Writing My Wrongs

Semantics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How does one accept things that are simply not acceptable?

What exactly does it mean?

Maybe I do know.

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

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

Internally I sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, I don’t know about that..."

"I do." I respond.

And the conversation ends.

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

Family Politics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Avoidant? Maybe.

Self protecting? Definitely.

Dinner Conversations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I smiled.

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

Adoption Magnet

“Our minds become magnetized with the dominating thoughts we hold in our minds and these magnets attract to us the forces, the people, the circumstances of life which harmonize with the nature of our dominating thoughts.” - Napoleon Hill

There was a time in my life that my girlfriends jokingly called me the “weirdo magnet”. If we went out clubbing, to dinner, to any event I was sure to attract some interesting characters. It was uncanny how of all the people at a large event a strange person would find me.  My girlfriends used to beg me to try and attract stray animals instead of stray people.

When I lived in Chicago, I was regularly followed by homeless people. I was once assaulted by a young woman who had stopped her car in the middle of traffic, got out and followed me to my apartment. This was after she had grabbed my right breast and attempted to stop me from walking out into traffic when I was trying to get away from her.

We joked that it had to be a pheromone or something in my beguiling eyes. We could not explain why I was consistently befriended by the interesting members of society. I did not make eye contact. I did not talk to strangers. I did not go looking for the fruit loop of the day. They easily found me.

Over the years, that weirdo magnet seems to have morphed into an adoption magnet. I am consistently amazed how I can attract individuals traumatized by adoption.  I am further amazed at the synchronicity that has occurred between my life and that of many of my friends.

Consider my friend Hilly. I facilitated Hills search and reunion with her mother. Hilly now lives in the same apartment I lived in 20 years ago.  Spooky.

My friend Karin. I was drawn to her mother. We just clicked. Imagine my surprise when Karin learns in her early thirties that she is not her mothers’ first child but her second. The first child, a brother, had found her mother. Karin called me to discuss her feelings and shock at her newly discovered sibling.

My newest neighbors W and S. A couple I really like.  We hit it off and spent a fair amount of time chatting at a cocktail party. Towards the end they tell me they are adopting from China.

It’s all around me. Everywhere I look. It is there. It finds me when I least expect it. I can run but I can never ever hide.

I recently made a new friend.

A great guy. Brilliant, sensitive, attractive. We had been corresponding and becoming friends. He is well read, well spoken, educated and expressive. I enjoyed talking to him. He was easy to talk to.

I admit part of me was somewhat attracted to him as well. Who wouldn’t be? Smart, sensitive, perceptive and knowledgeable of trauma. We had great conversations.  To quote a word from Oriah Mountain Dreamer he had “touched the centre of his own sorrow”.

He was just neat.

Was I crushing? A tad bit.  But more than that I was enjoying him. Our talks. I liked him as a person.

He shared some of his personal trauma with me and I in turn shared mine. I felt safe to do so.

Imagine my surprise sometime later when he tells me he is an adoptive dad.

Did this surprise me? Not really. 

Did it punch me in the gut?

Yes.

This is not about him.

He is still a great guy and smart and sensitive. I am not throwing this new found friend into the rotten adoptive parent bin.  It’s not my style. To stereotype him, to judge him, for adopting a child would be putting myself into the slut or nut crack whore birthmother bin.  Who would I be, but a hypocrite, if I were to say don’t judge me yet I was to judge him.

But I admit it was hard for me.  I was somewhat disappointed. Not in him or his choices but in myself.

It was like walking into a minefield only you don’t know you are in a minefield. Or even more harsh, it felt like I was a rape victim being told that my newest best friend is a former rapist. (That’s a harsh analogy and not stated to make my friend look bad but rather to show how I felt - exactly how I felt.).

His sharing ripped open wounds I thought I had healed.

I was disappointed in me. In my recovery.

I have enough adoptive parent friends to know that I am not anti-adoptive parent (Margie, Mo, etc. can attest to that). Many of them were taken in, lied to and used by the agencies just like I was. The agencies saw that desire for a child in their face and took as much money from them knowing many parents would pay any price to obtain a child. Many adoptive parents I know took out second mortgages, borrowed money from family or went into serious debt to pay off the agency.

It’s not about my friend as an adoptive parent. I am sure of that. It’s something with me. Something undiscovered, something unhealed, something still festering.

I wonder if its about my daughters father? Since this is the first adoptive DAD I have gotten to know? What did he trigger in me?

Why, I ask myself today, did this punch me in the gut like it did?

More Freewriting Drawn from the Past

“We cannot change our past. We can not change the fact that people act in a certain way. We can not change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude.” - Charles Swindoll

The talk had begun to fade by the time I returned. But I knew what they were talking about.

Me.

They always talk about me when I leave the room. In hushed whispers, with their eyes cast down, their cheeks away from me, they converse. I know what they say. I have overheard their muted mumbled tones. It is the same way they talk about the Big C. Cancer. As if a quieter tone somehow protects you from the reality that you could one day get cancer.

"Did you hear Martha has…..cancer?", says my aunt, making a point to whisper the "C" word the same way they whisper the words they use to refer to me.

Slut. Whore. White trash. Sinner.

I have heard every single word. Those I have not heard, I have imagined on my own.

A few friends and family members are bold enough to confront me personally. I respect that. Even with a snide or offensive tone they had the strength to ask me about my child. A few will dare to ask me what I did and why.

"How could you give your daughter away? Who DOES that? (Oh, right, YOU)"

"Why were you sent away?"

"Where did you live? Was it awful there?"

"Why didn't your parents help you?"

"Where is the father? Do you KNOW who he is?"

"Did your father beat you when he found out? I heard he called you a whore."

"What did Father Pcolka say to you? Are you allowed back in church?"

"Why didn't you have an abortion? You should have just killed her. No one needed to know"

"Did you know that Sarah isn't allowed to be seen with you? Her parents worry that being sexually active and getting pregnant might be catching."

But these people in front me, this family of mine, these brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles, they prefer to whisper. They whisper as if I cannot hear or as if I am not present.

Unfortunately, I am.

Doors

“A small key opens big doors.” - Turkish Proverb

Doors can open when you least expect them. They can be physical doors that someone opens for you intentionally or on accident. They can be emotional doors that you can choose to walk through or avoid. Regardless, doors are openings to new places, new rooms, and new beginnings.

A few weeks ago an emotional door opened for my friend Jamie. Jamie lost her child to the Kurtz network of agencies. Her daughter is now in her mid twenties and Jamie would like to find her.

The only bit of information Jamie has is her daughters birthday. The state she was born in does not give non-id to natural mothers and the agency involved never gave Jamie a thing. She has no surrender documents, no non-id, not even a fake birth certificate from the hospital.

Jamie contacted the state reunion registry and learned that, for a fee, they would conduct a search for her daughter. There was no guarantee of find and no guarantee of contact.

It seemed to be Jamie’s only hope. The only remaining barrier to starting an active search was money. While only a few hundred dollars, it was a few hundred Jamie and her immediately family could not afford.

Several members of ehbabes contributed money towards a fund for Jamie. While several hundred dollars may be a lot for one person, five or ten dollars a person spread over twenty people is manageable.

If that wasn’t enough to stir emotions, Jamie shared this with her mother. Her mother had been silent about the loss of her first grandchild since the day Jamie surrendered her. Discussing Jamie’s daughter with her mother was not an option for Jamie. Mother just shut down and would not hear of any talk of search and reunion.

Recently, Jamie shared our fund story with her mother. As usual, mother says nothing. However, day’s later mother calls Jamie and inquires how much money she has and what she needs to start the search. Mother, with very little explanation, informs Jamie that she will provide Jamie with the remaining funds.

How freaking cool is that! Not only will Jamie get the needed funds but it appears as though mother is softening to discussion of Jamie’s daughter and the loss of her to the adoption machine!

We are now all waiting for Jamie’s search to begin!

I am so lucky to be a part of this ehbabes family!

Fantasy vs. Reality

"Reality is the name we give to our disappointments." - Mason Cooley

My mother emails me nearly every day to tell me nothing more than “Love you, how are things and have a good day”. She will email me bits of family news if there are any but for the most part its just sweet nothing sent to me via email.

I tease her if she forgets and tell her that it ruined my day.  We chuckle about it. I appreciate it. It’s like your mom leaving you a little note in your lunch box for school.

I also talk to my mom at least once a week and we catch up on family events, my siblings, weather, my father’s health and more.  Sometimes our calls are lengthy and philosophical. Other times, our calls are short and direct.

Regardless, I appreciate the calls and the emails. I have had more than my share of drama in the past year and it’s nice to have my mom just checking on me here and there. She lives about sixty miles south of me and I get to visit only a few times a month.

Yesterday, during a regular phone call the conversation was about how my sons were adjusting to their new school, our new schedule, and changes in our home environment. We talked at length about my youngest son’s separation anxiety, my oldest sons identifying a “girlfriend” already and as well as my youngest son’s recent bout of fresh behavior.

After we had covered all the son topics, my mother says “And how is the Little Miss?”

I was confused.

“Little Miss?” I ask.

“Yeah, M (my daughter). How is she? Have you heard from her?” Mom asks.

“Oh, right.” I answer.

I proceed to share latest news with my mother on my daughter, her return to school, details of our last email exchange, and the challenges I have had with same.

Mom offers up some supportive advice and thoughts. She talks about me at that age. We had a nice chat about the Little Miss.

Two things struck me about this conversation.

Historically, my mother has consistently called my daughter by her original name. This has bothered me and I used to regularly correct my mother. It was viewed as denial by me. Specifically, I saw it as my mother’s inability to acknowledge that my daughter had been lost to adoption and was given a new name and a new mommy. Calling her by our name, her original name seemed highly inappropriate.

She didn’t say that name this time. Of course, she did not say her amended name either but I still took it as progress. In our family it’s not uncommon to refer to children as Little This or Little That. My youngest son is often called “Little Bugger” or “Little Man”.

To me, based on her tone, it was a term of endearment towards my daughter and genuine concern.

Beyond that, what struck me was the casualness with which my mother and I discussed her. It was normal. Like she was part of the family, here with me every day and Mom was just checking in on my entire family.

It was really odd for me. I imagined, outright felt, that this conversation could have and would have been held with that much ease even if my daughter was really here.

Maybe, in some odd way, in some parallel universe she was and is.

Maybe she was even thinking of us at that moment.

(1)

"One's first step in wisdom is to question everything - and one's last is to come to terms with everything." - George Lichtenberg

A few years after surrendering my daughter to the adoption machine, I visited with a friend back home. She had been my best friend through high school, with me the night I met my daughters father, the reason I lost my virginity to him (long story – summarized by teenage peer pressure), and one of the only people who openly acknowledged my daughter during that time of my life.

I was at her home and we were flipping through our high school year book. A few years older by then, we were likely musing over what we looked like then, who went where, who had already died and so on.

It was her personal yearbook we were referring to. As I open the page that my own picture appeared on, I note a number beneath my picture. It is the number 1, handwritten and placed in parentheses. It is my friend’s handwriting. 

Curious, I keep flipping pages and see a few other numerical notations. Two’s, three’s, etc. Confused, I asked my friend what the numbers meant.

“That is how many kids each person had by now. Can you believe how many people have popped out babies already?”, she says with a slightly offensive tone of voice.

I felt like I had been slapped. My stomach turned over and my blood had begun to pulse rapidly through my veins. My chest hurt and my breathing became labored.

Yeah, I can believe it, I thought. I had “popped” one of those babies out myself. Only I did not get to bring her home. Everyone else in my year book did.

“Oh.” I weakly uttered. I felt diminished and ashamed and embarrassed and very angry.

How dare she! How dare she note my daughters existence with a measly penciled in (1) under my high school picture. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Is that what she was relegated to? A marking in some ones yearbook?

Conversely, I was horrified. What if someone else saw? What if she showed someone her yearbook? No one knew. I was President of Student Government. Graduated or not, they would love to gossip about me. My parents would kill me. No one was supposed to know. How dare she!

I was irrationally and outrageously angry. I didn’t want that marking in her year book yet at the same time I did. At least she gave my daughter an existence. She acknowledged her. If even in nothing but number two pencil lead.

I am not angry about that any more. In fact, I am quite pleased. I appreciate that my friend did that. When all others turned their backs on me and my daughter, when my own father told me we would never discuss “that” (meaning my daughter), my friend marked up her yearbook and place my child on the map of our lives.