Writing My Wrongs

Hobgoblins

"A sad tale's best for winter. I have one of sprites and goblins.” - William Shakespeare

"Do you think I am intimdating?  I mean, like, would she be uncomfortable or afraid to talk to me? Do I come on too strong?" I asked.

"YES!  I would find you intimidating and I would guess that your daughter would as well. I mean, Suz, you are like a CELEBRITY. You are smart. You are a strong personality. You know about this stuff. You are well spoken. Celebrity...", my adoptee friend joked.

"Celebrity? Oh come on. Be real." I laughed.

"Well, really, wherever I go on blogs, in adoption stuff, there you are. If you arent there, people I talk to usually know of you. That has to make it hard for her. That is intimidating. Having a mom like you. Where can she safely go to avoid you? Where can she go to process her own stuff without you being there?" she continued.

Inside I cringed.  While my friend had the best intent and really was trying to be helpful, even complimentary, her words made me feel worse.

My inital question was if my daughter might find me intimidating - as a person. Do I come on too strong? Is my "voice" upsetting? Is my anger and pain so obvious that it makes people - her specifically - want to run for the hills? Is that why she avoids me? Is it about me?

I explained this to my friend and she chastised me a bit.

"Suz, how many times have we discussed this? Her treatment of you is about HER not you.  It is about her maturity, how she was supported or not by her adoptive parents, her mental health.  It is not about you. It is not a reflection of you. You know this. You say this all the the time.  You need to believe it.  I do.  I believe your daughter is missing out on tremendous love, support and emotional well being by avoiding you.  I kinda wish you were my mom instead of hers..." friend continues. 

She looks away as if she is caught up in the honesty of her last statement.

"Yeah, but..."

I begin but don't finish my sentence.  I would be repeating myself.

I continually look for concrete, tangible, reasons for my daughters approach to our reunion. I am grasping for straws, for ANYTHING, that I can latch on to that will help me understand it and ultimately, make it feel "okay" to me.

For some reason, the primnal wound, "she is immature" and "give her time..she is so young" statements don't comfort me. They are so nebulous even if true.

I want a REASON. I don't care what it is. I want to KNOW. For a reason, no matter how painful, will give me some sort of closure. Some sort of understanding.

Lacking such reason, I make up all sorts of stuff in my head.

• She was horribly abused.
• She is mentally unwell.
• She is being emotionally blackmailed by her adoptive parents.  They have threatened her college funds if she has contact with me.
• She has four legs.
• She farts uncontrollably.

On and on and on my mind goes with all sorts of unhealthy, often disturbing, sometimes humorous, explanations.

I have no proof of any of this you see? It is all in my head. Dancing around like little goblins. Taunting me, pointing at me, making fun of me. "Nah, nah, nonny nonny poo poo, she doesn't want to know you!"

I want to know the truth. I want the words from her. Not some thrice edited email made to look all proper and safe. I want her to TELL me. To look me in the eye and tell me what she feels. I write about this all the time. This post is nothing new. It is just the goblin, ever present on my back.

"But that is the point,  Suz" my friend goes on.

"She does not know what she feels. She won't allow herself to feel. I KNOW you understand this."

I guess I do. For if I had no voice at the age I gave birth to her, no voice when the entire world pressured me, no voice when I felt one thing but did  another, why should I expect my daughter to be any different?

Because I want a reason?

I want to put this anxiety and constant weepiness over my reunion to bed.  I want to be told "Look,right now my hair is short. When it grows to my butt crack, I will meet you". Or maybe "Look, I cannot talk to you until I am out of my parents home. That was the deal I made with them" or something!!

I really dont care what it is. I just want there to be a reason.  For if there is no reason (that I can understand) I have only one terrifying explanation to fall back on.

She really doesn't want to know me at all. She doesn't think about me and doesn't care about me or her brothers.

That is an agonizing thought for me but I have to accept it is entirely possible. I have to accept that my daughter may indeed be one of those adoptees that considers me the uterous through which she came and nothing more.

"Do you want a reason or do want you to BE the reason? Are you waiting for her to tell you it is indeed your fault, just like everyone else told you? Is that your problem? She hasn't said you are the reason and you dont know how to work with that?" asks my friend.

I am momentarily stunned. That is the kind of question I would typically pose.  I have taught my friend well.  I smile and then laugh as a way to escape answering the question.  There might indeed be something to that question. I dont want to answer it.

"It would be less painful for me to know some horrible things about her life and her status than for me to be told that she really just doesnt want to know me - like EVER! Lacking words from her, fearing the possible truth that she doesnt want to know me, what am I to do but blame myself and make it all about me? Me, I can latch on to. Me, I can understand. Me, I know." I respond, clearly avoiding the question.

"It is not you, Suz. It is really not. I wish you were my mom. I wish you would stop blaming yourself."

With that, my friend hugs me and I start to cry.

"Yeah, but am I intimidating..." I stutter and begin the entire conversation again and continue the taunting the goblins have taught me so well.

The In Crowd

“Nonconformists travel as a rule in bunches. You rarely find a nonconformist who goes it alone. And woe to him inside a nonconformist clique who does not conform with nonconformity.” - Eric Hoffer

Seems to be that students at Wittenburg University in Ohio are doing a class assignment on adoption.  Nic noted their traffic in her blog and I checked mine as well.

I feel so honored! I am in the cool kids clique.  Must be the funny bones I serve at my table. Or maybe it is that Nic is sitting with me. Hey Claud, are they trolling you too?  Anyone else?

On a more serious note, like Nic, I am curious what the students are writing about, what they glean from my blog,  Nics or anyone else they are presumably using as a case study.

Are they pro or anti family preservation? Are they attempting to show the traumatic affects of separating mother from child?  Perhaps some work on Primal Wound?  Or shudder the thought, are they hoping to produce some material to support the NCFA and ongoing heinous practices of the United States Adoption Industry. Is my blog the proof they search to prove we are all a bunch of nutters that deserved to lose our children?

Do tell dear students! If I can help you more directly, feel free to write me.  Email addy found on the about me page (along with a lovely picture and some bio text).

Happy studying!

Mano y Mano

“When a man points a finger at someone else, he should remember that four of his fingers are pointing at himself.” - Louis Nizer

I know I have a number of male readers here. There is a great first dad in Montana, another in Maine. There is an adoptive dad in PA. There may be more.

I want their thoughts (of course females are welcome to comment too but I am really after the male perspective).

Why are men so easily disregarded when it comes to their children and the loss of their children to adoption?

Is it as simple as the fact that the woman carries the child?

Why does society find it so acceptable for men to NOT take responsbility for the children they produce?

If a young girl is called a whore and slut for having sex with a boy, why is he not called the same?  If we punish the girl by taking her child, why not say, oh, castrate the man? (Extreme I know but I am going for shock value).

I realize in many cases the fathers did not even know their children existed. I also know in many cases their mothers parents took over and the father was pushed aside.

Why is this allowed?

If you are a the father to a daughter who is single and expecting, why havent you gone after the father or his family? And by gone after, I mean, expect him to support your daughter and the child they created? Why is he allowed to get off scot- free (if that is the case) and you and your daughter bear all responsbility?

I have my own thoughts on this but and they are expansive but I dont want to seed the soil with my own perspective.  (And yeah, Dawn, I expect you to pipe up here even if you lack a Y chromosome)

I dont necessarily want fact, research, feminist citations. I want to know what the MEN feel and think about adoption, unplanne d pregnancies, etc.

So men, what say you?

Law of Attraction

"We don't attract what we want, we attract what we are." - Unknown

I met Mr. Dink on a social networking site. Okay, some might call it a dating site but since I did not stumble upon it or join it for a dating purpose, I don't necessarily consider it a dating site.

But I suppose it is. 

I found it after I took a personality test on Facebook. Unknown to me, the test was an app by the aforementioned site. Upon taking the test, you had to join that site to get your results.

I was annoyed but I am that much of a personality test dork that I just HAD to have my results.

And hence, I stumbled upon Mr. Dink.  I would have to go back into my emails to refresh my memory but I can tell you that immediately, somehow, he struck me as a bright, decent, caring person I wanted to get to know.

And so I have. 

I believe it was a few days into our online pen pal relationship that his status as an adoptive dad came out. Shocked, startled, unsure, I struggled for at least 24 hours with my decision to continue - or not - corresponding with him. 

Clearly I did and I am glad I did. (To me, for me, it showed some sort of growth or maturity or healing that I could not only befriend but later date an adoptive father. Boo to all of those adoptive parent haters who will tell me I betray the cause. I will deal with you later.  Have you heard of sleeping with the enemy? Or keep your friends close but your enemies closer? Kidding. Mr. Dink is no enemy - adoptive dad or not. LOL)

But Mr. Dink is not really the point of this post, he is being used to set the stage. (And frankly, I am sure even HE is tired of me talking about him.).

I have continued to randomly peruse this online site. I switch up my photos, change my bio, take more silly tests.  My participation on the site usually has much to do with my insomnia. It is how I pass the time when I cannot sleep.

Sooo, I begin corresponding with two more gents. Unlike Mr. Dink, these guys are just nice interesting peeps. I am not interested in dating them. They are true penpals. One lives up north and the other out west.

Well, imagine my surprise when I learn that Mr. Upnorth is a first dad who lost his first born child to adoption. Unknown to him till after the fact, his high school sweetheart was pregnant and surrendered their child.

Odd? Well, maybe.

But Mr. Outwest?

He tells me today that his ex wife is an adoptee in reunion who was reunited three years ago.

What the hell?

Is every single person I encounter somehow affected by adoption? How is that random people on a social networking site, that decided to converse with ME are affected by adoption?

Like bees to honey or flies to poo, adoption finds me.

Am I the honey or the poo?

Family of What?

"We have been lost to each other for so long.

My name means nothing to you. My memory is dust.

This is not your fault, or mine. The chain connecting mother to daughter was broken and the word passed to the keeping of men, who had no way of knowing." - From The Red Tent, by Anita Diamant

I tried.

I really did.

I thought about it.

I was stumped.

Read on the PEAR Blog:

Helping Adoptive Parents Understand the Role of Families of Origin: From the Viewpoint of Another Mother Who Lost her Child to Adoption

I did the best I could.

Yet I still find it so interesting that I was at a loss for words. But perhaps the reason is rather obvious.

 

Guest Blogger: Mr. Dink

"A man is judged by his deeds, not by his words" - A Book of English and Russian Proverbs and Sayings by author M. Dubrovin, Moscow, "Prosvesheniye", 1993.

I asked Mr. Dink to consider contributing a post to my blog.  He was kind enough to agree.   It is below. It is limited in identifying information to protect his  privacy  and more importantly his daughter's.

I do want to add that he is an adoptive father. The daughter referenced here is his oldest.

It really needs no further set up or explanation.  You should see why I love him.

"She's coming to live with you. I can't take this any more!" Phone call from my ex before she sent my daughter to stay with me after months of agonizing mother-daughter infighting. She showed up on the train next day, bag in hand.

"Daddy, I'm pregnant. I'm not going to be a marine." Text message sent six feet from the bathroom of my apartment to my living room.

"I don't want to have this baby." Statement made in line at the local Boston Market. Weeks of counseling and soul searching came before, and a safe, well-considered abortion followed.

"Daddy, I'm pregnant… Three months." Phone call a week after her graduation from Army basic training. And then, "I won't give this baby up. My first mom gave me up. I won't do that to another person."

It's hard for me to place dates on emotionally charged events. A little careful historical research could probably sort them out, but that wouldn't matter. Messages like these define time more than they are defined by it.

Any glib comments or harsh judgments about the failure to use birth control? Keep them to yourselves, please. I'm not your audience.

Abandoned or sold at 5, adopted or bought at 7, ten years of intra- and interpersonal turmoil, two pregnancies, two decisions. If you fail to respect a young woman who has come through that and still finds it within her power to care about herself and her child, the shortcomings of person hood are yours. I hope that you will draw from her example and become well.

She's my daughter and I'm proud of her." copyright Mr. Dink, 2008

Mr. Dink and Hope

" motherhood doesn't have to be punitive. instead of reacting to pregnant teenagers by shaming them for having sex, kicking them out of school, firing them from their jobs, thinking of them as trashy and isolating them from their peers, withholding support and gifts that older mothers would get as a matter of course, why don't we accept them and celebrate them? what the hell is wrong with a teenage mother anyway that we have to make sure she has it as hard as posssible? nothing inherent, nothing that society hasn't imposed." - Kateri, Wetfeet

I love him.

I really do. I dont mean love him like spouse, partner, lover kind of love. (Although that was certainly possible). I mean I truly love him  for who he is and for his existence on this planet.

I believe that I am presented with opportunities, people, experiences for some reason. I can take from them, learn from them, ignore them, enjoy them or other.  Regardless, each person that passes through my life does so for a reason and sometimes they stay and sometimes they go. But I am forever changed by their presence.

He is one of those people.  He is a reader here and as such I am a bit shy to gush too much about him but I must to illustrate my point.

When I think of him two words come immediately to mind: validation and hope. 

The validation piece pertains to me and our friendship and how incredibly validating he was (and regularly is) to me. He has struggled with PTSD and many other life challenges. He respects pain. He doesn't mock it, minimize or dismiss it. He allows it to be. To paraphrase Oriah Mountain dreamer, he can sit with pain, mine or his own, without moving to hide it, fade it or fix it. He lets my pain BE and therefore he lets me BE. Other than my therapist (who I PAY for his validation), he was the first person IRL that touched me so deeply. I dont know what the future will hold for our friendship but I can say confidently that he has forever touched a part of my soul and left a permanent positive mark. I would even go so far as to say he has healed a few scars.  I am confident he has no idea how much he means to me or deeply he touched me. But he did.

And yeah, I love him for it. 

But beyond that selfish validation, I love him for the father he is.

To protect his privacy and that of his family I will limit information but I will say this: when presented with an unplanned pregnancy in his own immediate family, he did not discard his daughter. He supported her - in more ways than one. I stood by a few months back and was witness to some incredible acts of love and kindness that this father displayed for his teenage daughter - who at the time was unwed and pregnant.   

I often cried following my interactions with him. I cried for me and the love I witnessed but lacked in my own life when I needed it. I cried for him, and for his daughter and for the unborn child who would have her mama and a wonderful grandfather. I cried for the sheer beauty of it all.

He consulted me, shared with me, expressed his frustrations and concerns with me.  I am honored he did.

This is where the hope comes in. 

He proved to me that there is hope for our daughters and for their children. He showed me that unlike my father in 1986, Daddy can be a hero and he can help his daughter.  Not only did he support his daughter, but he passed my blog on to a coworker who was considering adoption all in the name of being an informed consumer about the reality of adoption in the USofA.  He has become a cheerleader for me and my work.

And yeah, I love him.

Dont give up hope. We have to believe. We have to keep fighting. We have to keep resisting the urge to give up and and give in. For if we do, if we surrender to the media, the religous nutters, and more, babies will continue to lose their mammas. Mamas will continue to be traumatized. We have the power to stop this type of child abuse.

Dont.
Give.
Up.

If you save ONE baby, you save generations of that family from the trauma of adoption. You prevent collateral damage. 

You win.

And the adoption industry loses.

Save one.

OT: Sundays

" I don't believe in an afterlife, so I don't have to spend my whole life fearing hell, or fearing heaven even more. For whatever the tortures of hell, I think the boredom of heaven would be even worse." - Isaac Asimov

Sunday, circa  1978:

The steps of Holy Name are made of black and white granite. Four large steps leading up to three doors. My mother had once told me that it was standard to have three doors on a Catholic church. 

Three is a holy number. The Trinity. Father, Son and Holy Ghost. I have  no idea if this was true. I tend to doubt her. My mother was raised Irish Catholic and Holy Name is a Polish Catholic parish. I am going to guess that the Irish and the Polish don’t see things exactly the same but I could be wrong. My mother is an Irish woman trying to blend with the Polish ladies or stara babas. I suppose I could ask have Sister Agnes if it is true but I would be embarrassed if it wasn’t.

Mother told me the middle door is considered the great royal door because it leads directly to the altar upon which the King of kings is sacrificed. The door to the right is called the Deacons door and the left door is for the preparation of the liturgy.

I don’t like Holy Name. It is too fussy. As is typical in the Polish cathedral style of church architecture, there are too many statues and not enough light. While the stained glass windows are pretty when light shines through them, I still prefer St. James Church. It is modern and has only a single cut marble crucifix hanging above the stone altar. The entire church is neat and clean and to me that seems to be a better environment for worshiping the Lord.  The statues, the icons, heavy ornamentation, and the many flickering candles at Holy Name are a distraction. I find myself wanting to admire the colors of the stained glass and statues rather than listen to Father Pcolka. I certainly don’t want to pray when there are so many pretty things to look at.

Mother won’t let us attend St. James Church. Italians go to that church. The Polish attend Holy Name and the “guineas” (as my father calls them) attend St. James. I remind my mother again  that she is not Polish and could probably go to St. James. She gives me a stern look and informs me that it is even less common for the Irish to mix with the Italians.

I am bored. When will  this Priest shut up? While I am in no rush to get to my catechism class, I do have to go the bathroom.

Sunday, 2008:

My oldest son is banging his head on the door to my office in classic Twisted Sister fashion. He is belting out "Were Not Gonna Take It" as his younger brother (who happens to be standing on his coloring table) plays the air guitar.

I smile and my oldest tells me to look up some music on Youtube.  His first order is to look up Van Halen "Hot For Teacher". I obey and while viewing David Lee and Eddie in a video from the 80's I inform my son that I dressed like the girls in the video big hair, punk jewelry and all.

My son utters a slow "Cooool" and then directs me to look up another song.

I smile.

My two rockers. My two 80's, metal head hair band loving boys.  I pull out my iPhone and take a picture.  I love them so much. Could they be any cooler?

My oldest son runs upstairs to put on this  "concert" gear. He returns with his KISS concert tee shirt (purchased straight from the KISS Army by Mom for his birthday) and his Lynyrd Skynyrd knit cap.

More music orders are given. Oldest son begins jamming.

I sit at the desk in my pink fluffy robe and slippers. smiling broadly and basking in the awe of my amazing sons, I respond to the next request for a song.  No longer am I  the big haired girl from the 80's. I am now the 40 yo mom with unwashed hair and two very cool small men to love.

Ozzy is requested. Crazy Train to be specific.

Once again I obey the command and I surf over to Ozzy on iTunes.

I love my boys.

My type of god is not found in the stuffy pews of Holy Name. It is found in my home office, rocking it out with my a blonde haired ten year old with a sprinkle of freckles across his nose and his brown eyed brown haired brother.

Life is good.

Dear Diary

“It's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time.” - Tallulah Bankhead

My friend Joe once joked that I was a rather precocious young woman at the age I lost my child. He said this in reference to one of my posts a while back.  He might have been referencing my 'Guilty" poem. I don't clearly remember.

For some reason, I thought of Joe again today when I read another passage in my diary.  Keep in mind this entry is being written by an 18 year old, six month pregnant young woman who had been sent to live in a maternity home.  This entry was written by a young girl who was deeply conflicted about placing her child for adoption.

Yes the words are mine. Unedited. Straight from the diary.

"February 12, 1986 -

I am now in Chicago.  I have been for about a week. I am staying at a place called Gehring Hall. It is a catholic hospital run organization for unwed mothers.  There are approximately eighteen of us here right now. We range in age from 18 to 23.  There are black girls, white girls, spanish girls.  They come from a variety of economic back grounds - middle, low and upper class.  All so very different yet all so alike.

They are single and pregnant. Pregnant with children but wanted and unwanted but all unplanned. 

Some of the girls are so pathetic. Unwashed. unkept, saddenned. All are saddened. Some just hide it better than others. They try to make light of their situations by joking or passing things off. Yet, inside, the truth remains, they are single and pregnant in a society that still has difficulty accepting unwed mothers.

Some of the girls were thrown out of their homes. Others left willingly. Whatever the case, whatever the circumstances, the pain is still there.  Buried well, covered, concealed, never to be revealed or expressed. "

I find it mildly disturbing that many of my entries read like some sort of investigative reporter. I seem so detached. So, not there, like I was on the outside looking in.  My own separate reality.

Where is the "I" speak here? Where am I? Where is me? I am watching and not accepting that  I am one of those girls...at least not in this entry.

I also sound a bit, well, adult. Don't I?

Here, try this one on for size, remember, this is being written by a young girl, me, several months before I will surrender my own child to a baby broker.

"February 24, 1986 -

Cori, the other girl from Connecticut, had her baby last night. She had a boy and named him Thomas Anthony.

I went to see her today and was once again slapped in the face with the reality of my own situation.

We walked to the nursery and she showed me her baby. She started to talk about the adoptive parents and how they better be good to him, and that his "real" mommy loves him, etc. I was choking back my own tears.

All these girls (and I) are in such painful situations, situations that call for tears, yet we shed very few.

One of the saddest things is that the majority of these girls is very capable of loving their child yet incapable of giving needed financial security. Many have not graduated high school. Others have. Some are in college and a few work full time. They DO love their children, they just wish a better life for them. One filled with toys and clothes and enough food.  Things NONE of us have yet the adoptive parents do. Oh Lord. I hope these parents that adopt OUR children truly KNOW and appreciate the children we so tearfully, yet strongly, give away. I  hope we are making the right decision. I pray to God we are."

Maybe it is hindsight, maybe it is hope, but I gotta say, these words, as written do not sound to me like a young mother who did not want or was unable to care for her child. I sound, so, well, WISE for 18.

I am still struck by my dissociative state. That I am still writing  somewhat apart from the reality of the situation.

That changes soon though. The next passage is over a month later. And this is when things start to get really ugly. This is when I tell the caseworker I am thinking about keeping my daughter and the threats and the promissory notes get marched out onto the table.

I really should have told that caseworker to go fuck herself.

I still kinda want to.

Yeah, what if indeed.

What If?
©2008 Celeste Billhartz
www.themothersproject.com

I used to be for adopting. That’s what happened to me. My single mother gave birth to me and I was adopted. Just like millions of other kids. Most of us went to good homes and had good lives.

Many of us think otherwise, now. I guess the biggest reason is this: our mothers never got over losing their babies.

Why is it still socially acceptable to take babies from young mothers when we know, now, they will never get over the loss?

Think back to your first pregnancy. What if you were constantly badgered and told you had no business keeping your baby because you were single, and too young, and too poor to provide for him/her, that a married couple is waiting to provide him/her a much better life, and you are selfish for wanting to keep your baby?

What if, in that 9 months of psychological duress and brain-washing, you began to doubt your natural instincts to be a good mother? What if you believed that all the adults in your life knew best -- so, you signed an agreement to surrender your baby?

Remember how you felt about your baby, after giving birth? Would you have wanted to keep him/her – no matter what agreement you signed months, or weeks, or days before?

Today, as in our mothers’ day, most girl/mothers change their minds, after giving birth, but everyone around them demands that they honor that agreement. The young mothers want to keep their babies! Nobody listens, nobody cares, because adopters -- checks in hand and names picked out -- are waiting for their babies.

I urge single young women to keep their babies. DON’T SIGN ANY AGREEMENTS, and read everything you do sign at every agency, health center or religious organization.

I urge /grandmothers/aunts/cousins to help young mothers keep their babies within their families. If your daughter, niece or cousin is very young -- or irresponsible, step in and file for Kinship Care or Legal Guardianship. Don’t give her baby away! Please, don’t do that to her. She won’t be young and poor, forever.

I urge mature women to form support groups to help mothers and babies get a good start in life, together. Don’t hurt young mothers by separating them from their babies.

Finally, I urge women to NOT adopt, no matter how much you want a baby of your own. Adopting is legal, of course, and it is immensely profitable for brokers and agencies -- but it is terribly unfair to young mothers at the most vulnerable time in their lives.

Please, don’t be part of that treachery and covert theft.