A Novel Idea ~ Part 2

The next few months passed by in a blur.  I am ashamed to say that the first note I wrote to Tabitha wasn’t the last.  Our mothers noticed that we weren’t hanging around after school and the most embarrassing day was one Sunday at church.  Tabitha’s mom saw our family at Coffee Hour after the service and came over to talk to us.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tabitha shooting daggers our way, wondering what was going on.

Well, apparently she wanted to ask how I was doing and then gave me a hug.  That did it.  The tears started again and she said, “I’m sorry.  She’s just…she’s just on Cloud Nine over junior high.   Give her time and she’ll come around.” 

She chitchatted with my parents and then walked back over to Tabitha and her sister.  When I glanced back over, they had left. 

The thing is, no matter how many times my mother told me that it wasn’t my fault…that it was Tabitha.   I knew she was wrong.

I mean, all you had to do was look at me.  Absolute wrong hairstyle, wrong clothes, ugly plastic glasses, stutter like you read about and I really couldn’t blame her.  I didn’t want to know me, didn’t want to BE me.   How could I expect anyone else to want to hang around me? 

It was a quiet life.  I went to school, dealt with the giggles, the stares, my locker being slammed on my hand every day when one of the boys decided to make me their scapegoat.  I dealt with always being picked last when it was time to break into groups during our classes.  And the worst was when the teachers noticed.  They would make one of the groups of three separate and would ask for a volunteer to work with me.  The dread on their faces said it all.  Some of them would talk to me after awhile during class but then I magically turned back into the joke when the bell rang.

Books were my escape.  I’d always make sure to bring one along to lunch so I could avoid eye contact.  Sometimes the tables would be so full that I’d have to humble myself and walk over to a group and ask if I could sit down.  More often than not, I’d hear “Sorry, it’s saved”…but I knew that was a lie.  I’d watch the table after I squeezed myself onto the end of another table and could see that no one else had sat down with them. 

My sister knew that I was hurting and would often seek me out on the couple of lunch periods we shared during the week and would tell me to come sit with her and her friends, but that was more humiliating than sitting alone. 

I suppose I could have gone to the office and said…what?  That I was being picked on?  This was before bullying was “a thing”.  My mother’s famous phrase that I shudder to think about now was “They only pick on you because they like you…it’s just harmless teasing.”

Yeah, that’s what she said about my father too.  What a crock.

On The Brink

My girl's going to be in sixth grade tomorrow.  Middle school. 

Let's just sit with that one for a few moments, shall we?

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Sorry, I had to breathe into a paper bag...was hyperventilating there for a second.

When I went to middle school, I had to wear my sister's hand me downs (not that there is anything wrong with hand me downs, but when your sister had to wear "the wrong" kind of clothes, and you get to wear them four years later, things are bound to start off badly.  I also still had my ugly ass glasses...and the lamest haircut known to man, woman, child and poodle.  Sigh. 

I think back to those horrible years and then I look at Madelyn with her long, brown hair, face full of cute freckles, eyelashes that which even Snufflelupagus would be jealous...and I'm happy.  But what's even better?  She's happy.  She's everything that I wanted to be...and that means the world.

Does that make me sound shallow?  I don't mean to sound that way.  I just mean that I always wanted to be one of the "cool kids"..and I don't mean one of the cheerleaders or jocks...I mean that I wanted to be confident.  I wasn't...Madelyn is.  It's pretty awesome to watch her grow. 

My a-mother called me on the way home from work...this is how THAT went:

Me:  Hello?

AMom:  Hi!  Just calling to see what time the kids are getting on the buses tomorrow? 

Me:  Well, Maddie catches the bus at 6:50 and Chase's bus comes at 8:10. 

AMom:  Wow, Maddie has to leave early, huh?  Well, do you mind if I come over and take pictures of them getting on the bus?

Me:  (short pause)  Ummmm, so, I don't think Chase would mind if you took a picture of him getting on the bus but I doubt Maddie is going to want us to snap a photo of her leaving for middle school..(nervous laugh).

AMom:  (long pause)  Oh...OH..right!  Well, how about I come earlier and we can take some pictures in the driveway?

Me:  (huge sigh of relief)  Sounds good..we can have coffee after Maddie leaves, while we wait for Chase's bus.

AMom:  Great!  See you then!

Dodged THAT bullet.  Sheesh. 

And yes, I'll post the pictures tomorrow for you all. *wink*

Chameleon

Had therapy tonight.  We've been actually dealing with a lot of my feelings about being adopted and growing up in the family that I was so lucky to have been taken in by bought by.  Tonight I talked about how hard it was not looking like the rest of my afamily.  I mean, the likeness between all of them is astounding..or maybe it just seemed that way because I didn't have any other frame of reference.  Holidays were hard because we were all in the same place, and the differences were glaringly obvious.  Their faces all were shockingly the same...and then there were my sister and I with our thick plastic BCG's and cheap thrift store clothes that never seemed to fit correctly...just didn't fit in. 

But I tried.  I became a master of disguises.  I said what was expected of me..smiled when it was appropriate...laughed at the jokes...listened while my cousins talked about the latest song on the radio or the newest television heart throb...and took on their opinions.  Because it was easier.  I pretended that my family wasn't "off".  That we really WERE one big happy family...that when we went home, the screaming and yelling and scary days and nights were just bad dreams.   Because it was easier.

I still listen to others to find out what the majority is thinking and then I just go along with the crowd.  I don't even know if I could say what I wanted or what I thought because I've never really forced myself to do that.  I am 36 years old and have no idea who I am.  I know the roles I play in my life...mother, daughter and sister to two different families, girlfriend to one, EX girlfriend to a few, employee, neighbor...but those really are just roles.  They aren't WHO I am on the inside.  They aren't my feelings or emotions.

Sometimes I feel like a blank slate...waiting for people to come to me and draw my life in for me.  But, like I told my therapist, I want to draw my OWN picture eventually.  It's terrifying though.

She said that hopefully someday soon I'll be able to figure out what I want to do...if it's Credit and Collections, then great (not likely).  If it's not, then what is it? 

I told her I've always wanted to write...she was very encouraged and asked me if I'd ever written anything.  I told her about this blog...and my other fluffy one.  Can't believe I told her about them, but I did.  She was so excited about it I thought she was going to jump out of her chair.  Truth be told, I'm a bit excited about it too.  I didn't have to think about it for one second.  The words, "I'd love to be a writer" just came out of my mouth. 

And so, the point of this rambling post is to say that I'm going to really try and focus (yeah, yeah, heard that before?) and just...write.  And write my own story...and draw my own life's picture.  And find some oasis in this world...for me.

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.

Turn That Frown...

I was looking through some old pictures of myself the other day.  Not the middle school or high school ones in which I was wearing BCG (like these for example) but the photos from when I was little.  Way before abuse entered my world..or at least, way before I could remember the abuse. 

I noticed that in a lot of them, think 99.99% of the time, I was frowning.  No smile..nothing.  In the other .01% I had the biggest, cheesiest grin..stupid looking really.  I have a feeling those were the pictures in which my mother was behind the camera...probably getting seriously irritated with the child who refused to smile. 

"Smile dammit...what the hell is the matter with you??  Your sister smiles in ALL her pictures...why aren't you?!" 

Oh, I don't know...maybe because I didn't have much to be happy about.

Here's a couple of examples:

And going back even further in my childhood...we get..