job is being outsourced to India come the end of April. I have been trying to stay positive because it looks like I'll be hired on full time by the company but of course, there's no guarantee. My managers have been trying to help all of the contractors on my team (eleven of us total) find positions and while I'm grateful (hate that word, but it fits here) that they are helping, I'm still extremely stressed out and nervous. I have a car payment, groceries to buy, household bills to help pay (although my boyfriend is my hero and does so much for me and the kids), daycare to pay…etc. etc. etc. I don't get much in the way of child support from my son's biological dad…not even enough to cover the cost of afterschool daycare. It's just so frustrating to work so hard and then to have the rug pulled out from underneath you. I know I'm not the only one in this boat…but that is but a small comfort right now.

And today I have to go to one of the other buildings for a career development function and am praying to all that is good and holy in the world that I won't have to talk to anyone (other than the coworkers/friends that will be going with me) because I've been having a really hard time speaking without "blocking" on the words. Another little gem of crappiness that I've been working with my therapist on. My mother called our house last night and I couldn't even answer the phone without having to pause and stammer out the words "Hi Mom". It was my MOTHER for pete's sake..not a stranger…and yet, I still had to stand in the kitchen trying to will my voice to work. ::thud::

I really am screwed up, huh? Writing it all down just hammers that home to me. I am so tired of being damaged.

New Look...And Ancient Pain

Okay guys, so I'm reeeeeeally technically challenged but managed to figure out how to change my template on Blogger.  What do you think?  I'm not entirely convinced that it'll stay like this but I'll live with it for awhile.

This has been a crap-ass week.  It started last Saturday when Libby's (my Jeep Liberty) battery died.  Sigh.  And continued on with a health scare with my a-mom.  She was having heaviness in her chest and tingling in her arms. 

Now, regardless of the fact that my a-dad was a prick my entire life, he DID die of a massive heart attack so I'm very conscious of my mom's physical health.  Thankfully (in these emergency circumstances anyway) we only live about fifteen minutes away from her so I was able to get her to the emergency room quickly.  She's okay.  All of the tests she had came back okay. 

I have to tell you, it scared the crap out of me.  As much as she drives me nuts and makes me want to tear my hair out, I don't know what I'd do if she passed away.  It'd be easy for me to say "Fuck her!" for all the shit she put me through as a child and even as an adult, but it's a lot more complicated than that.  Even through all the abusive years and the yelling and the screaming..for better or for worse, she's my mother...just as my n-mom is. 

Therapy was craptastic tonight.  Just peachy.  Bawled my eyes out on the way home...realizing more and more how incredibly fucked up I am in the head.  My therapist has this amazing ability to take me to places that I would really rather not revisit.  But I have to.  I have to close my eyes and see my little five year old self and have actual conversations with her...I have even rocked her in my arms and cried with her.  I have talked to the Keeper of the Secrets..my eight year old self.  Tonight I tried to break through the fear and get the Keeper to let me help the littler one, hereafter known as "Five"..but she just stared at me silently in my mind and slowly shook her head...holding Five's hand the whole time.  Sounds crazy doesn't it?  It feels crazy to write it..but it's happened.  Just as the abuse happened.  Fuck.

**ETA...Help!!!  (Did I mention I'm technically challenged???)  Last night when I checked the new blog layout/template, the widgets were on the right hand side of the page..now they are below the posts...how the hell do I fix that???  Anyone??  Anyone????  Bueller???????

Anything But Normal...

Wow, I'm honored to be listed among bloggers that I look to for inspiration and support.

I have a hard time reading the other articles on the site dealing with adoption, but I'm really glad that adoptees' voices are being heard.

To be completely honest, I've been trying to avoid the painful parts of being adopted. Of being an adult adoptee. Frankly, I don't understand why anyone (except other adoptees) would care about my feelings…often, when I do end up reading AP's blogs, I feel stifled. Claustrophic even. Why CAN'T I just be grateful…grateful for not having been aborted..grateful to a God that thought I'd be the perfect gift to a couple who thought they needed two kids to make them happy…grateful that I had a roof over my head and a "normal" family? Because my life was anything but normal. I grew up hating myself..hating the way I was different from everyone in my adoptive family…hating the fact that my cousins were beautiful and had all the right clothes and the right boyfriends/girlfriends and parents that actually cared about them. I wasn't loved…I was tolerated. And sometimes, I didn't even feel tolerated. I felt like a disgusting piece of garbage most days.

Some days, I still do.

Remembering

Therapy was really tough on Tuesday. Really tough. Probably why I've taken to being snarky on some of the blogs I've visited the past few days. Sigh.

I'm remembering more and more about the abuse that I suffered at the hands of my afather. It's not easy to deal with, but I WAS able to finally say that I'm incredibly angry and feel some hatred towards him for what he did. My therapist was really proud of me for getting to that point, but during the session, while experiencing controlled flashbacks, I didn’t feel proud. I felt dirty. Still do. My head feels like it's stuffed with tissues..lightheaded and off balance all the time.

My heart aches for the five year old Christina that was put in that situation. It's strange though…I don't connect with her anymore. It's like I wasn't watching it happen to me. Most likely because, as my therapist has suggested, I disassociated during the abuse. I'm amazed I have ANY memories left of my childhood if that's the case.

"Unfortunately, there is no rewind button on the VCR of life..."

I broke my New Year's resolution already. I found myself at a foster/adoptive parent's blog and my heart is broken. Broken for the young girl that is growing up in a house with two women who jump for joy when she's gone. I commented…calmly in fact…but in reality, I'm disgusted by the utter disregard they feel for this child. A child that one of the women says that they probably wouldn't have adopted had they known then what they know now.

OMG. So, I commented. And a few other adoptee warriors did as well. And instead of listening to what we had to say, she brushed us off with a blog post..telling us all that perhaps adult adoptees shouldn't read her blog.

Too late FosterAbba…too late. I've read…and I've cried for the girl that you are so eagerly spewing your hateful words about because you need a place to vent.

As I said, I grew up knowing that my amom often wanted to send me back..and it destroyed my soul and my heart. That's exactly what you are doing to your daughter. I'm sorry that you live in a state that won't let you "bring her back". I'm sorry your partner works in the Child Welfare system and that even if you could abandon her somewhere, it would be frowned upon by her profession.

Your daughter deserves better. Shame on you.

"It All Makes Sense Now"

That's what my asister said when I told her about the flashbacks and why I'm in therapy this time.  She knew about when I was in therapy during my early 20's, and that it was because our adad was "inappropriate"..but now that she knows that there was more, she said that it explains a lot about why I am the way I am, and why things have been the way they are for me. 

Phew.

We had lunch on Saturday..something we don't get to do very often without the kids.  I was hesitant to talk to her about what's been going on, but I just had to.  She's the only one who experienced the mental, emotional and physical abuse that I did...and we are getting to the point that we can talk about it openly. 

My amother has put my father on a pedestal now that he's dead.  It's infuriating...and sad.  She had been abused as a child at the hands of her uncle..and then she married an abuser because it's all she knew.  And because of that, I was abused.  I'm sick and tired of hearing how great of a guy he was...NO HE FUCKING WASN'T.  She's got this selective memory about what life was like and I hate that I can't anything to her about it because I'm still afraid of her.  In my mind, I'm still a little girl and need to keep my mouth shut for fear of angering her.

The bureau that my daughter scratched up the other day belonged to my sister, and before that, belonged to my mother.  When I told my mother what Madelyn had done and that she was afraid that everyone was going to hate her when they found out, my mother said, "She's just a little girl...don't get mad at her...it's only a bureau after all".

WHAT THE FUCK???

Now, I certainly didn't react calmly when I saw the bureau, but I sure as hell didn't react like my mother would have if that had been me or my sister when we were nine years old (old enough to know better, by the way).  We would have had the crap beaten out of us and then be made to sit for hours listening to the ranting and swearing...all the while packing our bags in our heads for the guilt trip we were about to imbark on.

I remember one day I had a friend over afterschool.  We were playing in my room and my friend grabbed the afghan that was folded neatly on the bottom of my bed.  For one second, I froze in terror.  I NEVER took the afghan off my bed because I couldn't ever fold it like my mother did.  I decided that there was nothing I could do except fold it somewhat close to how she had it.

My friend left for home and my mother came in my room to drop off my laundry.  And it happened.

"Why did you take the afghan off your bed?"  She said, teeth gritted.

"I didn't, Shannon did...I tried to put it back the right way but..."  I said, cowering in the corner.

"That afghan was made for you by your aunt...don't your friends know how to respect your things??"  Her voice was getting louder...
"Mom, she didn't know...I put it back right away but..."

"Tell Shannon that she's not to come here ever again...not until she can learn how to respect this house...".

The lecture continued for most of the night.  The daggers that flew from my mother's eyes cut through my heart and took a little more of my soul.

I said something about the afghan story to my sister and she said that she remembered that day. 

It was a stupid afghan!  In fact, the very same afghan is currently sitting on my living room floor waiting for my son to come home and claim it before bedtime. 

I just have to shake my head sometimes at the ridiculousness of my childhood...or lack thereof.

It DOES explain a lot though...don't you think?

Insecurity

It's going to be a hard holiday for my nsister.  Her fiance passed away in July at the tender age of 22 so this will be the first Christmas without him.  I'm worried about her...and know that she needs my love and support right now.  And so, I invited her and my nmom to our house on Christmas Day.  I told Cate (sis) that they were more than welcome to come and just get away from their town and escape for a few hours.  Didn't think anything of it until I got an email from my nmom.

She didn't think that it was a good idea for them to come to our house.  That it might stress out my afamily to have them there.  That the timing might not be great. 

I wrote back:

so here is the thing...i invited you guys to christmas because i'd love to share the holiday with you. I already passed it by Cindy and she was perfectly fine...as my mother would be. I totally understand if you aren't ready though, but just know that I'd love you to come :)

Have to go wrangle Chase into the tub..lol. Hope you had a great day!!


Love you!
 
She hasn't responded yet...but I did get a joke email from her today so she must not be too mad.  What gets me is that it shouldn't feel this shitty to have the invitation rebuked.  But it does feel shitty.  And they've already all met...under much worse circumstances...Cate's fiancee's funeral.  I hate that I can't share holidays with my family...my whole family.  I feel so fucking torn apart tonight.
 
I just want to spend Christmas with my mom.  Both of them.  Maybe that's selfish and too much to ask, but right now, I don't care. 

Triggered

The newest reality television show hit ABC last night...Find My Family.

I had NO intentions of watching, but then, all of a sudden, my finger pushed the button on the remote and I was sitting on my couch, sobbing my eyes out. Not crying because of how beautiful the show was...but crying because of how it was triggering me.

Before when I was fully engulfed in the fog and not reunited, I'd watch similar shows..like The Locator and cry because I wanted that to be me. I wanted to be found...even though I refused to believe it would ever happen to me.

Watching the show last night, my heart broke for the adoptee...as I realized that she must have been feeling horrible for knowing that her parents (now married with three other children) had given her up and kept the others. How incredibly painful it must have been to hear that her parents gave her up so she could have a better life, when in looking at the natural family, she WOULD have had a good life...with two sisters and a brother.

Now that I'm in reunion with my natural family, that thought hit home for me last night. I WOULD have had a good life with my family...and it just brought out the feelings of loss that much more in focus for me.

Read the following from the website regarding the show:

"What we love about the show is that the emotion is really earned, and it's honest," said ABC alternative series/specials/late-night co-topper John Saade. "It isn't big, contrived moments. We're not looking for train wrecks."

Reunion is like a train wreck though. And pretending that it's all rainbows, fluff and sunshine is just wrong and misleading. You start out on the train, riding at a constant speed, stopping once in awhile to let others on or off at the stations. Then there's an accident..a car or truck on the tracks that causes the train to derail..for an adoptee, this could mean that you find your natural family, or in my case, they find you. Time stops in that instant and the emotions that you feel in that moment are overwhelming. Some good, some not so good. It brings the pain of having been relinquished to the forefront of your mind and you wait for the accident to be cleared off the tracks so you can continue traveling. Might not take long, or it could be a lifelong journey. Regardless of the time, it's something you'll never forget.

Jeebus. I wish I wasn't skipping therapy this week.