Writing My Wrongs

Loss after Loss

“I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains
I looked to the children, I drank from the fountains
Yeah we go to the doctor, we go to the mountains
We look to the children, we drink from the fountains
Yeah we go to the bible, we go through the workout
We read up on revival and we stand up for the lookout
Theres more than one answer to these questions
Pointing me in a crooked line
The less I seek my source for some definitive
(the less I seek my source)
The closer I am to fine”
- Closer to Fine, Indigo Girls

I told him I was worried that I was handling things so well.

He laughed.

“You are WORRIED that you are not worried?” he asked me.

“Well, yeah, exactly”, I said.

I explained further.

“People keep telling me how good I am doing with all the change and challenge in my life right now. They tell me how impressed they are with how together I seem.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Is it?”

He laughed again.

We discussed it. We never came to a conclusion. Yet it still continues to weigh on me.
I realize part of it, if not all of it, is due to my adoption issues.

I remember how much I sang the “I am fine” song after losing her. For years. Oh yeah, fine. I am fine. I am good. Thank you for asking. Oh, no, really, just fine. Dandy. Simply groovey. Managing JUSSSSSSSSSST fine (now will you stop fucking asking me how I am doing?). I am finer than fine. 

Guess what?

I wasn’t fine. Not by any measure of the word. I know that now. Night terrors and suicidal ideation is not found in the dictionary under the definition of “fine”.

As a result, when there is impending loss, change, drama in my life, I seriously question myself when I, or others think, I am fine. Am I falling into old habits? Or has my years of self work and therapy really paid off? Am I truly fine?

As this gerbil of a thought ran around the habitrail of my head last night, another thought came to me.

No loss can match the loss of my daughter. Compared to losing her, everything else pales in comparison. Of course I would say I am fine. Compared to what I have lost for the past twenty something years, I really am truly fine.

Lose a job? Get another.
Lose a relative? Bury. Grieve. Move on.
Lose your favorite trinket? Replace it.
Lose all your money? Make more. Move in with a family member. Declare bankruptcy. Rebuild.
Lose your child to adoption? Ummmmmmmmmm. There is no replacement for that child. Find ways to manage massive heartache and loss. Get thick skin. Embrace the pain. Make it part of your life.

Desensitized? Thicker skinned? Able to leap tall trauma in a single bound? Perhaps.

I thought of my c-section scar. My daughter was my only vaginal birth. Both my boys were c-sections.  I am still numb in the area of the scar. No feeling at all. I actually once stuck myself with a sewing needle to test it. Did not feel anything. The nerves are shot. The scar, the area. Poof. Gone. No feeling. Too many wounds in the same spot deadens the nerves. Secondary wounds to a  primary wound site doesnt result in the same level of pain.

I thought of myself as a child. I had been out playing and got a stick through my leg (yes, in one side out the other). I bled all day and did not know it. When my parents took me to the emergency room, the doctor stuck all kinds of probes into this oozing, bleeding hole in my leg. I just watched. I don’t remember it hurting.

If you make another wound, in an existing, live, bleeding wound, do you feel anything? Can you really bleed anymore? Can it hurt anymore than it did the first time?

For me it is about order of magnitude. How large is this current challenge and potential loss compared to losing my first born child?

It’s pretty big for sure. But it’s not THAT big. And since I survived losing my daughter (albeit a bit tattered and bruised) I know I can survive just about anything.

So, I guess, by that logic, I am indeed fine. Why do I worry? Why do I care? Why don’t I just focus on getting through the change and latest loss and stop worrying about my reaction to it?

Certain individuals involved in this current change feel I should be distraught, waving that hanky and grasping for those walls.

I am not. It’s not my style to carry a snot rag and dab my nose and eyes. It just isn’t. Just because I am not carrying my pain on the outside and crying 24 x 7 doesn’t mean I don’t feel and I don’t hurt. Furthermore, just because I don’t handle things the way you would, doesn’t mean my way is wrong.

I might really be fine.  At least as fine as I can be.

Credit for Wondering

I dont know who this person was but I give them serious props for asking this question of google. (Click image for bigger picture...literally)

Me and My Shadow

"To confront a person with his own shadow is to show him his own light."- Carl G. Jung

I think it is her approaching birthday that has me more anxious and grief stricken than usual. I am feeling very edgy, angry, short, distracted, jumpy and more. Mostly I want to hit something and cry.

I think its anger that is surfacing. Anger at her, the situation, the industry, just everything. I put so much effort into appearing to be okay, to be understanding and knowledgeable and compassionate that I am blatantly ignoring the fact that I am not always okay, I am not always understanding and intellect and knowledge generally helps little with the feelings. Reminds me of one of my favorite Ann Sexton quotes. I have this on my AIM profile.

“Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth." - Anne Sexton

That’s it. My heart is in my throat and its choking me.

I have been doing shadow work with my therapist. I suspect this anger is coming from my shadow side. I think I should work with him a bit on embracing this. I need to open that door, welcome in the beast, have a chat or two.

Anger was not an allowed emotion in my home as a child. (Shoot, no emotion was permitted. My father actually told us we could have feelings when we turned 18 years old and were out of his house). As such, I never really learned how to manage anger. I generally stifled it and let it seep out. It would drip out in my words via sarcasm. It would be heard in my steps as I stomped up stairs and slammed doors. It would be read in my angsty teenager diaries.

Whenever it was there, it was denied. Pushed away, ignored. Like a pressure cooker, my head would rattle at times until I blew my top at something completely unrelated to the original angering event. Anger bad. Wait till you are 18.

I am angry with my daughter. I realize that. But I know (feel) she is also angry and confused.  I really don’t want to vent on her. It’s not really HER as a person but the situation, her responses, etc. that challenge me. And I am powerless over almost all of it. And that makes me angry. I cannot change it. I cannot fix it. I must sit in this puddle of muck and live with it. Integrate it.

How do I deal with this?

I realized today my approach has been to cover it. To do good things, other things that make me feel good. Like packaging up her birthday presents. For the days, weeks, that the task is in motion,  I can be distracted. I can be giddy and focus on the gifts. But when they are gone, I am still faced with the underlying anger. Oh, hey, its you. Back again? Its like a drug addict who medicates their pain away. I may not be using drugs but I am taking a similar approach.

Feeling depressed? Yippee. Lets paint the house.
Feeling angry? Ooh, lets go on vacation.
Feeling anxiety? Lets go to the gym.
Empty? Lets go SHOPPING! Sephora has a great sale. Lets buy stuff so we can paint on a happy face.

All good things mind you but NOT if they are used as a distraction. Not if they are done to avoid dealing with the real hard core underlying issues.

“You know that the shadow has appeared when you feel anger, powerlessness, envy, anxiety, greed, or other forbidden feelings and you say or do something self-destructive, then feel guilty or shamed afterward. Or you may react intensely to a trait in others that you fail to see in yourself (a projection), which makes you critical and rejecting, and leaves you feeling lonely and isolated. Or you engage in painful, repetitive fights with loved ones and can't seem to break the cycle, which leaves you feeling hopeless and betrayed.”

It is so tough being a human.

Even tougher being a survivor of adoption trauma.

So very tough as the birthday approaches.

Wow.

I have for some time kept a private blog where I write to my daughter. Oh, it is not shared with her.  The words are meant for her, directed at her, but I dont share them. Its like my dumping ground. When I am upset and angry or hurt by her, I vent there.

I hadnt done it in a few months. Written there, that is. I read it today. Ouch. Wow. I can be seriously pissed off and bitchy. LOL. I was amused in an odd sort of way at the anger in my words. Very glad I am putting them THERE and not directing them towards her. I suppose that shows some growth and maturity on my part.

I also made another blog. It will be for password protected entries. There has been many times I wanted to share things with many of my readers but I hold back. I am afraid to write certain things. To be THAT transparent (and I am pretty transparent).

I am afraid to write certain aspects of my story due to fear that my daughter, her adoptive parents, her father, his wife, even my hsuband  might read them. Thats awful, huh? That I still feel like I must hide me, filter my voice, to protect the false reality and feelings of  others involved in this trauma of mine?

Its just that there is SO much to my story. So much that I dont write because I dont want her, or them to find out about it here. On the net. In a public forum. I want them to ask me. To care. To inquire. But they dont. So I keep it to myself to protect their feelings. Something oddly twisted there, no?

Like I know several people IRL who read there. But they NEVER comment to me in person. Once in a while a member of my family will post a snide comment under a silly ID. Or they will make a rude comment in person that is clearly mocking the words I have shared here. I recently had an argument with a family member about something that clearly was wrong to me. Something that did not make sense.  Their sarcastic response was to quote, verbatim, words from my blog. The blog they have never commented on or discussed in IRL. Really helpful for our relationship, right?

I greatly respect my dear friends in Vienna or Cologne, who do read here and then write me privately and say 'Woah, Suz, I had no idea. Thank you for sharing." Or they ask questions. That is decent. That is friendship and relationship building. But to lurk and sneak and pretend you dont when you know me face to face?

Any wonder why I am afraid to write the real juicy stuff?  I fully intend to write my entire story some day. Even consider getting it published. Self published if I must. Refer to my earlier post looking for an ilustrator. But that day is not yet here. Its coming. I can feel it. When I think about being really transparent, I feel less and less anxious. Its like my strength is building.

My approach to more challenging posts will be to post a link here to the password protected blog.  If you are itnerested, you can write me and I can provide a password.  I welcome commenatry and insight from the Joys, Possums, Beccas, Margies, and others of the world. So many of you have helped me so much. Sharing your stories, you feelings, your support.

But yeah, look for the random links to password protected posts. I hope you will consider commenting and wont mind the extra step.

Peace out.

Back to "my patchwork quilt of a life and the memories embroidered on my soul. "

Things I Missed with My Daughter

This reminded me of my hsuband and my oldest son. After I chuckled like crazy, I got sad. Never saw this kind of stuff with my daughter.

Enjoy.

Watch More Bebo Tv        Uploaded by spkm1978.bebo.com

Reflecting the Shadow

“Who is that girl I see
Staring straight back at me?
When will my reflection show
Who I am inside?
I am now
In a world where I have to
Hide my heart
And what I believe in
But somehow
I will show the world
What’s inside my heart
And be loved for who I am”
Christina Aguilera, Reflection

Genetic mirroring in adoption is a topic you often read about. It is noted as one of the many losses adoptees suffer. Loss of those that look, talk, think, feel, speak, act like they do.  Those of us that grew up with our natural families frequently say “I have the same eyes as my mother, I look like my father”. 

Adoptees cannot say that.  Many adoptees try very hard to act like their adoptive family. In an attempt to fit in they will bend themselves backwards to think, act, behave like the people who are not related to them behave. They will deny their true self and take on a false self.

In my personal experience, I can tell you my personality is more my fathers than my mothers. My looks are more my mothers side of the family. I look more Irish than Polish yet my body structure tends to be the Eastern European Polish side. Thick legs for farming and wide hips for birthing babies. I like to be barefoot and my Polish grandmother used to love that. “That’s the Polish farm girl” in you she would tell me. I prefer comfort food to gourmet. I am quite content with pierogies and kielbasa. Stew? Wonderful. Crusty bread? Fabu. Lots of carbs? Good goddess, I am in heaven. Again, the farm girl side of the family.

I have short thick fingers – again, the Polish farmers. Yet, I have fair freckled skin and hair with massive red highlights (when not colored). That’s the Irish. I struggle with stupidity and ignorance in others (that’s my Dad).  My love of words and word games? Dad.

Until I found her my daughter did not have the ability to say any of this. Her eyes? They came from me (and they are gorgeous just like mine!).  Her body structure defies both her father and I. His family is also Polish and a bit lovingly plump. Her talents? While one could suggest she got those from her adoptive family (or they encouraged them), I can tell you they are identical to the gifts and talents her father and I share.   Her bad skin? That’s me. Her thick hair? That’s my mom.  Her nose? That’s a mixture of her father and I.

When I entered reunion I approached mirroring from the adoptee side. What she would see of herself in me/us. It did not occur to me how powerful it would be to see myself in her.

She is my only daughter. I am raising sons.  It was powerful beyond words for me to see a girl, a female, someone like me.  There was never anyone like me growing up. While I had the comfort of looking like my tribe, acting like them, I was still different. I did not fit into my family even if we did share the same eyes and hair. I felt incredibly odd, isolated and unwanted.

To see my daughter online, to view her photos, to read her words, blew me away.  Finally, there is someone like me. Someone who MIGHT relate to me, someone who MIGHT like the things I like, someone who I MIGHT be able to talk to and she MIGHT respond in a language I understand.

Along with the positive mirroring, came some ugly reflections as well.  I see in my daughter, in her responses, reactions, approaches, some not so nice things. Maybe not nice is the wrong word. Emotionally unhealthy is a better one. I see similar, often destructive, coping mechanisms in play and I don’t like them.

Why don’t I like them? Why does the way she chooses to handle her stressors bug me?

Easy.

They force me to look at the negative parts of myself. Hence, the reflection. Seeing those negative traits in my daughter is like looking at what Jung would call my Shadow.

“It is everything in us that is unconscious, repressed, undeveloped and denied. These are dark rejected aspects of our being as well as light, so there is positive undeveloped potential in the Shadow that we don’t know about because anything that is unconscious, we don’t know about.

The Shadow is an archetype. And what an archetype simply means is that it is typical in consciousness for everyone. Everyone has a Shadow. This is not something that one or two people have. We all have a Shadow and a confrontation with the Shadow is essential for self awareness. We cannot learn about ourselves if we do not learn about our Shadow so therefore we are going to attract it through the mirrors of other people.”

I consider my daughter to be difficult to approach, distant. I find she operates in the intellectual realm and avoids feelings. Rather than confront difficult things she deals with them with logic and reason or avoids them altogether. She can be rude and cold.

Guess what?

So can I.

I am quite confident that all the negative things I could say about my daughter people who love me would say I am the same way.

And I don’t like that.

I don’t want to be thought of as rude, distant, cold and difficult to connect with. I am not. (But I am). I don’t like that. I really don’t want to be bristly and difficult to approach. (But I often am).

I know that those appearances are rooted in social anxiety, fear and such but others dont. The only see a bitchy girl. Much like what I see with my daughter.

It is utterly fascinating to me that my daughter, even though she is most likely completely unaware of it, is helping me and teaching me. She is showing me the parts of herself (myself) that I don’t like. But raising my awareness to them, by my embracing of them, I am able to be a better person.  My Shadow is being reflected back to me. I don’t turn it away. I welcome it in. I serve it tea and cookies.

I will thank her someday for treating me so. While it has been hard and hurtful, its clearly been helpful as well.

Kinda like making lemonade from lemons.

Can you draw?

"Drawing is . . . not an exercise of particular dexterity, but above all a means of expressing intimate feelings and moods." ~ Henri Matisse.

I need an illustrator. I guess that’s what I need. Someone who draws pictures for books?

See, I have this project in my mind. I absolutely will do it someday. I would prefer to start sooner rather than later.

I don’t want to give too much away.  Its essentially a book. Kind of like an epistolary. I have all the content. It’s a series of letters, songs, diary entries and such between my daughter’s father and me leading up to, through and beyond her adoption and our reunion with her. It spans over twenty years.

Its pretty powerful stuff (this is where I must be vague for certain reasons). It’s a real, deep, tragic love story that is wrapped with the death black bow called Adoption

I am a huge fan of Nick Bantock. So think Griffin and Sabine for basic concept.  I also envision 19 black blank pages that symbolize the years before we found her. When we were cast into darkness.

I really want an adoptee or natural mother (or father) to be my illustrator. I think the images they would produce (drawing on their own feelings as well as the writings of the book) will be quite powerful.  Utopia would be if my daughter or her father was the illustrator but that is a crazy assed, far stretch in my imagination. I dont have contact with either one of them and I just dont see it happening. (They are both extremely talented artists, photographers, etc.)

Yeah, it could be awfully triggering for that person too. That’s why I question if an adoptee or natural mom is the right person. But maybe, just maybe, it could be quite therapeutic for them too. I think the right person, in the right stage of their recovery might be able to do it. I think they would be wonderful and produce amazing images.

So, yeah, send me someone if you know anyone. They can write me privately at suz at ehbabes dot com.

On Its Way

"Love is a gift. You can't buy it, you can't find it, someone has to give it to you. Learn to be receptive of that gift.” - Kurt Langer

I mailed the packages today.

Two of them.

One had to go by itself due to the contents. A women in the post office commented on my creative packaging. I had purchased stickers that had various happy birthday, party, celebrate type sayings on them. The box was mildly colorful, kinda like graffiti.

I thanked her for her compliment and schmoozed a bit with my postal guy. He is nothing great. Not looking anyway. Kinda rough. Bearded, short, scruffy. But he is always friendly and flirts with me. Who couldn’t use a bit of flirting at 8 am in the morning? Its better than morning caffiene.

We completed our transaction; I checked my PO Box and headed off to work.

I felt deflated.

Odd.

I remembered back to last year when I got to mail her first birthday present. I was frolicking. I think I heard birds sing. Butterflies and fairies scampered about me. I am quite certain Bambi and Thumper crossed my path.

Not this year. This year it was different. I felt sad. Deflated really is the only word I can come up with it.

I spend weeks shopping, collecting her gifts. I plan a theme. I get special paper from PaperChase or Kates Paperie. Hand made wrapping paper, hand dipped, whatever. Its just cool.  I color coordinate cards. I make special laser inscribed CDs. I put a lot into it and I enjoy it greatly it. I smile and snicker and ponder what she will think when she opens the stuff. Will she like it? Will she hate it? Will she thank me or ignore me?

Having the gift items in my house, knowing they will eventually go to her, is like having a piece of her here. Hard to explain. Probably doesn’t make sense. But that’s how it feels.

But to see it go, to send it away, well, it’s a bit triggering you know? I know its not her. I know its presents and its going to her. But it just feels so odd. To purchase and present gifts to someone but not to them personally rather to the scruffy dude at the USPS.

So terribly strange to send your child presents but not be able to see her open them. Not to know if she likes them, giggle with glee at the sight of them or sigh with disgust. Its odd to know where you baby is but not to be able to celebrate a big birthday – any birthday – with her. To never have sang her an awful version of “Happy Birthday”. To never see her purse her lips, make a wish and blow out cake candles. I don’t know what kind of cake she likes – IF she likes cake. My favorite is Angel Food. I wonder what hers is?

Its very strange.

I miss the package. I miss the collecting, the shopping, the preparing.   It saddnes me.

I suppose what I miss most of all is that all the build up leads to me dumping the package with the scruffy dude at the post office and not in her hands.

Flash Dance

"PTSD may be triggered by an external factor or factors. Its symptoms can include the following: nightmares, flashbacks, emotional detachment or numbing of feelings (emotional self-mortification or dissociation), insomnia, avoidance of reminders and extreme distress when exposed to the reminders ("triggers"), loss of appetite, irritability, hypervigilance, memory loss (may appear as difficulty paying attention), excessive startle response, clinical depression, and anxiety. It is also possible for a person suffering from PTSD to exhibit one or more other comorbid psychiatric disorders; these disorders often include clinical depression (or bipolar disorder), general anxiety disorder, and a variety of addictions." - Wikipedia.org

The flashbacks can come at any time. I could be anywhere, doing anything, with anyone and the vision will flash before my eyes. I may hear the same sounds. I may smell the smells.

Most of the time, without fail, the flashbacks leave me gasping for breath, weak, frightened, and exploding with tears. I feel frightened, paranoid, and have a desire to run inside and hide.

Sometimes, probably almost all the time, there are environmental triggers. I will hear something rather benign but it will cause a cell in my body to wake up, a memory to come flashing, my blood to begin to swirl in mass hysteria.

Today, it was the song by LIVE “Lightening Crashes”.  Sunny Saturday in New England, driving, sun roof open, windows open, me in jeans with toe rings and sandles, head band, big earrings, jean jacket, tee shirt. Running errands. Scotch tape, wrapping paper, stickers, beads, groceries.

Lalala.

BAM!

I go from a mental checklist of items to purchase to suddenly seeing my 18 year old self, in labor. Alone. In the company of strangers. People who cared naught about me and everything about the child I would push from my womb.

Colleen, my caseworker is behind me, I am pushing. The room is a green blue (tile?). Very sterile. I am terribly anxious. My baby is coming. My body is writhing with contractions of heavy labor. The doctor, Simmons, is telling me to push.

I am so incredibly frightened, lonely, yet inside me, along with the child about to be born, there is a glee, a joy. I am about to be a mommy. My baby girl is on her way. Knees up, feet in stirrups, I cannot wait. She is coming.  There is a mirror between my legs by the doctors head. I will be able to see her be born!  I am trying to peer over the sheet, past my knees all the while struggling with the pain of labor. I will see her be born.

And the doctor moves the mirror.

WAIT. I want to scream. (But I don’t). Don’t move the mirror. I want to see.  Some part of me realizes they moved the mirror on purpose. Its my punishment. Girls who are going to give away their babies aren’t allowed to see them be born. (Before she is even born I am damned).

Shes coming. I am bearing down. I am squeezing Colleens hands really hard. Oh my god. It hurts so much.

Blackness. Darkness. Anger. Rage. I want the mirror. I want to see. Please let me see her. (But I don’t tell them).

I don’t remember her cry. (Do I?). She must have cried. Of course she did. I think they took her off to the left of me to check her out. Colleen appears on the left. She has finger nail marks and blood on her hands. I squeezed her that hard.

Where is she? How is she? Where is my baby?

“lightning crashes, a new mother cries
her placenta falls to the floor
the angel opens her eyes
the confusion sets in
before the doctor can even close the door

lightning crashes, an old mother dies
her intentions fall to the floor
the angel closes her eyes
the confusion that was hers
belongs now, to the baby down the hall

oh now feel it comin' back again
like a rollin' thunder chasing the wind
forces pullin' from the center of the earth again
I can feel it.

lightning crashes, a new mother cries
this moment she's been waiting for
the angel opens her eyes
pale blue colored iris,
presents the circle
and puts the glory out to hide, hide"
- Lightening Crashes by LIVE

Its nearly 21 years later and I am only now crying, dying inside for the movement of the mirror.

Today I cry not for the girl that was born but for the mother who did not get to see that child be born.

Today I cry for me.

Don’t ever doubt adoption causes post traumatic stress disorder.

I, and my crippling flashbacks, are living, walking, wounded proof of that.

Once Was Lost and Look What I Found

I made a wish on the Yoko Ono Wish Tree for DC. I suppose I should have made it about peace or something. I shouldnt have been so selfish, but frankly, when I make wishes these days, thats the wish.

"The Hirshhorn has acquired a new work by Yoko Ono, Wish Tree for Washington D.C. Wish Trees are also located near the Jefferson and Vietnam memorials as well as at The ARC in Anacostia. Ono will exhibit 10 trees around Washington, D.C. for the 2007 Cherry Blossom Festival. The Hirshhorn’s tree, a white Japanese flowering dogwood, will be the only Wish Tree to remain in Washington as a permanent installation and was gifted to the museum by the artist. The project evokes the spirit and goodwill of the initial 1912 gift of cherry blossom trees to the United States from Japan. Wishes from around the world will be gathered by Ono to create her Imagine Peace Tower, which will be inaugurated in October 2007 in Iceland. “Yoko Ono Imagine Peace” is organized by Street Scenes: Project for D.C., and is curated by Nora Halpern and Welmoed Laanstra.”

My sons made wishes too. It was very sweet. I had to write it out for my youngest. When I asked him what he wished for, he told me "Happiness". So that is what I wrote. I dont know what my oldest sone wrote. I had this thing about spying on peoples wishes. Isnt that bad luck or something?

My son was teasing me to see mine. So I showed him. He turned to me and gave me a sad look and said "You are always wishing for that. I hope it comes true"

Sigh.

Leaving Alexandria, I got lost looking for 495. Bridge construction got me all mixed up. Took me nearly an hour to find my way out of the city.  Amir at the hotel had told me how to get there but oddly I ended up in Mount Vernn and then back in Alexandria.

Some sort of sick joke that I found myself here? I was in such shock I actually had to pull over and take a picture. Why the hell would I want a picture of this place?

I remembered their lovely training course that Claud featured on her blog. I thought of Claud actually, I thought that if Claud was with me she and her fine New York set would probably march in there. I dont have Clauds braun.

Cant see?

Try the close up version. I thought I might throw up in the car I had rented. 

I had no idea they were there.   I found it really twisted that I am physically lost in a city and I find myelf at the door step of the NCFA. Not funny, Goddess, so not funny. I had passing thoughts of burning bags of dog poop and other such annoyances being delivered to them.

Did someone call for a burning pile of poop?