Writing My Wrongs

About Her

since the first day
every word, every thought
every action
of those around.

all about her

her mother obsessed
many months
many tears
many fears

all about her

what to do with her
how to care for her
how to feed her
what to name her

all about her

grandparents plotted
how to arrange for her
what to do with her
who could care for her
who would feed her

it was all about her

her needs
her future
her full stomach
her college

it was all about her

and a broker

a broker
that calculated a price
and found a buyer
and waited
for her

it was all about her

and while she grew
far away
someone else
was placing incredible
hopes in her

it was all about her

her welfare
the joy she would provide
the wound she would heal
the price she would fetch

it was all about her

and so she went
and she grew old
and was the only her
the golden her, the prize

it was all about her

everything
all the toys
all the love
all the power

all about her

power she wielded
basking in the glow
the spotlight
the love they gave

it was all about her.

she used the power
knew what value she had
to people
to them
to others
to those who sent her here

it was all about her

everything was about her
her needs
her life
just hers

they came when she called
gave when she asked
hugged when she was sad
wept when she was found

it was all about her

yet it wasn't

it was never about her

it was about god
about sins
about absolution
and salvation
and being the cure

it was never about her

it was about taking
the place
of the she that could not be
for the her that could not have

it was never about her

it was about clearing
the family name
of the she that loved
too young, too unwed

it was never about her

yet it was

and always will be

yet never shall be

about her

for it never was

it was always

about them

s.bednarz/december 2007

Another Mans Crimes

I wrote this in 2003 (I think). I know Skye published it on Lifemothers.com at that time. I may have written it earlier. Its kinda self explanatory.

I should note that the person this was written about has read this. So has my daughter. He hates it. He blames me and this text for his relationship (or lack thereof) with our daughter. I understand why he would feel this. And even why she might feel this. But its real. Its truthful. Its what I felt and a very high level summary of what happened. Its not a lie.

He will have to deal with the consequences of his own actions. (And he has and still is). That all I will say. I am teetering very close to violating his privacy and breaking my own rule of not discussing him.

---

Anothers Mans Crimes
by S. Bednarz, 2003

He always complained about my inability to be intimate. Not just sexually or physically intimate but emotionally. He routinely stated he felt I kept him at a distance. That I never let him get close to me. That I hid behind a large emotional wall.

He knew of my childhood. He knew how badly my father had treated me. The verbal and physical abuse. The alcoholism. He was convinced that my inability to truly trust Him, to get close to Him, was my fathers fault. When we fought, He would always end it by telling me I was punishing Him for another mans crimes. He told me I was holding Him responsible for the crimes my father had committed against me. He told me we would never go anywhere in our relationship as long as I looked at Him and saw my Dad.

Maybe He was right. Correction. He was right. I did not realize that until years later when I went through my own therapy. I did not realize it until He had also committed a crime against me.

My Dad may have physically and verbally abused me. But the emotional abuse I suffered at His hand was far worse. He left me. He told me He loved me. He told me He would die without me. He wrote me great poetry, sang me great songs, showed me a kindness and a warmth I had never felt before. Convinced me He loved me like no other.

Until I got pregnant. Then He left me. He found a new girlfriend, never told his family, went on with His life as I was violently ejected from mine. Gave birth to our daughter and placed her for adoption. He just left me. With no regard for the life we had created, the emotional state He left me in, the effects of the unplanned pregnancy on my life path. Just left me. No more blaming Him for another mans crimes. He had committed his own...and left me.

Seventeen years later, I am still punishing the men in my life for the crimes of other men. I am now married to the most amazing, caring, wonderful man. I am also the mother of two sons that are as amazing as their Dad. I watch them play and my heart swells with joy. Moments pass and the swelled heart is deflated and the pain is back again. I have three great men in my life. I am still minus one daughter.

My mind wanders to Him. To her. There is a hole in my heart that will never be filled. A hole that not even my amazing sons and husband can fill. There is a sadness they did not cause, they cannot repair, yet they are faced with every day. I am punishing them by not giving them ALL of me because of what He did.

I wonder if they know.

He is still right. I do keep men at a distance. I have an emotional wall. He made sure that wall was solid before he left me

About a Girl

More creative writing by me. Written in 2003. Somewhat autobiographical.

---

About a Girl
by S. Bednarz, 2003

In many ways I have forgotten her. Don't really remember what she looked like, how she dressed, if she sang, even what her voice sounded like. I suppose this is partly on purpose, partly due to age, partly due to natural progression of time and how it affects your memory. I am not really certain. I do know there are times when she is right here with me. Clear as day. Almost as if I could smell her. Sometimes she is happy. Other times not. Sometimes she scares me. Other times I am proud of her. And still other times she amuses me.

Funny how that is. Some people remember their past and they remember themselves as part of the big picture. They remember other people. Other places. Places they went and saw. Things they touched. Not me. Not her. We just remember us. No one around us. No one playing with us. No one loving us. Isn't that odd? Perhaps it speaks more to her self esteem and psyche than it does the memory.

I can see her even now standing in the school yard of her elementary school. Observing. There is a large group of children huddled in a circle. I think they are decided on playing dodge ball. Its a grey day. Feels as though it will start raining any minute. She is cold. Her clothes, though clean, are slightly mismatched and don't fit well. She wants to hide. Unlike the rest of the children she is not part of the group, not in the circle. She is not exactly outside the circle but it is obvious she is not part of it. It is not clear if this is her doing or that of her peers. She appears suspicious, worried, waiting for something ominous.

I can feel her now. I can almost taste that feeling of fear. Of expecting to be forgotten from the game. To be left out. To be either too fat, or too slow, or too afraid or too quiet to play. She still feels like that today. The games she plays have changed but the feelings have not.

I remember a doctor once told her that he worried she might have a split personality. That there might be two personalities (or more!) inside her. She laughed. Loud. What an idiot he was. Where did he get his medical degree? If he only knew.

Sure there were two personalities. More in fact. Had to be. How else could she survive? Be happy when Dad is home. He likes people smiling. Show your true feelings when you are alone. No one wants to see or hear them. Be smart when the teachers are around. They are proud of you. Be fat and ugly and fade to the background when your sister is around. She is the one who is to shine the brightest. Be strong and confident when you are surrounded by those weaker or needier. You are their protector. Yes, there are lots of personalities. Pick the mood, time and place. We can show you. Imagine a man selling popcorn in a baseball stadium. Only instead of yelling "POPCORN! Get your popcorn here!", he is screaming "PERSONALITIES! Pick your personality here.!"

Some would think this a mental defect. Something to be worried about. Something that needed treatment. Others would realize it was a natural adaptation to the surroundings she grew up in. A marvel of her mind. A miracle. Survival of the fittest. Charles Darwin would be proud.

Maybe she should have been an actor. Her creative background. Her writing style. Her passion and fire. Could have been an actor. But was too afraid. Don't like people looking at her.

Really. There are probably only two personalities. Since she is a Gemini (the Twins) that is okay. There are supposed to be.

I wonder at what point in her life it was decided she should become an unwed mother. I wonder if as she ran around that dusty playground, or sat alone on a ledge, a greater force plotted the rest of her life. I wonder if that power decided that to survive the playground she needed to endure the worst pain of her life by giving birth at the age of eighteen and then placing her child for adoption.

More importantly, I wonder if there are other girls like her right now. Standing alone, outside the group, in a school yard. Waiting. Waiting to end up pregnant and alone.

I wonder.

Copyright 2003

Fictitious Account

Read lots of posts lately on blogs about expectations and fantasies, before and after reunion. I will post separately on my own experiences but the topic reminded me of this story I once wrote.

I wrote this nearly 3 years ago. I was pondering one day, deeply, what it would be like to be reunited with my daughter. I also stressed alot during those days about how, when, what to tell my other children about her (they are 12 and 17 years younger than my daughter).  Funny how things turned out. Nothing like this, of course. Yes, she found me, and then I found her and we made contact. But more on that in another post.

Again, this is totally made up.

---

A Reunion Imagined
by S. bednarz, 2003

The silly doorbell my husband bought is ringing. I don't understand why he could not buy a standard bell.

I yell for one of my sons to answer the door. A few minutes later my oldest son comes into the room.

"Mom, there is a girl here to see you." he says.

"Who?" I ask. "What girl?"

"I don't know. SOME girl!" states my irritated teenage son as he turns his back to me and walks away.

I drop the paintbrush that is in my hand (I was getting tired of painting the spare bedroom anyway) and I make my way to our front foyer.

Pacing the foyer, glancing around my home is a medium height dark haired girl. I have never seen this girl in my life. Annoyed that my son let a stranger into our home, I approach her with caution.

"Can I help you?" I say.

She turns quickly. She is white as a sheet. She looks as though she is about to vomit. I approach with even more caution.

"Uh, yeah, hi...I..." she stutters.

I stare at her. Suddenly something about her seems familiar. Something about her green eyes, her dark hair.

"Yes?" I say.

"Well, my name is ...." I hear her say.

Suddenly I cannot breathe. I felt dizzy. Oh dear God. It cannot be. Why didn't I take my anti-anxiety meds today? Greg? Where is my husband? I need to sit down.

She continues to talk. I realize she is talking but I cannot hear her. I start to cry.

My husband appears in the hallway with my youngest son. He sees me crying. He looks at the strange girl. Just as he is about to mouth the words "Who are you?" to her, I see a look of understanding on his face. He realizes who she is. He realizes the day I have waited for most of my life is here.

I feel his hand on my arm. I feel him guiding me towards the living room. He invites her to follow. I feel as if I am having an out of body experience.

My youngest son begins to ask the girl who she is, he asks me what is wrong with me, he asks if he can have a Popsicle.

My husband tells him to go get a popsicle and go outside to ride his bike.

I am in emotional overload. Anxiety attack hell. Too many emotions to speak clearly.

We begin to talk. Hours pass. She says she has to go. I don't want to let her go. Not again. Can't she stay? She says she will be back. She tells me she will call. She needs time to think and digest the day's events. She imagines I need time too.

NO! I don't need time. I have had too much time. I am fine. Please stay.

She hugs me. Promises to call and she leaves.

She is gone again.

My eyes hurt from crying. I am still having a hard time breathing but I feel good. A scab has formed on a part of my heart that has been bleeding for years.

POEM: My Sisters Eyes

My younger sister was very instrumental in me finding my daughter. Someday I will post the condensed version and the role she played. I cannot thank her enough.

In the months following my reunion with my daughter, my sister wrote this poem. I was always the writer in the family. Truth be told, she aint so bad herself.

My Sister's Eyes

So many years ago, I heard the cries
I saw the tears in my sisters eyes.

Only 13 I hadn’t a clue
She cried every night, what could I do?

It came one day, she confided in me
At 17, she was a mother to be.

She'd be leaving soon, going so far away
My big sister, how I wished she could stay.

We gave big hugs, said our goodbyes
I saw the tears in my sister's eyes.

She’d had a girl, mom told me in May
Mom would go see her, for a quick stay.

I had no idea, the anguish gone through
Not pain of birth, but her heart ripped in two

Half went to baby, half with her stayed
Hoping together, they would be one day.

I went to visit, had some good times.
But I could still see the tears in her eyes.

Move forward some years, now with husband and son
A new chapter in life, for sure has begun

And then it had happened, on June 28
Her picture on-line, we did locate.

There was no mistake, yet could it be? 
She looked so much like her amazingly

She has my sisters eyes.

I cannot imagine the anguish she feels. 
The primal desire, but unable, surreal.

The hunger for daughter, yet to satiate
How many more years must she wait?

It’s awful to see, to witness her pain
Nothing can I do, no comfort obtain.

Until it should come, a blessed of days,
She will be met with her own gaze. 

She will see her eyes

My sisters eyes.

POEM: Growing Days

After I surrendered my daughter, I lived in Chicago. I did return home after surrendering her but well, that did not work out for a number of reasons. I left home again. I stayed with an older couple that I was friendly with and was their nanny for a few weeks. I got myself a temp job and I began the process of enrolling myself in college. It still astounds me to this day that I had such a will to survive. I think I was fueled by anger and grief and sadness. I could not acknowledge what had happened to me yet I had to do somethign with the rage and I used it to get my life together (sort of). Oddly, its kind of saddnes me now to look back and see how resourcesful I was, how I survived. Could I have done that if i kept her? Or did losing her give me that strength and that will? 

A close friend of mine, another first mom, was still in the maternity home. I waited for her to give birth and surrender her child and then we were going to live together in an apartment on the North Side of Chicago. We did. It was cool. Tough, but cool.

About the time we moved into our apartment, I started having horrible nightmares. Night terrors. I would hear a baby crying. Loudly. Over and over and and for hours. I would get up and search the apartment. Frantically, trying to find the baby.  My roomate would usually find me in the morning sleeping in the fetal position under the kitchen table. I would be thoroughly exhausted, not really having slept. I was in some sort of fugue state I guess. I know now it was reacting to the trauma of my daughter. Who knows, its possible she was really crying and through some metaphysical altered state I actually heard her.

At any rate, this poem was a product of those times. I remember going to therapy (I seriously needed some help) and my therapist had suggested writing about it.

Growing Days
dedicated to my daughter, I pray shes happy
by S. Bednarz, 1986

---

The pain is subsiding
Yes it is still there,
My daughter is crying
Yet she is not here.

I gave her away.
For someone to raise,
I gave up my rights,
To her growing up days.

I won't see her crawl.
I won't hear her talk.
I won't see her stumble,
As she tries to walk.

I can't kiss her wounds,
Or wipe away tears,
I gave up my rights,
To her growing up years.

I can't tell her stories,
As she lays in her bed,
I won't ever know,
The thoughts in her head.

I hope she'll be happy,
I hope she''ll be bright.
And she doesn't cry,
When they shut off the light.

I can't teach her words,
When she goes to school,
I can't soothe her heart,
When life is so cruel.

I can't cheer her up,
Or fill her with praise,
I gave up my rights,
To her growing up days.

I hope she will know,
Inside of her heart.
That I never wanted,
For us two to part.

But I had to do,
What I thought was best,
I had to put her,
Ahead of the rest.

My ears hear the cry,
My eyes see the tear,
My daughter is crying,
Yet she is not here.

She is gone from me now,
I am lost in a maze.
Because I gave up my rights,
To her growing up days

POEM: Guilty

I wrote this poem when I was nearly 9 months pregnant with my daughter. She has seen it and I have published it elsewhere so I am comfortable putting it here. I am rather proud of it. Not that it is any masterpiece of prose, but I think it shows the emotion and pain of a lonely unwed mother. Thats what I was. I can still see myself sitting in the office where I worked typing this out on an old IBM Selectric. My typing was horrible then. Truly horrible.

Guilty
by S. Bednarz 03/05/1986

---

Lost and alone,
In a city, so strange,
Walking the streets,
Feeling the change.

Eighteen and pregnant,
A mother, unwed
Crying inside her
Too many tears shed.

Left home months alone,
To bear child alone.
Brought shame upon family,
Yet still yearning for home.

The days passing by,
Her body expanding,
Inside she cringes,
The world, so demanding.

Nine months of pain,
Nine months of hell.
What purpose it serves,
The Lord will not tell.

The child inside her,
She will not keep near.
She will pass it onto,
Someone else, out of fear.

She cannot support it,
She has no degree.
And things for the child,
Just aren't free.

She knows what its like,
To grow up sad and cold.
Shes felt the pain,
And the tears of the old.

She's not ready for children,
Not ready for life,
Not ready for motherhood,
So tired of strife.

The pain thats inside her,
Will not go away,
It will be buried and dealt with,
Some other day.

Her child will go,
To the parents, unknown
By giving it up,
Her love has been shown.

She prays that the Lord,
Will forgive her, her sin.
And allow her to laugh,
Her life to begin.

She prays that the Lord.
Will appear from above,
And tell her she's guilty,
Of nothing by love.