Writing My Wrongs

Take the Red Pill

“The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.” - George Bernard Shaw

A friend and I were recently discussing adaptability. He told me that, in his opinion, I am too adaptable. 

Can you be too adaptable?  I always thought being adaptable was a good thing. It meant strong, flexible, understanding, able to survive.

He agreed and but explained to me that individuals who are too adaptable are often insane people pleasers. They often go out of their way to do anything for anyone. They are concerned with everyones comfort and often have their own emotional boundaries violated.

I laughed.

Well, dude, that is soooooooooooo not me. No one in my immediate circle of friends would call me a people pleaser. I simply am not.

Then he laughed.

Ah, but you are wrong, he said.  Even adaptability has a shadow. (I snickered to myself. More shadow talk.)

Friend went on to explain that in his guesstimation my version of over adapting is:

"I don't need anyone".

He hypothesized that since I was a child I had been continually disappointed by others and left to fend for myself. This can be traced as far back as my infancy when I spent weeks in a hospital for a variety of health ailments. My parents weren't there as my mother was pregnant and caring for my siblings and my father was working.  I was left in the care of medical staff from a very young age. I had several surgeries by the time I was five. I was always comforted by strangers.

It exists in my tween and teen years when my fathers alcoholism caused significant damage to my family system and later when I was pregnant when no one helped ME but everyone helped themselves to my child.

I learned, consistently, that people could not be relied upon to help me and I therefore adapted to that environment by helping myself and not depending on anyone else.

At this point is his explanation, I started to cry.

How does one un-adapt?  How do I identify and dispose of those coping skills that once served me well but are no longer needed?  Can I give them a viking funeral? Place them in a boat, light it on fire and send them out to sea?

And how can I, as a secondary goal, help other mothers to not adapt? How can I help them to exit the adoption industry matrix?   How can I help them to take the red pill and bring their babies home?

Ayudame

“Living with integrity means: Not settling for less than what you know you deserve in your relationships. Asking for what you want and need from others. Speaking your truth, even though it might create conflict or tension. Behaving in ways that are in harmony with your personal values. Making choices based on what you believe, and not what others believe.” -  Barbara De Angelis

I began to arm the battle stations early yesterday morning. I moved the vehicle to the end of its landing strip. I pulled the windshield cleansing apparatus up to prevent it from freezing.  I located the supply of salt pellets. I pulled my foul weather gear from the top shelf of my supply closet. I armed my youngest soldiers with the appropriate helmets and cold weather safety vests.

And we waited.

The assault started around 11 a.m.  Large, white fluffy objects falling from the skies. We were clearly under fire and it appeared we would be for some time.  I ran to the battlefield several times during the day and took as many countermeasures as possible.  Alternating between salt and broom, the force of our attackers earlier on could not compare to our weapons. I was confident we would prevail.

Several hours into the assault,  it became apparent that I was might indeed lose the battle and heavier artillery was required. I retreated to my garden tool bunker for a weapon that packed a bigger bang. The almighty aluminum shovel. Made in China. Red plastic handle.

Only it was no where to be found. Confused and with the attack becoming more aggressive, I ran quickly to my secondary supply shed. The shovel was missing from there as well.

Cursing myself, I questioned a member of my team on the status of our weapon of mass destruction.  My younger team members informed me that the weapon had been destroyed last year during a separate battle and it had not been replaced.

Defeated, my unit and I retreated to the safety of our tent and watched the assault upon our land.

Yes, it is true I could have called for reinforcements. I could have also walked across my battlefield to the camp across the river and asked to borrow their shovel. I could have also called in the service cavalry armed with their own large weapons attached to their vehicles. Weapons that are quite adept at moving large amounts of the white stuff.

But I didn’t. And why didn’t I?

I don’t like to ask for help. I would rather struggle, suffer, and perhaps even lose than ask someone to help me clear my silly driveway of the two feet of newly fallen snow.

This is a bit of a character flaw. There are times in life when you simply must request assistance; times when doing so does not indicate a weakness on our part but rather a strength.

As I reflected on the battle I lost yesterday, it brought to mind the many other times I have had to ask for help. And yes, the most difficult time of my life, when I needed help the most – when I was pregnant with my daughter.

I realize now that the way I was treated during that time contributes greatly to my ability to ask for help (or not) and my faith in others to actually provide it – no strings attached. To complicate matters even further, I am reminded of my parents’ statement to me as a child “God helps those who helps themselves”.

I tried to help myself yesterday. God was no where to be found. Not surprising really, he wasn’t anywhere to be found when I lost my daughter to adoption either. I should have known better.

But again, the lessons I learned from my adoption experience:

If you ask for help, people will help you only if they get something in return. In the case of an unplanned pregnancy, they will help you if you give them your child. You dont deserve help but your child does. Others will do what is best for them and they will tell you that doing so is what is best for you.  They will take advantage of your confusion, your lack of strength and ability to process information clearly. They will capitalize on your lack of knowledge and maturity and use it to their own benefit. And when it all goes to hell, they will remind, you that you called them. You asked for their help.

End result: asking for help leaves you scarred and wounded for the rest of your life.  Help is not a good thing. It is a very bad thing that can leave you emotionally crippled for the rest of your life.

I couldn’t risk asking for help fighting the snow army. As silly and benign as it may have seemed, asking for help is an incredibly triggering action for me. It means I am weak, vulnerable and easily taken advantage of.

Come on OUT!

"My reason for coming out isn't to be some sort of hero, I'm just at a point in my life where I'm tired of having to pretend to be somebody I'm not." - Sheryl Swoopes

In 1869 German homosexual rights advocate Karl Ulrich introduced the idea of coming out as a means of emancipation.  He believed that homosexual invisibility was a major obstacle toward changing public opinion and as such he urged homosexuals to out themselves.

I am not homosexual but I am going to guess that for those who are the idea of coming out, while liberating, can be equally terrifying. I say this based on my own experience as a mother who lost a child to adoption and was told to stuff that traumatic experience into the emotional closet and pretend to get over it, pretend I wasn’t a mother, pretend I did not have a daughter, and pretend “it” never happened. Much like homosexuals, I was told by society to pretend to be something I wasn’t.

And so I did.

For a while.

I didn’t want to hide. I did not want to keep that information secret but my parents wanted me too. The agency wanted me too. Societal constructs wanted me to. For the sake of everyone’s else’s perceived benefit, I had to lie. Lie about who I was, how I felt, what I needed and wanted.

The message I received loud and clear was that I was unacceptable. My behavior was unacceptable. My daughters birth was unacceptable.  If it wasn’t, why did I have to hide it?

If I ever wanted to be deemed acceptable, if I ever wanted a “decent” man to marry me, to have a respectable life, a good job, a future,  I had better, at all costs, keep the person I really was locked and buried in the closet.

Coming out was not an option.

Eighty percent of the time I complied. I rarely told casual acquaintances. I wouldn’t speak out in public. I never (good god) told anyone I worked with.  I did however, always tell friends and loved ones that meant something to me.  If I wanted you in my life, I told you before we got too serious.  Back then it was a litmus test. Let me show you all my dirty secrets and then you decide if I am worthy.  Um, sorry to offend myself, but that was an assanine approach. That line of thinking still left the power to be deemed acceptable or not in the hands of others.  It was predicated upon the belief that I was bad or damaged and others were not. That was crap, Suz.

Over time, without even knowing it, I adopted a model similar to the Cass Identity Model. This model, developed by Vivian Cass, is one of the foundational theories of gay and lesbian identity development.  The Cass Model was the first to treat gay members of society as normal and views the homophobic society as abnormal.

This model outlines six stages that individuals, who successfully come out, go through. These are identity confusion, identity comparison, identity tolerance, identity acceptance, identity pride, and identity synthesis.

Not surprisingly, I can apply each of these stages to my own experience as a woman who had supposedly offended the sexual mores by committing the unforgivable act of not suppressing my sexuality and then becoming pregnant. Much like my gay friends, my actions were threatening to the fabric of society. They threatened my families values, the life path my parents had planned for me and they threatened our church teachings.

Identity confusion: I am a mother. I know I am a mother but I am not. They tell me I am not. They tell me I cannot be. My baby is gone. I gave her away. How could I be a mother? I have stretch marks to prove it. I remember the birth. But everyone is telling me I am not a mother. How can that be?  No. I am not a mother. To be a mother you must have a child, in front of you, with you. You must be raising the child. No I am not a mother. I don’t know why I have these stretch marks or this desire to hold a child but I am most definitely  not a mother. Wait. Where is my baby? Oh my god, where is my child!

Identity comparison: Meeting other mothers via the internet caused me to challenge my confused state. Wait. They are a mother. They claim their child. Maybe I am one too? Maybe it’s okay to say that? But hold on, they aren’t Catholic. They aren’t white. They aren’t the same as me. They can say they are a mother but I cannot. Can I?

Identity tolerance: More mother friends. More reading. Some therapy. I begin to seek out and prefer the company of others like me. If they are okay, I am okay. We can be okay together. There is strength in numbers. I begin to realize and accept that having surrendered my child to adoption does not have to limit my options in life. There is support available to me and I actively seek out individuals who will understand, validate and respect who I am, what I did and what happened to me.

Identity acceptance: I start to come out to those outside my inner circle. I am anxious about this but I tentatively make steps toward self disclosure to select individuals. I find support in dealing with my grief and loss and start to realize that I was not wrong but what was done to me and my child was very wrong.

Identity pride: While the Cass Model for homosexuals suggests the ability to be proud of ones sexuality, I find it nearly impossible to be proud of my status as a mother who surrendered her child. I can be proud of my status as a survivor and am also proud of what I have done and continue to do for others. 

And finally, identity synthesis: Integration and acceptance that my status as a mother who surrendered her child is not all of me. I am far more than what happened to me and my child.  The experiences does not define me nor do others.  I do.

When a member of my family learned of my pregnancy, they responded with “..it figures your mother didn't teach you to keep your legs closed.”  Guess what? She did not teach me to keep my mouth closed either.

I came out three times this week to friends or coworkers. One of them stated how impressed they were with my ability to do so. I responded by saying that for me, and for my sisters and our future daughters, I have no choice. It is healing for me and also, and perhaps more importantly, if I and my sisters do not come out of the closet, society will forever believe that needlessly separating mothers and children is a good thing.

It is not. Never has been. Never will be.

It must stop.

Validation of Self

"Religion is sort of like a lift in your shoes. If it makes you feel better, fine. Just don't ask me to wear your shoes." - George Carlin

I am enjoying the dialogue on my recent post. The differing experiences and viewpoints really stir something in me. So thank you.

A few things I liked:

Kippa asked: Why was it any of her business?

I agree (now) with Kippa that it probably wasn’t her business. I also suspect that my then fiancé felt the same. (He reads here so he may pop up and state his own position).

Why did I feel then that it was her business?

I can say that I felt, deeply, that my fiancé was getting damaged goods. I wasn’t good enough for my own child, how could I be good enough for a man like him?

I had been told as a child and during my unplanned pregnancy that a decent man would never marry a woman like me – a woman who had a child out of wedlock. I had been told by friends and family members and my Catholic teachings that I was damaged, dirty, and yesterday’s trash. Jezebel. Hester Prynn.  Forever branded and never, ever, good enough. Men want virgins, men want the first child a woman has to be HIS child…not some bastard child of another man. (I really was told all this crap).

I believed this. I really did. When my boyfriend asked me to marry him, I was shocked, excited but not trusting. Always at the back of my mind was that big old voice screaming “whore, harlot, bad mother, you are trash”. 

I suppose I needed, wanted, a test of that. I wanted to see if it could be true. I wanted to know, BEFORE, I made the plunge into marriage if I was going to be judged and discarded at any point in the future. Leave me now before I get too attached was my mantra. Judge me now so I don’t have to deal with it later.

When your own family discards you and your unborn child, why shouldn’t or wouldn’t every other person you encounter?

Najah asked: Why didn’t I tell her myself?

Excellent question.  I am not sure I have an answer for that. It never occurred to me. I assumed it was his place.  A discussion mother and son should have about “marrying down” or something. (Again, keep in mind the judgment and shame based religion I grew up with).

I can say that I was afraid and maybe I wanted my fiancé to bear the brunt of any negative reaction. Additionally, as noted, it was some sort of psychological test of my fiancé. I know that now. I wanted to see if he would or could discuss that. Turned out, he couldn’t, wouldn’t or didn’t need to.

But I needed him to.

I needed, desperately, for someone to stand up for me. Defend my honor. Prove their love for me. To be proud of me.  To SEE me for me. A good girl that had been broken and betrayed, flailing like a squirrel that had recently been run over, but still a good girl.

I still had this need as recent as three years ago. When I found my daughter and I reunited with her father, I waited, unconsciously, for him to come out of the closet. I waited for him to finally claim me, and her, and I felt that could be done by him telling his family, his other children, his parents, of our daughter’s existence.

For reasons known only to him, he did not.

This hurt me deeply – again. It was like being thrown away, discarded, a second time.

Again, I was seeking validation, support, respect that I did not get. I was hoping, in some dark corner of my heart, that he would finally stand up for me, for us, for her. I needed that.

I am happy to say that over the years and through the help of a wonderful therapist skilled in many aspects of marriage, family and trauma  therapy, that I have finally gotten to a place where I don’t need anyone else to tell me who or what I am.  I can self validate. Sure, there are still times when I feel scared, anxious and I worry that I will be discarded once again for my history but I work through it.

I did nothing wrong.

I was a good girl who loved a man who loved her back.

I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.

I don’t give a rat’s ass about the Catholic Church and frankly, never did. I tried to fit into that box. I don’t fit. It’s okay. I don’t need to.

It is no longer about others respecting me.

It is about me respecting me.

Real Mothers, Real Loss

Peckers

"suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping,
rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered,
"tapping at my chamber door
Only this, and nothing more."  - Edgar Allen Poe

At 8:00 am this morning I rolled over in bed and realized I was late. The kids have a holiday from school and are with their dad so my usual morning alarm clock did not go off. The clock is about 4 feet tall, has brown hair and usually carries a stuffed bunny in his mouth as he climbs into my bed.

Lacking that four foot clock, I overslept but lucky for me the woodpecker that has been feasting on my house arrived around eight for his morning chow.

I cursed both myself for waking up late and the bird eating my cedar shingles. I showered and pondered what to do about the bird. Who should I call? How can I get high enough on the roof line to hang foil reflective objects, or a big snake or an owl? Do I have carpenter bees or ants in the shingles that the bird is feasting on or is he just partial to ugly blue painted cedar shingles?

As the firey hot shower water pelted my fair skin, I pondered my weekend and how much it resembled the annoying pecking of my feathered friend.

I attended a party with friends Saturday night. It was nice, I guess. It was a surprise 40th birthday party for two of my oldest friends. They are married. I was the maid of honor in their wedding. The wife was the matron of honor in mine. I am god mother to their oldest daughter. I ran into a few old friends and made some new ones.

Even with the DJ, my old friends, and the children present, I felt disconnected and lonely. As always, right on cue, my adoption trauma crept up from behind and took a seat next to me. It pecked at me randomly throughout the evening just like the bird has been doing on my house.

As I watched my 14 year old god daughter dance to Vanilla Ice and later to Sir Mix-A-Lot, the tears formed in my eyes. I could not help but miss my own daughter. I never got to see her be an energetic teenager. Was she a nice friendly kid like my god daughter is? Or was she withdrawn and shy and socially anxious? Did she like to dance? I believe she did. She told me she took dance lessons and liked swing dancing.

For a few moments, I tried to pretend that cute teenager with the braces and the dishwater blond hair was my daughter.  I wondered if my friend of nearly 30 years realizes how blessed she is to raise her daughter? To see her grow up? To see her boogie her little but across a dance floor?

Later in the evening, the grandmother of my god daughter approached me and inquired about my children and as expected, my daughter. I showed her pictures of my children. She commented that my oldest son looks like his dad (true), my youngest looks like my family (also true) and that my daughter is gorgeous (again, very true). She asked how our relationship is going. She DID not ask if we had met. We chatted a bit for a few minutes and I made a hasty exit. I knew, given more time, the additional questions would come. Like the cedar shingles being attacked by the woodpecker, I was too weak to fight back.

The party ended around ten and a group of us headed to a local bar to continue partying. I began talking with friends of friends and as always was asked “how many children do you have?” My girlfriend (the one who had written that one in her yearbook all those years ago) looked at me intently awaiting my answer. 

“I have three beautiful children.” I answered proudly.

And I do.

Three children and one annoying downy woodpecker.