Writing My Wrongs

See All of Me

"I dont want to be the filler if the void is solely yours
I dont want to be your glass of single malt whiskey
Hidden in the bottom drawer
I dont want to be the bandage if the wound is not mine
Lend me some fresh air
I dont want to be adored for what I merely represent to you" - Alannis Morrisette

I find it incredibly interesting - on an intellectual level - that so many make this association that my daughter is the cure to my pain.

She is not.

I have told her that.

The most obvious reason that she could never be the cure is that she is not the cause. How could she possibly fix something she did not break? My daughter is not an object. She is not an antibiotic. She is not a salve for my wounded heart.

I tend to think this belief, or assumption, is rooted in the fact that many of our children were adopted as infants to "fix" an infertile woman or childless family and make their dreams come true. The adoption was about the adoptive parents needs first and the child's second. They were objectified and viewed as a band-aid for an adoptive families challenges (even if not overtly stated).

Upon reunion, many adoptees are faced with yet another emotionally scarred woman and again, they may get the message that their role is to fix yet another broken woman. Furthermore, they cannot be themselves but feel pushed into being the child they could have/should have/would have been had they not been taken for adoption. They spend their lifetime with the presence of the ghost child their adoptive parents could not have. They try their best to fit in and act like the adoptive family who have no genetic relation to them. Then upon reunion, it happens all over again. Another wounded woman trying to fit them into the ghost role of the child they should have been.

When do our children get to be who they are and not who they coulda/woulda/shoulda/mighta been?

When we do stop using our children to fix our own damaged selves?

How does anyone make the connection that my desire to know and love and be part of my child's life somehow equates to her fixing me? Why can't people separate out the two? Is it because, as I suggest, we have used our children as objects?

Yes, I am damaged by my experience. This experience involves being sent one thousand miles away to a maternity "home", being shamed by my family and friends, being told I would go to hell now that I had violated the laws of the Catholic church, losing my college acceptance, losing my first love, my child, being dehumanized, abandoned, and much more. It is not rooted solely in the loss of my child. Most importantly she did not cause any of that. She was a helpless infant. How could she be held responsible?

In addition to being a woman damaged by the adoption industry and the constructs of American society, I am also mother who misses and wants to know her daughter.

It is that mother, that woman, I wish people would see.

Yet, it seems the preferred vision is to see the damaged, broken, emotionally bleeding mother. I wonder if doing so allows people to justify the tactics. Seeing me as some broken, neurotic, basket case worthy of a white jacket and locked ward, you can say "See, you never would have been a good mother after all. She was better off without you".

I am a damaged woman.

I am a mother.

Won't you please see ALL of me and not just the parts that make you comfortable?

Story of the 'Unwed' Mother: "Who Am I?"
by Robin Westbrook

Look at me, Look closely at my face and truly see me.

I am the face of the housewife, the store clerk, the doctor, the teacher, the doting grandmother, the "childless" business executive, the judge, the florist, the drycleaner on the corner, the crossing guard...all these and more.

Behind my face, lies the truth you deny. Behind the wall I have built for self-protection, is the pain you refuse to see. My face does not reveal the open wound in my heart, but it is there.

I am the forgotten face, the face that fades into the crowd, that re-invents itself in order to fit in with all the rest of you.

I am the face that many wish would remain forever anonymous, the face that many long to see yet the face that others fear.

I am the face of denial and repression. Behind my silent, sealed lips, there are cries of grief and screams of rage. Behind my dry eyes, is a lifetime of unshed tears.

I am the face of long-ago shame and yesterday's scandal. I am the face of an imprisoned soul, punished for breaking obsolete and unloving rules.

I am the face of one-half of a whole. I am a missing piece longing for completion. I am the face of a traumatic and unnatural separation and a primal wound.

I am the face of grief without a grave, questions without answers and secrets unknown. I am the face of an unfinished story, a life in limbo and a victim of the needs and desires of others.

I am the face of remorse and betrayal and a singular brand of loneliness. I am the face of unique tragedy.

I am the face that, now, emerges from obscurity and calls out to be seen. You can call me the birthmother, the first mother, the natural mother or whatever term meets your comfort level, but it won't change the fact at hand.

That fact is that I am a MOTHER without her child.

Gifts and Giving

"The love we give away is the only love we keep". - Elbert Hubbard

The gift I sent to my daughter for her birthday and graduation was found to be "objectionable" by her. She did not explain what was objectionable and I did not push. That particular gift was too personal for me to go asking for it to be picked apart for its value or worth. I left the topic alone.

However, I am finally (duh) getting the message that I should stop sending gifts. I struggled with this last year when she refused my gift in June. I asked to her confirm she did not want me to send. I assumed silence was agreement and I did not sending anything for Christmas. This was not easy for me but I did it.

I struggled with the recent birthday/graduation gift issue. Many told me not to do it, they thought the sentiment was beautiful but they felt it would not be received with the spirit it was intended. They were afraid I would be hurt if it was returned or discarded. Others told me to be true to myself and send it if I wanted to.

And so I did.

And it was objectionable.

I finally get it.

I do.

I may be slow in some areas (math being one of them) but I am finally getting it.

Last night, as I drove home from my parents, I had an hour of alone time with I-91 north and my dashboard confessional. This is is a common time for me to spend a great deal of time ruminating over stuff, often adoption related material.

I came to the conclusion (finally) that I will indeed stop sending her gifts.

However, I must do something for her on holidays and such.

A refusal of a mothers love does not extinguish that love.

Years before I found my daughter, I had a habit of planting trees, shrubs and perennial flowers in honor of her. Mind you, I do not posses any sort of a green thumb but for me, it was symbolic. It was a way to give back, to see something grow and proposer and enhance the environment in memory of her. I ceased this practice once I found her.

While I don't intend to begin planting again, I do find myself needing to do something with the love and energy that I would have normally shared with her.

I had the the idea to donate monies to a scholarship or organization that helps young moms. I even went so far to consider forming my own foundation or scholarship that would help young moms with college funds. I came up with a name on what I would call it. Premature? Yes, but I like the idea and it is something I might consider in the future.

For now, I like the idea of instead of giving a gift to my daughter that she clearly doesn't want, I would use the monies to donate to an organization or scholarship that helps young moms or girls at risk. I would do this in honor of my daughter (if even in my own mind as I would not use her name).

If you know of any organizations (preferably NOT faith based) that help young moms, single moms, ideally to go to college, do write me privately. I am doing some research. I regularly donate to Ethica and Origins-USA but I want to target a donation to a scholarship or group.  I know of one organization in GA that helped my friend Lily. I would like to know of others. You can comment here or write me at bluestokking at gmail dot com.

First and Last Lesson

"When I'm trusting and being myself... everything in my life reflects this by falling into place easily, often miraculously." - Shakti Gawain

The conversation topics are all over the board. We discuss my apartment, my ex-husbands new car, my sons surgery, my daughters father, my daughter and more.

He indicates he has seen a change coming over me, a good change, in that I appear more true to me, more focused on living my own life and being true to who I am and who I want to be.

I smiled.

My mother had recently made a similar comment. I dont necessarily feel any different. I am not aware of any obvious changes but apparently they are there and they are being seen by others. I am glad they are positive changes.

He went on to explain that years ago I often talked of the split in myself. How I portrayed one face to the outside world and kept my true inner-self secret.

I smile again.

He knows me well. I suppose three years of sitting across from him on near weekly basis would provide that insight.

He asked me if there was anything pressing, anything bubbling to the surface that I felt the need to discuss.

I was at a loss. Sure, thoughts ran through my head but they were fragmented and disjointed and had no apparent theme. My daughters father scampered about my mind (as he frequently does) but I had not the strength to go there. My daughters graduation bubbled right up but again I pushed it away. I cannot deal with that today.  Those thoughts are scheduled for Sunday.

"Um, no, not really." I respond as I look away and admire the violets in his office window.

He became silent, as he often does, and appeared to become lost in his own thoughts. He closes his eyes, flicks at his short white beard and rocks a bit.  I scan his clothing and notice he appears to be losing weight. He must have rushed to get dressed this morning. He is usually better coordinated.

"What is that poem? Why is this coming to me now?" He asks himself out loud.

He rises from his beige bentwood rocker and picks up a book titled Good Poems by Garrison Keillor

I smile at his somewhat unconventional style and wacky ways but I am comforted. I have learned to trust his judgment.

He dons his eyeglasses, flips through the book and finds the page he is looking for.

He hands the book to me.

"Does this mean anything to you?"

In front of me, on the left page of the book, is the poem by Philip Booth titled "First Lesson".

First Lesson

Lie back daughter, let your head
be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man's float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year
stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

I read the poem not once, but three times.

Yes, it means something to me. My first thought is of my daughter, naturally. My second is of myself.

I struggle to explain what it means to me for thoughts of my daughter, her graduation, the new life that is about to start for her, the new sea she will begin to swim in, engulf me.

I am aware of the theme of trusting others in the poem and the concept overwhelms me. He likely thought of the poem due to his earlier statement of me beginning to trust myself. I am however taken with thoughts of my daughter and how she doesnt trust me and possibly trusts no one since she was abandoned at birth and placed in the care of strangers.

I choke back a few tears but I agree.

I find that it is deeply connected to me as an individual and my daughter and her graduation.

And with that I respond, simply.

"Yes, it means something to me"

No Se

"Self-awareness or self-consciousness can lead to the enlarging of consciousness. It can lead to the expansion of control of one's life. Self-awareness involves the capacity of not only looking back, but also looking ahead. Self-awareness is not only a gift, but it is a responsibility." ~ Mufid James Hannush

A commenter in a previous post of mine indicated that no matter how good, or how compassionate my therapist may be, he "still doesn't know".

I agree.

I don't expect my therapist to know how I feel.

How could he?

He did not live my experience.

His knowledge, his view comes from an academic, clinical perspective as well as interaction with me.

I don't expect him to know exactly how I feel.

I do expect him to respect how I feel. I expect him to respect my feelings and help me process them. While many will argue that only a person who has lived the experience can be of any value to me, I disagree. I disagree largely because even if you have lived similar experience you still don't know MY experience. Furthermore, my problems are not necessarily the experience but my reactions to them and how I allow it to affect me. But talking it through with him, by having him echo back what he hears, by offering validation and understanding and books and other resources along with his clinical knowledge, I am able to process feelings I could not handle on my own.

He is a helper, a guide, a facilitator. He is not the cure. 

I am.

I choose my thoughts and my reactions to them.

On my ehbabes.com list, we have mothers from all different walks of life. We have religious moms (and they put up with my agnostic views quite nicely). We have college educated. We have members with doctorates and we have members without a high school education. We have members who live in the South, in the North, in the midwest. Some had additional children. Others did not. Some even surrendered more than one child. Several of the moms confidently state they are fine with having surrendered their child. They feel they did the right thing, the only thing. They were being abused or living with drug addicted men or families. They chose adoption as a way to keep their children safe. They, in their views, were saving their children the only way they knew how (and since live in a society that does not value the mother-child bond they had no support to do anything but that). They clearly don't feel the type of pain I do because my situation and what lead me to surrendering my daughter to adoption was an entirely different situation than what lead them. What binds us is the mutual pain over the loss of our children. Even if a mom feels she did the best thing, she still lives in agony over the fate of her child and the loss of her child.

Do we feel the same? No way.

Do we respect each others pain? Yes.

Too often I see friends of mine stuck between what I call a rock and an insane place. They insist that people don't understand. They insist this through tears and agony and imply in their statements that they WANT others to understand, that we should understand, that if we really loved them we would understand. In the same conversation they will insist there is NO WAY anyone else can understand.

Stuck.

If you want me to understand, but you believe there is no way I can, there is it. Rock and an insane place.

So yes, it is true that my therapist doesn't and cannot know. But I don't pay him to know my experience. I pay him to help me to process it.

I made him and she made me.

“One cannot be deeply responsive to the world without being saddened very often.” - Erich Fromm

Is it a good thing or a bad thing if you make your therapist cry?

Seriously. I cannot quite figure this out.

Reason I ask is that yesterday I did just that. By sharing some of my story, my feelings about my daughter and her birthday, her graduation and the things that were done and said to me to get me to surrender her, I made my therapist tear up. I could see it and found it odd at first and wondered if I should continue. (Frankly, I often wonder if my therapist makes a grocery list in his head when I talk so it was a bit odd to see him be struck emotionally by my words).

At one part I told him how I was told (like so many moms were) that if I loved my baby I would abandon her to strangers. If I were to keep her I would be selfish and not loving her.  What this really translates into is "give us your baby and she will have an unknown future just like she would have had with you but if we don't convince you that she is better off without you we cannot sell her to one of the lovely desperate couples we have waiting in line."

He winced at the "if you really loved your child you would abandon her" statement and then said, softly, 'That is so very wrong. What screwed up thinking that is..."

I then saw him try and compose himself.

He told me later in the session he was strongly touched by my pain and emotion.  Ya think?

But still, it made me feel strange.  I tend to make a lot of people cry.  LOL.  My sister called me a few days ago and told me a few of my posts here made her cry. I chuckled and shared one of my favorite Frost quotes.

"No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader."

But do I really want to be someone who makes others cry?

So, a day after I make my therapist cry a friend of mine, a first mom recently in reunion made me cry.

She has only recently made contact with her child and received an email that her child sent to her. First mom friend is all excited and gooey and sends it to me with a great deal of joy.

When I read it, I cried. But I did not cry becuase I was happy for her. I cried because while my friend saw hope and promise and excitement at her first email I saw the brush off. The "please go away and let me decide if I want to know who you are. I am young. I am immature. I have GREAT adoptive parents and I would never want to hurt them. The did so much for me, paid so much money for me, they are so GREAT. I don't want to meet you and I prefer you not contact me. Let me contact you. And I prefer if you move on for now. Thank you very much. Have a nice day"

Seriously, some of those exact words were in the email to my friend.

She was ECSTATIC.

I struggled to find something good in that. Maybe that is becuase it hit too close to home or maybe I just worry that I might know what is ahead for my friend and much like my therapist, it just makes me sad.

Okay, Dr. Z.

"Flatter me, and I may not believe you. Criticize me, and I may not like you. Ignore me, and I may not forgive you. Encourage me, and I will not forget you. Love me and I may be forced to love you.” - William Ward

I egosurfed the other day.  The reason why is for another post.

Much to my surprise I came across a response to a comment I left for author/doctor Phil Zimbardo. I had read and greatly enjoyed his book in December. It touched me so deeply I had to leave him a comment on it. I never went back to check on it.

I did today.  Again,  I am touched. I am working on it, Dr. Z.  I really am working on it.

As I told my friend Mo yesterday, I am getting closer and closer to believing I did nothing wrong in getting pregnant by a man I loved with all my heart. I did nothing wrong by giving birth to a beautiful girl. I did nothing wrong in her adoption surrender. What was DONE to BOTH of us by others was VERY wrong but we are not wrong.  I am getting closer to believing that.

Notes like this from a respected author and doctor help me on that journey.

Dear Suz,

Letters like yours make my efforts so much more worthwhile and will keep me going when things get tough.

That decision you made as a young girl was not out of your free will, it was determined,controlled, seduced out of you by a System with many seemingly good people working in complicity to achieve their goal -- of getting a baby to sell and not having to deal with your issues directly.

It is sad that you lost your child and sadder that you have had to suffer so long from the guilt of a decision that was systemic and not dispositionally generated.

I love the Nietzsche quote, did not know it but will use it in my lectures.

It is time for you to take joy in your life, to put the past in its proper place and become an ordinary hero focusing on helping others in whatever way your talents and energy lead you.

It is also time for scarred hearts to heal and become vibrant. OK??

Dr. Z.

Lightening the Load

"A house is just a pile of stuff with a cover on it. You can see that when you're taking off in an airplane. You look down, you see everybody's got a little pile of stuff. All the little piles of stuff. And when you leave your house, you gotta lock it up. Wouldn't want somebody to come by and take some of your stuff. They always take the good stuff. They never bother with that crap you're saving. All they want is the shiny stuff. That's what your house is, a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get...more stuff! "  - George Carlin

I wish disposing of adoption feelings were so easy.

I have an offer on my home. I accepted it. They want to close April 30th. I am now in a mad rush to find a new place to live, downsize my stuff, cancel my trip to Ireland (actually reschedule) and manage my sons surgery scheduled to take place a day before I close.

Can we say stress? 

As I am viewing properties to move to, I realize I am once again downsizing and must dispose of items. That is quite okay with me. I prefer to be a minimalist.  Form must follow function.

Five years ago I lived in a five thousand sq ft center hall colonial. We went to a two thousand sq ft ranch and now I will go to an even smaller town home.  Stuff has to go. 

I dont like clutter or squashed spaces. It physically affects me. I suffer from a bit of claustraphobia.  Too much furniture makes me feel closed in and I get edgy. Clutter on counters makes me shake and sends me into Turets like twitching.

There are items I cherish (my books for example) and they get to stay. Other things must go.

I discovered the wonder of craigslist. Posted a number of items yesteday (bookcases, formal dining room set, microwave, wingback chairs, etc.) and they are all allocated. I am awaiting pick up right now.

As space opens up in my home, as I organize and downsize, I feel so free. I smile and feel as I have personally lost weight.

And as always, I reflect on adoption trauma.

This is the feeling I am after. A lightness of being, less weight, less clutter, noise, etc.  in my head and heart.

I wonder if one can post trauma to craigslist?

"Twenty plus year old collection of adoption related trauma. FREE. Pick it up today. Black, noisy, frequently out of control, highly problematic. May induce vomiting, shaking, insomnia and incredible anxiety. Guaranteed to limit your ability to have intimate relationships with others. Fans of horror movies will adore the added benefit of  inducing horrific nightmares. No charge for the extra feature of causing you to collapse and curl into the fetal position at any random moment. Call today. You dont want to miss out on this extraordinary offering! Must be seen to be believed."

Any takers?

Seek First to Understand

“To understand everything is to forgive everything” - Buddha

If you were to meet my ex husband he would likely credit me with a few changes in his life. He will tell you it was my influence that got him to try buffalo wings, swiss cheese, get contact lenses instead of thick Doonesbury eyeglasses, and even buy his first sporty type car.

It was an Eagle Talon TSi AWD turbo. He loved it. It was a manual transmission and had a black exterior and grey interior.  Ex hubby is a speed demon and he loves to tell the story of going some crazy speed over the Sikorsky Memorial Bridge “with another gear to go”.

The only negative to the car, and I really cannot blame the car, was that I could not drive it. I have never learned how to drive a manual transmission.

Oh, ex-hubby tried to teach me. He really did.  He wanted me to not only drive that car but to learn in general so we could, in the future, purchase manual transmission vehicles. He wanted desperately to teach me.

On a cold day, on the even colder pavement of the Danbury Fair Mall, he tried.

And he yelled.

And he told me to give it more gas.

And he got out of the car after I told him he was stressing me out.

And he stood by and watched as I ground gears.

And he yelled some more “Why can’t you do this! Why can’t you give it more gas? What is wrong with you?  Can’t you hear what I am saying?”

I tried to explain that I could not “feel” it needing clutch, gas, break, shift, whatever. I couldn’t.

I asked him to draw me a picture. Maybe if I understood mechanically WHAT I was doing, I could then see it in my mind and I could do it.

I needed to understand why I was doing what I was doing.

He laughed at the suggestion. I got angry. I gave up. We went home.

This memory came to me yesterday while I was pondering TheRightThings comments about why I continue to immerse myself in potentially painful adoption books, blogs, etc. if they are so triggering. 

I realized that I am trying to understand and there are times in my reading when things finally make sense and I am able to let them go. So yes, my reading, my writing, my work does indeed over the long term with the right book or words, indeed lessen my pain.

Consider the Lucifer Effect.  The way the system worked AGAINST me and mothers like me may have been obvious to some but it wasn’t to me.   I knew it, on the surface, but I had to read it in the right context, put it in the right context and the LE book did that for me. I was able to clearly, deeply draw parallels to the heinous behavior of those in the Stanford Prison Experiment and even the Abu Ghraib trials. I was finally able to truly see systems theory at work. I could see how I was dehumanized, deindividuated, isolated, intimidated and worse.  I was able to say “HOLY FREAKING MOTHER OF YOUR GOD IT WASN’T JUST ME. I AM NOT THE ONLY ONE TO BLAME FOR THE WOUNDS ON MY DAUGHTERS SOUL!!!”

I did not see it that way before.  The author, Phil Zimbardo, essentially drew me the picture I needed my husband to draw for me 20 years prior. Only Phil’s picture showed how society and systems can make good people do really awful things like give away your child against your will.  Even better, how you can place that child in the care of utter and complete strangers with no idea where they would send her, if they would feed her, or what they would do with her.

At the core, I believe is due to the Oh Shit Moments (OS!M)  that I continue to read and do what I do. As painful as it is, it does indeed help. It makes a difference to me and even to those that I help with search and reunion.  And if its true, that the only way out is through, then I just need to push through this.

To be fair, there are some things I clearly avoid. I don’t participate on forums. I don’t read the blogs of haters – haters who rant about their natural mothers, haters who refuse to see that many mothers had no choice.  I dont fraternize with known adoption nutters.

I just don’t.  As is obvious, I can be my own worse enemy. I have no need to go into the cyber ring with some adoptee or adoptive parents who has the need to lash out and destroy all natural mothers. Those environments do me no good. That is not to suggest those ranters or angry types don’t have a right to be angry – they do, indeed. It does however suggest that I cannot draw a healthy boundary between the role of another mother who abandoned her child and myself. The lines get blurry for me. I feel too deeply, to a paralyzing level, for all of our children that have been wounded by adoption. 

It is as if, I, as a mother who did surrender her child, feel some sort of group collective burden.  It’s hard to explain. It’s like I am attached, on some energetic, psychological level to all mothers who lost their children to adoption.  I can allow myself too easily to accept the pain of others. (This may be rooted in the scapegoat role I held in my alcoholic family system) They drain me and deplete me of very valuable emotional energy that I need to use for myself and my friends that I support. 

I gain  little to nothing by trying to convince some prospective adopter that lives out where Jesus left his shoes that there is evil as well as good in adoption.  I don’t need to debate my position with adoptees who wish to use me as the whipping post stand in for the natural mother they feel abandoned them.  I used to. I don’t anymore.

I have learned my limits. I am indeed selective as to which burning buildings I run into.    When there is a need, a need that appears to have a benefit to the cause, I will refer those individuals to mothers who have a different type of strength than I do.  There are the Clauds and Nics of the world that have the ability to engage in the battles I don’t. I trust in their ability and dedication and also believe that if there is something they believe I can do, they will contact me.

For now, my energies, my dedication is into my own well being, my children (and that includes my daughter) as well as my search, reunion and family preservation efforts.

All that being said, I will continue to read, when I can, as I can, for I am confident it does indeed help me.

But I do greatly appreciate TheRightThings concern. I even appreciate that my ex attempted to teach me to drive a manual transmission. I just really wish he could have drawn me a picture of the engine.

It would have come to me eventually.

Adoptions Lucifer Effect

"Most of us have a tendency both to overestimate the importance of dispositional qualities and to underestimate the importance of situational qualities when trying to understand the causes of other people's behavior." p.8, The Lucifer Effect, Philip Zimbardo

I am half way through the book by Philip Zimbardo titled The Lucifer Effect: Understanding How Good People Turn Evil. While I joked in a separate post that I purchased the book to understand how the broker who sold my child could have become so evil, the truth is that I bought the book in an attempt, a hope, to understand my own wicked ways.

The book focuses on two real life stories - The Stanford Prison Experiment and the heinous actions of the US military at Abu Ghraib.  The authors position in citing both cases is the related systems must be held responsible as much, if not more than, the individual perpetrators. The author was part of the defense team for soldier(s) in the Abu Ghraib trials and argued that others, higher up the chain of command, and the military framework as a whole, contributed to, and should also be held accountable for, the crimes those soldiers committed.

There is a great deal of research provided on situational influences versus dispositional. How our environment, our authoritative bodies, parents, officers, church, etc. can influence a normally good decent person to do something criminal - even when he or she knows it is wrong. The author provides a vast array of examples from history that illustrate  how presumably good people or causes can turn out to be quite evil.

I cannot help but reflect on my experiences as I read the book.

For more than twenty years, I felt that I committed a serious crime in surrendering my daughter. I mean, I knew it was wrong (why would others tell me to keep it a secret if it wasn't something to be ashamed of?), I knew it was not what I wanted to do, yet I stifled my voice and I signed those papers and handed my infant child over to complete strangers. That to me is a criminal act (it would be if I left her in a mall but since I abandoned her in a hospital under the umbrella of "adoption" it is somehow legal and supposed to be morally acceptable.)

I feel I committed a crime against nature and against my child's soul. As the years went by and I learned what was truly done to me by the brokers who sold my daughter, how I was lied to, coerced and intimidated with promissory notes and threats of lawsuits, about primal wound, and more, my agony increased. The older my daughter got, the more I matured, the more real the crime became. With my own maturity came a greater understanding of the crime I had comitted.

Being ignorant of the law does not make you exempt from it. Consider me guilty as charged. Yes, I am my own judge and jury.

Many feel that abortion is a criminal act against the unborn. I consider adoption, an adoption like my daughters, a criminal act against the born. If abortion is an act of murdering a body, adoption is murdering a soul - but only in part.

For me, the circumstances that lead to the surrender of my daughter to adoption was a crime and one far was worse than aborting her. For me, I feel that in effect, I did abort her. My actions, however misguded, forced her (and I) to walk around as living abortions. She, as a living aborted child and I, as an aborted mother. I aborted the child she was supposed to be and forced her to live a dual life. One with two sets of parents, two names, and a tremendous amount of conflict and anxiety.

When I ponder adoptees or first mothers who are struggling, the artist in me sees a person walking around with abortion goo all over them but smiling and acting happy about it. We are supposed to be so grateful that we were "saved" from that horrible life we would have had if we kept our children. Our children are supposed to be thrilled that they were abandoned and they should never, ever, point out the red elephant of adoption/abortion goo that dribbles down their face as if they were Carrie at the prom.

Go ahead, be shocked and horrified at my description.  It should show the depth of my own horror and what I have lived with for twenty years.  I did that. I caused that walking abortion for both of us.

But why? How? How does a honor student, smart girl, with "potential" from a middle class family make such a terrible decision?

I have worked hard for many years to manage my guilt and shame at doing such a horrible thing to my child. I have spent countless hours in therapy. I have read books. I have caressed, spoken to and danced with my inner child. I have attended support groups. I have taken anti-depressant medication. All this and more to manage the anxiety attacks,panic disorder, nightmares, flashbacks, irregular sleep patterns and corrosive feelings that attached themselves to my soul after I spent 5 months in a maternity home and surrendered my child to strangers. Why do I suffer this way? Why must I?

Because I did a bad thing. A very bad thing - a horrible thing. The church said so, my parents said so, the agency said so and most importantly, my heart said so.

Over the years people told me to blame the system not myself. To look at the forces that were at play and what was done and said to me. They urged me to look at how I was dehumanized, vulnerable, abandoned, and alone. They encouraged me to read up on Stockholm Syndrome and compare that to indivdiuals who are held captive in a maternity home with no familiar person or object around. Add the hormones of pregnancy and youth and please, good golly, Suz, forgive yourself.

I couldn't.

Intellectually I understood their point and understood their attempts to make me feel better (and even make themselves feel better if they were part of the crime). Emotionally, deep inside my soul, I could never agree. No amount of reading, writing, Verrier or Fessler worship could lessen the pain. I should have known better. I should have been smarter, stronger, wiser. I should have used my voice.

This book has made me really see.

I had no voice. Sheet, I had no name. (I was directed by the maternity home director not to tell anyone my full name and not to ask anyone for theirs. We had babies - not names, not identities. We were not people. Maternity home version of "don't ask, don't tell". Walking incubators for someone elses child.). How could that shell of a person, the shell created by others have a voice?

Since starting to read this book, I felt something start to shift. I see now, I mean I really SEE and FEEL how I was part of a larger system. An evil system that dehumanized and deindividuated me.  Thank you, Phil Zimbardo.

I am only half way through with it. Even at this stage of the book, I see,and finally believe, how situational and systemic forces can indeed make good men or women do horrible things, I am finding it easier to look at all the factors that were involved in my situation. It doesn't make it right - but it makes me understand it and hold myself a little less accountable.

I am taking notes as I read the book and intend to draw parallels to how the examples in the book (Stanford Prison Experiment and the crimes of the U.S. military at Abu Ghraib) share similar themes with woman who are sent away, reconditioned, asked to signed relinquishment papers and then left to blow in the wind as their heart bleeds for a lifetime. More importantly, I hope to highlight how the larger system of the adoption industry can make good people like me, do a horrible thing, like surrender a helpless infant to a baby broker.

Piercing Pain

When you open the flesh, you let something in. - Alex Binnie

My seventeen year old niece got her upper ear cartilage pierced. My sister, her mother, video taped the event. Some might find that a bit much but in my sisters family getting a piercing, especially a non standard one, is kind of a big deal.

My niece is a lot like me in that she values individual self expression and tends to run with an alternative crowd. Slightly goth, somewhat EMO, very into music. Shes neat. I like her. Correction, I love her. Adore her.

I have always been drawn to her as there is a similar conflict in side her. I can feel it. I can see her easily misunderstood values and even easier hurt feelings. She is funky, different and very outspoken. She is a very sensitive girl – protector of animals, feelings of the underdogs and rejected types and always looking out for the environment. She has volunteered for Make A Wish Foundation and has donated her hair to Locks of Love.

When I first saw the video on facebook I got excited. I was happy for her that mom had finally relented and allowed her to get the piercing. As I watched the video, I saw the technician ask her if she was okay, was she going to pass out, did she need her moms hand. She said no. I could only see the side of her and the quality wasn’t very good but I anxiously awaited the big event like it was Christmas morning.

She winced when the first hole for the barbell was made. I saw her jump a bit but she was a trooper. The technician asked her if she was okay. She said yes, then she said no, then she said she wanted her mom closer. My sister moved in and took her hand.

The technician gave her a minute to collect herself before making the final piercing for the barbell.  This hole appeared to hurt more. Perhaps she was more sensitive to how it was going to feel and she psyched herself up. She jumped a bit, winced, but was successful.

My initial glee began to mirror her own anxiety and then I burst into tears. 

Not really tears. More like a sobs. Uncontrollable sobs. Irrational, mind blowing, eye puffing sobs.

Was I upset for my niece? What the hell was I crying about? My niece got her ear pierced for goodness sake. She did not get her ear cut OFF. She did not become suddenly deaf.

Of course, it wasn’t my niece I was crying for.

As I watched the video, I could not help but think of yeah, you got it, my daughter. My daughter who also has her nose pierced and I believe her upper ear with a ring.

Did she go alone for those events?
Did she go with friends?

She once told me she had to write an essay to her adoptive dad to get permission for the nose piercing. I am going to guess they did not go with her.

I would have. I would have loved to. I am saddened I did not get to.

My heart just ached.

It probably does not help that my niece carries the same birth name as my daughters amended name.

Silly, I guess.

My adoption trauma even includes grieving for piercings got, piercings viewed, mothers there and mothers not.