Writing My Wrongs

Semantics

“Acceptance is not submission; it is acknowledgement of the facts of a situation. Then deciding what you're going to do about it.” - Kathleen Casey Thiesen

The niece sharing the same name as my daughter left yesterday. We dropped her off at home. Before leaving, I gave her a graduation gift. It was gently used and was originally mine but she adored it. I gave her this and this. I have had them for some time and rarely wear them. I know the younger crowd really likes that set and I wanted her to have something nice. She was quite pleased with the gift, second hand or not.

Of course, it caused me to reflect on my daughter. I also gave her something from Tiffany. It was for her birthday last year and she actually liked it and wrote that as much as she prefers to be alternative and counter culture, she always wanted something from Tiffany's. So there are two M's that I was able to gift with something special from a little blue box with a white ribbon.

During her stay with us she noted my sons project in his room where he attached the picture of his sister and wrote all about her. Niece M said it broke her heart to read how much he is interested in her and wants to love her knowing the little interest she has in us or him. This made me start to cry. I agreed.

It is indeed one of the most challenging aspect of my non-reunion. Protecting my sons from their sister. How horrid does that sound?

I have doubted myself lately. Doubting my commitment to honesty and truth and regretting that I ever told my sons about their sister. Have I caused them more harm than I would have had I kept her a secret? I cannot know. I do know that it hurts to have my wonderful innocent sons subjected to such emotions. I remember being angry at my daughters’ fathers over the approach he took with his subsequent children. Perhaps my anger was unjustified. Maybe he knew something I did not?

I have been fighting the urge to go into my sons room and remove that project from his wall. I wont, of course, but I must say the desire is overwhelming at times. So much so, I have to keep the door closed and limit my time in that room. It is as if that section of the wall glows and laughs at me demanding attention.

Justice and others have commented on acceptance. I will admit I struggle with accepting poor behavior in others. I have a hard time accepting poor boundaries, abusive behavior, lashing out, ignorance and the like. While I don’t try to control it (by turning around and telling others how they should behave or what is wrong with their behavior) I do struggle internally with accepting it. It just hurts - all the time.

Perhaps it is, to some degree, a matter of semantics. For me acceptance seems to imply condoning. I seem to be stuck between acceptance and letting go (are they the same?)

How does one accept a child that is harsh and hurtful to you?

How does one accept things that are simply not acceptable?

What exactly does it mean?

Maybe I do know.

The last time I visited my parents, my mother left me alone for a bit with my father. My nephew was being inducted into the Honor Society and Mom attended the event. I was invited but decided to stay home. When my dad is left with me he chats a lot. I mean like ALOT. It’s usually very awkward and puts me in a bad position in the family since I am the only person he talks to in this manner. (This fact alone is quite amusing considering our past and the fact that I am the child he most abused).

"Hey Daughter, tell me something. Why is it that you are the only one I can talk to like this? I talk to your mother or your brothers and sisters and they get all defensive. You seem to understand me." he says.

Internally I sigh.

"I don’t know Dad. Maybe I have gotten past what you did to me and they are still hanging on to things. Maybe they still want you to be the Daddy of their dreams versus the Dad you are.  Maybe you and I are more alike. Mom always said that. Maybe you don’t talk to them as nicely as you do me? Even better, maybe you should ask them and not me?" I answer.

He visibly shirks at a few of my words but he does not object. Instead he takes a few puffs of his cigar and ruminates.

"Oh, I could never ask them. They just get angry and we never get anywhere." He continues.

"Maybe you should ask them differently. Or change your own tone. Or think about what you are doing to make them defensive?" I respond.

"Me? What do I do? You don’t get upset and offended by me. What is the difference?" he asks.

I am a bit startled he is going to this level but I respond.

"Dad, I gave up years ago expecting you to be someone you weren’t. You were an awful father to me. You drink too much. You are difficult. Once I moved out, your power to control me and therefore irritate the living daylights out of me ceased. I could choose to continue that anger between us or I could let it go. I let it go -- for me. And in letting it go, I let go of who I wanted you to be and accepted who you are" I answer.

His discomfort is obvious as he shifts his bony rear in his rocker, puffs on the cigar and says with a slightly defensive tone

"Oh, I don’t know about that..."

"I do." I respond.

And the conversation ends.

Perhaps this is the approach I need to take with my daughter.

Family Politics

In each family a story is playing itself out, and each family's story embodies its hope and despair. - August Napier

The porch was dark. My father sat to my right in his spot. A large, cushioned, wicker rocking chair. I sat in a sister chair, with white paint worn from age and a beige cushion tattered and torn by many years of use.

Dad smoked his usual cigar. Smoke blew regularly in my face and I would dodge back and forth to avoid the cloud of offending fumes.

My mother, recently diagnosed with COPD, sat on the end of the porch in her white rocker, recently purchased from Cracker Barrel. Her chair was strategically located to avoid as much of the smoke as possible since her COPD treatment suggests being away from polluted air.

It was cold and I was under dressed. My silver sparkled flip flops were not protecting my feet and my flimsy tank and walking shorts provided little insulation against the cool evening air. I wanted to go to bed but it was clear my parents wanted to chat. I don't see them often and when I do, especially sans kids, they like to have adult conversations. In addition to being tired, I wanted desperately to avoid their neighbor, a married black man named Rick who likes to tell me how he wants to "get with that white stuff". That "white stuff' would be me. It is not a pleasant experience to be referred to as that white stuff one wants to "git" with.

Politics and later, abortion, became the conversation topic of the evening. I entered the conversation hesitantly.

I don't know what party affiliation my parents claim. I don't even know if they are registered to vote. I do know they are conservative and religious so I am going to guess, if they were forced to choose (if they haven't already) they would claim they were Republican. My mother might claim Democrat status and would likely do so in favor of Irish Catholic politicians. I probably should know. I don't.

"I hope McCain wins the Presidency" my father begins.

I momentarily choke on my diet Coke and realize a few seconds late I am expected to comment. He was apparently speaking to me.

"Oh?" I utter meekly. What I really want to say is "ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?".

Dad, a veteran of the US Navy, banters on about McCain and the military and then begins to spew all this propaganda he has heard about Barack. Its wrong of course. I know this. But I don't correct him. He is on a roll. He then proceeds to throw Hillary under the bus over a number of "expert" news reports he read. A few snide comments follow about women as leaders. menstruation, her bad hair cut, her husband and again he is rolling. Mom chimes in here or there and I just mutter a few "uh, huh and ohs".

I have nothing constructive to offer. As a liberal democrat, I struggle with my parents conservative views on politics, even more so when those views are based on flawed news reports and biased information. I decide to opt out of the conversation and realize being harassed by the married guy next door might not be so bad.

And then the A-Bomb arrives - from my mother.

"Abortion is wrong. I mean I agree that it is a woman's choice but abortion is wrong." she says. It is no surprise to me that a 1940's born Irish Catholic woman would take issue with abortion. 

My dad chimes in and they begin talking about those pro-choice people, right to lifers and whats "best" for the child.

I am still quiet but my blood begins to boil a bit. I hear my dad say something about adoption. I am confident he has forgotten who is in his presence.

"Did you say something about adoption?" I pipe up.

"Yeah, I mean if you don't want the kid, just give it away." he responds.

"Yah, right. That worked so well for me." I say.

My father realizes his blunder and looks to my mother for guidance. She looks away towards the neighbors house.

"Well, uh, no. I mean..." he stammers.

"I know what you meant. I knew it then and I know it now.  I am going to bed.  See you in the morning." I say as I take my cold feet and silver flip flops up the stairs.

Avoidant? Maybe.

Self protecting? Definitely.

Hold Me Now

" Please come now
I think I'm falling
Holding on to all I think is safe..." - Creed, One Last Breath

I am teetering on the edge. I am not sure what is over the edge, or beyond the horizon but I am dancing with the idea of going that way. Maybe six feet aint so far down.

Stop the blog.
Don't stop the blog.
Pull back.
Push back.
Give back.
Take.
Bother.
Don't bother.
Look.
Don't look.
Cry.
Don't cry.

I have triggers galore this week. This week of all weeks. The week I was beginning in earnest to pull back from my daughter and pretend once again she is not there or it is okay for her to be wherever she is and not with me. The week I tell myself regularly its okay. Its all just fabulous. Let it go. Don't think about it. Move on. Appreciate what you have and ignore what you dont. Love the ones who love you and forget those that don't. Rethink. Reframe. Revise. Get out of your head and heart and into your life. Go. Now.

I am trying.

My niece, the graduate, named the same as my daughter was by her adoptive parents,  has been with me all week. She has been watching my small men as they don't start camp until next week. Its been mighty awkward to have the boys constantly say:

"Where is M?"
"Is M eating with us?"
"Is M sleeping over tonight?"
"We had so much fun with M today."

Something inside me goes haywire each time the boys speak of their cousin who bears that same name as their sister. Something short circuits. My belly flips over. My head darts around looking to see which M they refer to. For a few seconds I am somewhere else while my short circuiting brain adjusts to the reality.

I want to scream irrationally each time they call for their cousin M. I want to suggest they call her Peaches, or Kiki, or BoogaBooga just so I don't have to experience this crazy psychotic mind switching.

M? Which M? Daughter M? Niece M?
Is M (daughter) here? Oh, no, its niece.

I stand in the kitchen and peer through the butlers pantry and watch my small men play with their eighteen year old cousin named the same as their sister, graduating the same year as their sister. They toss pillows and wrestle.  My youngest screeches and body slams his cousin. She giggles and grabs him between the legs and lifts his lean and limber six year old body up over shoulder. He continues to giggle.

"Stop M! Stop!" he screams with a mixture of terror and delight.

My throat constricts and I retreat to the bathroom.

The visions that aren't visions, more like fantasies or flashbacks of things that never were but should have been pummel my psyche.

I have to escape before they see my tears.

Imagine if the M they are wrestling with was indeed their sister?

It is almost too much to bear.

Dinner Conversations

"“An unquestioned mind is the world of suffering.” - Byron Katie

"Perhaps she doesn’t want another mother because she doesn’t like the one you picked for her?" my friend queried.

Picked for her? I struggled with that statement as it is not entirely accurate but I knew what she was implying and why. Those not torched by adoption don't always understand how the process works. They also dont realize that certain words can be highly triggering.

"What would not liking her adoptive mother have to do with me? Besides, I don’t know anything about her adoptive mother, beyond what the agency put on paper, I don’t like assuming or making up stuff that I don’t know to be true. That makes me feel uncomfortable." I stated as I reached for my ice water. The glass of Shiraz I drank earlier was fighting back and causing a bit of heartburn. As I scanned our small dinner table for something soothing, my friend continued.

"No, I know. I am just speaking figuratively or is it theoretically? I don’t know. Whatever. But imagine adoptive mom is your daughter’s view of "mother". If that view is bad, and I am not saying it is, maybe her view of you is also bad. Does that make sense? Pretend you grew up with a clingy, needy, obsessive, oppressive mother and you are presented with a mother who has been desperately looking for you. It could be an easy jump to assume that Mom Number Two (or is it number one?) might be like Mom Number One, wouldn’t it? Mother might become a dirty word. Remember when you said you had a problem dating E because he was Polish, liked to fish, and drank too much, just like your Dad? Same concept. Anyone at all like your dad became persona non grata. Get it?" friend asked.

"Errm, well, kinda. But again, I don’t know anything about adoptive mom so I cannot agree or disagree but I get what you are saying in theory. I suppose it is possible. Are you suggesting some sort of transference? Kinda like if you have a bad experience with oh, a restaurant, if you get food poisoning you might be weary to go out to that restaurant again or any restaurant at all?" I ask.

"Well, uh, not quite." friend replied.

"The truth is there are way too many variables in adoption reunion. I am just guessing at any of this. I am just shooting in the dark and spinning my wheels. I am working hard to stop thinking about it all. At least I am trying to reframe it. It is crazy making to do otherwise.  I have two other children who do need me and love me and deserve to have their mother completely there. I need to focus on the things that give me joy in life and not pain. And what do you mean not quite? Can you pass that bread?" I ask as the fire in my throat rages. Why is a glass of shiraz giving me such wicked heartburn I wonder?

"Well yeah, but that seems like a bad analogy if you ask me...something wrong with comparing mothers and restaurants. But I understand what you say about stopping your internal thought processes. Are you reading Byron Katie again? I thought you put that book down. But seriously, mothers and restaurants? Couldn't your writer brain come up with something better than that?" friend laughed.

I smiled.

"Well, they both feed you..." I offered.

Certainly Possible

"I've learned that just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have." - Unknown

Mary, an adoptive mom reader, made a very valid point. I will paraphrase a bit. I hope she doesn't mind.

Essentially what I got from her comment was the suggestion that perhaps the reason my daughter has so little interest in me, her brothers, her first family, her medical history is because her adoption "worked". It did what the social workers say it is supposed to. Maybe she is one of those adoptees that feel no connection. Maybe her life was so perfect and wonderful that she has no need or curiosity to know where she came from, her first mother and father, brothers and sisters. Maybe, like many adoptive parents and adoptees report, to her, "genetics is nothing". Maybe she is whole and complete and wonderful and fabulous and all the other stuff the agency told me she would be by being raised with strangers. Maybe she has no such thing as primal wound. Maybe she was that blank slate that could be easily assimilated into another clan. Peruse nearly any adoption forum and you will likely come across an adoptee or two that insists, emphatically, they are fine with being adopted.

It really is quite possible, right? (If we want others to accept our reality, we must surely accept theirs, no?)

It is something we mothers have to think about. That is what we were supposedly doing, right? Giving our children a better life and letting them go? Now, even though the agencies and society lied to us in their suggestion that mothers could get over it and would go on and never feel a thing for our children again, we should not necessarily assume that our children are like us. Just because we never got over losing our child doesn't mean they could not get over losing us. We can cite experts and theory and imprinting (children KNOW they lost their mothers and it is forever a part of their chemical makeup) but what if those experts are wrong? What if some children can and do get on "just fine". They never knew any differently. The one mommy who raised them is their one mommy. Even if they came from somewhere else, they may be so whole and complete that the fact that they have another mother or family does not matter to them. Maybe mommies and daddies CAN be replaced. Maybe Verrier and Lifton and others have it all terribly wrong.

When I think about my daughter, my friend K's daughter, my friend D's daughter, I have to disagree with the suggestion that they are fine with being adopted. Perhaps my thinking is flawed or incredibly biased, but I disagree based on the following.

Wouldn't a whole, complete, not bothered adoptee at least treat their mothers or first families like they would a stranger? Wouldn't they be polite and talkative and not feel threatened or uncomfortable?

My belief (again, I am willing to admit it may be erroneous) is that the adoptees who struggle with reunion, who are ambivalent, hostile, are not adoptees for whom adoption "worked". They are adoptees that are struggling and conflicted with the fact that they are adopted. Maybe they are like my friend J who was told by her adoptive parents that they would withhold her college funds if she was in contact with "that woman". Maybe they are like my friend T who was literally disowned and thrown out of the family home by her adoptive parents when she started asking questions about her first mother. Maybe they are like my friend Z whose adoptive mother told her if she found her first family adoptive mother would commit suicide. Maybe those ambivalent adoptees are plain old scared and have had no support in addressing their adoption trauma.

I don't know.

I cannot know and we cannot know unless an adoptee tells us themselves. And even when they do tell us, I am sometimes apt to question. When adoptees demand over and over, often in harsh angry tones, they are FINE with being adopted, I wonder who they are trying to convince? When adoptees are angry and rude to people they don't even know and claim they don't want to know, I wonder what is behind that behavior. It is said anger is often a fear based emotion. What are they afraid of? (I might add the same is true with mothers who tell you over and over again they are superdeeduper thrilled they gave away their baby.)

I do know that when someone doesn't matter to me, I am at least polite to them. I am not passive aggressive, harsh, rude, angry. I am civil. I am friendly. Anything more or less than that implies to me, that there is some emotion there. To me, in my life, when I am emotional with someone to any degree, it is because they mean something to me. Because I have some emotional attachment to them.

In short, I agree with Mary that is theoretically possible my daughter is one of those very well adjusted happy adoptees that has no desire to know where she came from, how or why. I hope that is not the case but I do realize the possibility exists.

Should that turn out to be the case, in the long term, I will do what I have always done.

I will survive and I will continue to love my child regardless.

See All of Me

"I dont want to be the filler if the void is solely yours
I dont want to be your glass of single malt whiskey
Hidden in the bottom drawer
I dont want to be the bandage if the wound is not mine
Lend me some fresh air
I dont want to be adored for what I merely represent to you" - Alannis Morrisette

I find it incredibly interesting - on an intellectual level - that so many make this association that my daughter is the cure to my pain.

She is not.

I have told her that.

The most obvious reason that she could never be the cure is that she is not the cause. How could she possibly fix something she did not break? My daughter is not an object. She is not an antibiotic. She is not a salve for my wounded heart.

I tend to think this belief, or assumption, is rooted in the fact that many of our children were adopted as infants to "fix" an infertile woman or childless family and make their dreams come true. The adoption was about the adoptive parents needs first and the child's second. They were objectified and viewed as a band-aid for an adoptive families challenges (even if not overtly stated).

Upon reunion, many adoptees are faced with yet another emotionally scarred woman and again, they may get the message that their role is to fix yet another broken woman. Furthermore, they cannot be themselves but feel pushed into being the child they could have/should have/would have been had they not been taken for adoption. They spend their lifetime with the presence of the ghost child their adoptive parents could not have. They try their best to fit in and act like the adoptive family who have no genetic relation to them. Then upon reunion, it happens all over again. Another wounded woman trying to fit them into the ghost role of the child they should have been.

When do our children get to be who they are and not who they coulda/woulda/shoulda/mighta been?

When we do stop using our children to fix our own damaged selves?

How does anyone make the connection that my desire to know and love and be part of my child's life somehow equates to her fixing me? Why can't people separate out the two? Is it because, as I suggest, we have used our children as objects?

Yes, I am damaged by my experience. This experience involves being sent one thousand miles away to a maternity "home", being shamed by my family and friends, being told I would go to hell now that I had violated the laws of the Catholic church, losing my college acceptance, losing my first love, my child, being dehumanized, abandoned, and much more. It is not rooted solely in the loss of my child. Most importantly she did not cause any of that. She was a helpless infant. How could she be held responsible?

In addition to being a woman damaged by the adoption industry and the constructs of American society, I am also mother who misses and wants to know her daughter.

It is that mother, that woman, I wish people would see.

Yet, it seems the preferred vision is to see the damaged, broken, emotionally bleeding mother. I wonder if doing so allows people to justify the tactics. Seeing me as some broken, neurotic, basket case worthy of a white jacket and locked ward, you can say "See, you never would have been a good mother after all. She was better off without you".

I am a damaged woman.

I am a mother.

Won't you please see ALL of me and not just the parts that make you comfortable?

Story of the 'Unwed' Mother: "Who Am I?"
by Robin Westbrook

Look at me, Look closely at my face and truly see me.

I am the face of the housewife, the store clerk, the doctor, the teacher, the doting grandmother, the "childless" business executive, the judge, the florist, the drycleaner on the corner, the crossing guard...all these and more.

Behind my face, lies the truth you deny. Behind the wall I have built for self-protection, is the pain you refuse to see. My face does not reveal the open wound in my heart, but it is there.

I am the forgotten face, the face that fades into the crowd, that re-invents itself in order to fit in with all the rest of you.

I am the face that many wish would remain forever anonymous, the face that many long to see yet the face that others fear.

I am the face of denial and repression. Behind my silent, sealed lips, there are cries of grief and screams of rage. Behind my dry eyes, is a lifetime of unshed tears.

I am the face of long-ago shame and yesterday's scandal. I am the face of an imprisoned soul, punished for breaking obsolete and unloving rules.

I am the face of one-half of a whole. I am a missing piece longing for completion. I am the face of a traumatic and unnatural separation and a primal wound.

I am the face of grief without a grave, questions without answers and secrets unknown. I am the face of an unfinished story, a life in limbo and a victim of the needs and desires of others.

I am the face of remorse and betrayal and a singular brand of loneliness. I am the face of unique tragedy.

I am the face that, now, emerges from obscurity and calls out to be seen. You can call me the birthmother, the first mother, the natural mother or whatever term meets your comfort level, but it won't change the fact at hand.

That fact is that I am a MOTHER without her child.

I Wonder....

“We have a double standard, which is to say, a man can show how much he cares by being violent - see, he's jealous, he cares - a woman shows how much she cares by how much she's willing to be hurt; by how much she will take; how much she will endure;” - Andrew Dworkin

I wonder if the roles were reversed would the sentiment be different?

Meaning, if my daughter were blogging about our relationship, would people feel differently?  I have no idea if she is. I don't look. I wouldn't look. I have trusted her to share with me what she wants me to see or read. She has done so and when she was no longer comfortable she blocked access. That is her prerogative as owner of her content.

Yet I wonder if folks would be so protective of ME if it were me she were talking about?  (N.B., It would be fine with me if my daughter discussed me publicly. It is her truth. I am in no position to challenge her truth or her feelings.) It seems to be with some folks that it is okay for a wounded adoptee to thrash from the agony of the condition that is adoption but it is not okay for a mother to do so.

Is that because we are, in some sort of theory, the mother? (Even though we are not?)

Is this some sort of social engineering? Be a mother, act like a mother, but oh yeah, you aren't so don't call yourself that?  Or is this rooted in the discomfort felt by those who have to face what adoption does to mothers? Or something else entirely?

And to the person who suggested that "A" was indeed my daughter herself, I strongly doubt it. I am quite confident she is capable of speaking for herself should she want to.  Furthermore, she doesnt read here.  Additionally, A is resolving to Brookline, Massachusetts.

I am using my own experience here as a thread fertilizer but I think what is happening here on my blog speaks to a much  bigger issue on adoption/reunions/privacy/mothers and children. Since the only experience I can speak to is my own, I use it to spark conversation and provoke thought.

Curious that I am supposed to act like a mother and protect my daughter and put her above myself (as all "good" mothers do for their children) but don't dare consider myself her mother?

The Internet and Interpersonal Communications

"The colossal misunderstanding of our time is the assumption that insight will work with people who are unmotivated to change. Communication does not depend on syntax, or eloquence, or rhetoric, or articulation but on the emotional context in which the message is being heard. People can only hear you when they are moving toward you, and they are not likely to when your words are pursuing them. Even the choices words lose their power when they are used to overpower. Attitudes are the real figures of speech." - Edwin Friedman

Has the Internet hurt or helped interpersonal communications?

Has it made it too easy to communicate? Is there such a thing?

Does posting your feelings on-line help or hinder relationships?

As a communications professional, I lean towards believing the Internet helps relationships. Any tool, vehicle, technology that can assist with communication is, to me, a benefit.

Humans communicate and learn in different ways. Some are auditory. Some are visual. Some like to read and process and do things in their own time. Others like to jump in head first and get started. Some like to have information presented to them in small chunks.  The Internet, with all its rich media options, is a wonderful tool to aid in communications.

I believe it helps.

However, in the wrong hands, with improper use and intent it can also be highly damaging.

Consider the telephone. While I was not around when it was first developed I am going to guess that some part of the population was hesitant to embrace it. There may even have been those that felt the ability to suddenly talk to someone that was not present in your home was the work of the devil. And what about those operators who connected your calls? Did they listen in? How private was a phone call?

Did using the telephone cause problems in relationships? It certainly barred you from seeing body language. It can also be used to harass individuals with telemarketing or prank phone calls.

Is society better off or worse off since the introduction of the telephone? My father would say worse off since he has despised the fact that my mother could talk for hours to her sister or neighbors. My marriage version of my fathers complaint was my husbands objection to me being on the computer all the time.

Humans crave connection, understanding and validation. The phone, the Internet, can promote those deep connections. Yet they can also hurt or complicate.

For example:

I recently "met" a guy on-line. We started chatting. Professional guy, lived near me. We shared pictures. We emailed quite a bit. We had some things in common and it appeared as though we might meet for a drink. Without his knowledge, during our various chat sessions, I googled his email address to check him out. I also executed a search on myspace with the same email. In light of the fact that I was pondering meeting him live, I did not consider this Internet background check a violation of privacy.  It was a matter of safety.

I found his myspace.

I found his last name.

I found out where he worked.

I found out the name of the last woman he dated. (She left all these gooey messages on his myspace)

I found out he that while he indicated he was divorced, that was not entirely true. He is in the process of a divorce. According to my states public party inquiry system, I can actually see who filed for divorce in his case and what the current status is.

I know where he lives and I can even google map his home and get a satellite and street view of his neighborhood.

He shared none of this with me in the weeks we had been chatting. Oh, I asked him his last name. He just never answered me. I asked him where he worked. He gave me the industry but not the company. I asked him his ethnicity. He never answered me. While he held back from me, I also failed to tell him what I knew.

A few days ago he made his myspace private and I believe found me on-line via what was likely a google search. My private email address carries my full name. Anyone could do it.  I expect it.  I am clearly not trying hide my identity. He has not told me he googled me or read this blog He just went silent. His emails to me have nearly ceased.

Who is at fault here?

Is it a matter of fault? Or is it safety or something even more simple - like a love connection that never would come to pass. Am I a nosy female for checking him out without his knowledge or am I am smart thinking and savvy single woman watching out for her own safety by checking out a guy she met on-line before she were to meet him in person (in a public place)?

Is it the Internet wreaking havoc on interpersonal relations or is it the Internet aiding those connections? (Clearly he and I both have some honesty/trust issues. Aren't we better off to have found that out sooner rather than later?)

I can argue my position and his.

But what about blogging about adoption reunions? What are the limitations? How much information should you share?

I absolutely filter what I write here. I do this to protect my daughter, her father, my family and even myself. However, it would appear that visitors like A think I don't filter enough. That my writing of my feelings, my situation, my views, in a public forum is "undermining and second guessing" my daughter.

Is it?

What would A and others have me do? And whatever it is, should I do it? For them? For their views and their beliefs? (Can I say how much that would feel like giving my daughter away to make my parents, the church and the agency happy?)

What if I ever write that book I started? Should I filter myself then too? Should I only write what would make my daughter feel comfortable? Or should I be honest with myself, my feelings and my truth?

Is my responsibility to my own feelings first and my daughters second or vice versa? Or is there some way to balance them all?

This is something I have struggled with since day one. My voice, my on-line presence, sharing or not, my daughters feelings or not. At this time, given the information I have, I can only say that I am conscious of my actions and how they may affect my daughter. Until she finds the emotional fortitude to tell me more concretely what bothers her or not, I will continue down this path.

And I will remain open to change.

A's Comment

“Some people think it's holding on that makes one strong- sometimes it's letting go.” - Unknown

I am not quite sure what exactly A was getting at in his or her comment. It seemed like he or she had not read my post or how I said I welcome my daughters dialog and feelings. I WANT to know them - even if they differ from mine. But of course, A wouldn't know this because I don't post what I write my daughter here nor do I post what she writes me.

I also am quite confident that as today, she and I have opposing views on adoption. I don't get the sense that she is the uber happy adoptee but I do believe she struggles with my position. I believe, perhaps erroneously, that she struggles with it because to truly acknowledge me, she must acknowledge herself, her adoptive parents and the hows and whys and who's of her birth, surrender, sale and adoption. It is not a pretty story. I don't begrudge her one bit wanting to avoid it. It is quite painful.

I expect her to have a differing view. We are two different people with two different experiences. She is the child that was surrendered and sold by a broker and I am the mother that allowed that to happen. Regardless of who did what and who was the victim or who hurts more, the entire situation is awful for all concerned. She has to reconcile hers as much as I have to reconcile mine.

Does she have to convert to my way of thinking and fight the beast with me? Of course not. As stated, our reunion and my advocacy work is entwined but they are absolutely separate as well. I have asked no one close to me to pick up my flag and fight to free the mothers and children. I have not made believing like me a condition of my friendship. I have not discarded those with opposing view and GASP! I even have adoptive parent friends. I even dated an adoptive father (and I did not melt or get burned or other).

I don't want my daughter to believe what I believe or fight what I fight. I want her to respect who I am as much she wants me to respect who she is. If I were a Republican and she a Democrat I would want her to accept that as a difference in us - not a barrier to a relationship. If she was religious and I was not, same rule applies. I don't want her to be like me.

If we all thought the same, how boring would the world be?

However, I do think A was trying to make a point that I do agree with.

I am a strong personality with strong views and the ability to debate them and stand up for them (at least NOW I am. I cannot say the same for the 18 yo maternity home resident I once was).

I don't doubt that might be difficult for my daughter. However, I am also confident she is quite the same. If you could see her writing to me, you would agree. She is not a shrinking violet by any means. She is gifted with words, intuitive and incredibly direct - to the point of being hurtful. My own family has said the same about me. (Perhaps my sister will pipe up here and confirm). As much as her view may be difficult to handle at times, it also makes me smile. It is mirroring. Each time I cringe at her forthright nature, I smile. I am reminded of my own mother and the challenges she had (and still has) with me and I smile. She is, no doubt, my daughter.

And that makes me feel great.

Yoohoo, Connecticut

“Society is a masked ball, where every one hides his real character, and reveals it by hiding” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Hey you, yeah, you in Fairfield or New Britain, would you consider delurking? If you are a mother or an adoptee, would love to know you. New Britain has some wierd IP thing going on (masking?) but again, feel free to delurk. I like to know local peeps.

Even more intriguing is that person from findegg...coming from the netherlands but registering as Oakland, CA?  I love puzzles.  Gives me something to do at night. Who needs to mask their own IP to read my blog?