I know I promised part 3, but it's going slowly and painfully. It will come out soon - meaning I don't know when, but sometime before I die.
I have spent part of this weekend trying to get through to an expectant mother who is hell bent on placing her child for adoption. She feels this is the best solution for this, her third child. She has been offered help in many forms, but plays the "you all are bitter and negative" card at every opportunity whenever any of us mothers of loss try to reach her. She deleted the facts given to her - not just opinions or actual knowledge of the pitfalls from mothers, but the hard cold researched facts. At her young age, she knows everything. She is "brave". She is "selfless". She is a fool. If she would actually listen with an open mind, I would say this to her:
I'm way older than you. I went through a time in adoption history where girls were forced into a maternity home, drugged and restrained until you literally gave up in an emotional, drugged out heap. We lost our children to closed adoptions because we were young and unmarried. NOT because we were druggies or abusers - heck, I didn't even get to touch my son until he was 35. Nobody offered to help me. And I mean no one. Not even my parents, my own family.
You have complete strangers willing to help you financially and you spit in our faces. How lucky for you that you even have that choice. But, your pride will be your downfall in the end. You will realize your loss, regardless of whether your so-called "open" adoption remains open or not. And it will be too late. You will have lost your child, your flesh and blood. Your remaining children will have lost their sister. And your youngest will forever feel the pain of abandonment, of being "different". What will she be told? The old "your mother loved you so much she placed you"? Do you realize how damaging that is? No, you don't because you don't know. We know.
You've trotted out your little supporters. Good for you. They have also told us all we are mistaken, we know nothing, we are bitter, blah, blah, blah. But trust me when I say that when reality of what has happened gets a grip on you, these are the same people who will tell you that this was your choice, you signed the papers, or even the tired old "get over it" schtick. Then you are forever known as the bitch who gave her child away. No that's not rhetoric; it's truth. But you don't believe me because you know everything. OK, good for you.
For everyone of the "my brother's father-in-law's great aunt's grandmother's dog was adopted and is happy" stories you hear, I can produce an adoptee who has suffered abuse or neglect at the hands of the adoptive parents, identity issues, a longing for "home" that doesn't seem to be satisfied even in reunion (my apologies for speaking for adoptees; I just know what I've seen, heard and read). For every happy-dappy little beemommy you produce, probably via the vile Brave Love organization (#notabravelove, #notbravelove), I can show you a woman living her life in pain and torment, whether or not it was her idea to place or she was forced. And apparently, these are chances that you are willing to take. I have no idea why. You are playing the lottery with your life and, more importantly, your child's life. We all know the odds in the lottery aren't good.
If you met me, you would see a woman with a successful career, college educated, a 27 year marriage with a nice home (albeit modest), two dogs, 4 kids and two grandkids. A woman that enjoys knitting, reading, yoga, and music. You must think I sit around all day being depressed and "picking on" people like you. Sorry to disappoint you, but I live my life and love my life. Except for that whole adoption loss thing. That is a brain beater, a slow killer. I have to fight everyday to see the good side of my life and not let that pain overshadow my joy. Its a learned from years and years of loss. It is a huge part of me. And here is the rub: IT NEVER GOES AWAY. Once you either take that path willingly or are kicked in the butt down that path, you are never the same. But you know better. OK.
You need to know that we mothers of loss try to help because we don't want you going down that path. We don't want you making a decision because of money which is the WORST reason ever for placing your child. We want to see your family flourish and intact. We want to see your children grow and you grow as a mother and a person. We aren't just bitches sitting around pouncing on innocents. We aren't trying to make you "feel bad". We really do care. But you have chosen to disregard our collective years of experience (I personally have 38 years). All right then.
So, all I can say is this. I wish you peace and light. I hope this works out for you. I wish you well. But should you feel the need, we mothers are here for you, whether you decide to parent or not. I sincerely hope that your 15 minutes of fame will be worth it. Who am I to say it won't? Just somebody who knows. Nobody, really. Just another bitter "birth"mother.
Monday, May 25, 2015
Saturday, May 16, 2015
15 Hours: Nothing to you; EVERYTHING to me (Part 2)
I saw the psychologist two more times. We never discussed this again. I think he knew it was a shock for me to hear this, and I didn't wish to discuss it further at that time.
I decided there was no way I could really get the information I needed to make an adequate assessment of the situation. I was in reunion, I was happy, my son and I were building a relationship. In many ways, I felt freer than I had in years. I had to put the past in the past and let it go. Besides, what could I do about it? Absolutely nothing. It was 35 years ago.
That worked for a few months. I was happy, or so I thought. Anger began to creep in as I realized all I had lost over the years. Every time I thought about it, I always came back to the question - was I really drugged? I woke up one night from a sound sleep with the thought "you were drugged - you know it" and decided that I could not continue without learning the truth.
I didn't fax a request to the hospital again. This time I took my filled out request form in person to the records department of the hospital. I handed them to the woman who looked at them and said, "these records have likely been destroyed." I informed her that my friend's mother who was in the same home a decade earlier had received her records a few short months before, so I knew that wasn't true. And I wanted mine. "I'm not sure we can find them." My reply was polite, low key and respectful. I told her, "Look. I've requested this information twice before and received nothing. I know those records exist. I'm sure they are in some dark, dirty corner of a dusty file room in the lower bowels of this hospital. But, if I don't receive the records in a timely manner - let's say two weeks - I will come back with an attorney and demand the records be found. Now, neither one of us wants that. All that means is you will be embarrassed and I will be out money. Give it a try - please?" Long pause. "Would you like to pick them up?" Oh yes please. Just give me a call.
Better than that, a large envelope arrived about 5 days later. It had the hospital name on the outside and I knew what it was. I took the envelope, sat down, and opened it with shaking hands. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw on the top page. I was staring at a copy of my son's footprints. Tears. I was in tears. I was so completely thrown off, I had to stop and wipe my eyes. I had to adjust my glasses to realize what I was really looking at. It was the footprints of my newborn son who I had never held. The baby that existed, but didn't exist. The tiny prints of toes that I never got to count on little feet I never kissed. Never touched. Wasn't even allowed to see. It was too much for me. I got up, left the papers on the table and walked away.
Later, I returned, ready to face the past. I separated the papers into two stacks: records dealing with me and records dealing with my son. I began to read mine (it would be some time before I could look at his. When I did, it was devastating to me.) I found nothing remarkable. No mention of any drugs other than copious amounts of demerol and some codeine. Except for something called Tuinal* (how it appears on the records) with no doses listed.
All of the handwritten chart notes were positive, upbeat. I had a good night. I was sleeping now. Blah, blah, blah. No mention of any complaints, pain or anything really. I assumed I was the model little beemommy - even though I couldn't remember a thing. This was confusing to me. How could I have just rolled over like the proverbial dog and let this happen? Did I not fight? Did I not object? Did I not question? Nothing in the notes indicated I had. This made me feel worse about the situation. So, clearly I wasn't drugged. The psychologist was mistaken. I was just another one of many who rolled over and took it. Signed the papers. Gave up. OK, then. That's my story. Deal with it.
If it is possible, the guilt I now felt over relinquishment was more than it was before. I had given up. Surrendered. Ran the white flag up the pole, played the game, did the "right" thing. Never stood up. Never fought. I was a loser. A quitter. I hated myself for it.
Maybe my mother was right all along. It was my idea, but I didn't remember it that way. She insisted it was. I. Gave. My. Child. Away. What kind of person was I? I thought of suicide. A lot. But, I figured I would mess that up, too. Then I would get locked in the place with the plastic tableware and have to deal with THAT on top of everything else.
I had to move on. I didn't want to ruin my marriage, my career and my reunion because I felt so bad about myself. I had to deal with this and move on. Fortunately, I was entering my last year of college and I literally threw myself into that. My degree means more to me than just an education. As far as I'm concerned, it saved my life. We Mothers of Loss know that it is quite possible to disconnect from feelings, shut it away and not look at it, think about it. Is that healthy? Not at all. But the human mind can only take so much at one time. If we have learned anything it is to shut off that painful part of ourselves so that we may function in the everyday world. Or at least think we can.......
Over the next year or so, I concentrated on school. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, I had lots of group projects keeping me busy. That plus a full time job and classes helped to keep my mind off my troubles. I felt I made progress with acceptance of my past situation and I slowly began to feel more at peace with myself.
In August of 2014, I had the opportunity to meet up with my cousin with whom I had been very close growing up. She was the only person, besides my immediate family, that was around me when I was pregnant. We had grown up together, but because of life situations, we lost touch with each other over the years. She met my son for the first time and welcomed him with open arms. We realized how much we missed each other over the years and made plans for dinner the next day to reconnect and fill in each other on our lives.
We discussed our childhoods, our times together, family members and just life in general. At some point, the conversation turned to my son and his relinquishment. I told her that I was basically at peace with the situation - I had to be, since I couldn't alter the past. The one thing that still pained me, would always pain me, was that I could not remember being in labor. I felt it sad that I had a child and did not have the memories of labor, good or bad, that I had with my subsequent daughters.
"Well, that's probably because they were giving you the same stuff they gave you when you were drugged and restrained for 3 days."
"What? What did you just say?" I heard, but I needed to make sure I heard it right.
"You were drugged and restrained for three days? They probably gave you the same stuff."
Immediately, I started to cry. My cousin realized in that instant what she hadn't known all along:
"You didn't know?" Her eyes were huge. She teared up looking at me. She had in one second delivered the truth and a blow at the same time. And she knew it.
"I thought, I mean, I wondered, I mean, the psychologist said, I don't...................how do you know this?"
"I overheard a conversation Mom (my mother's sister) had with one of the other sisters (there were two others). I heard your name, I was worried about you, and I was trying to see if I could find out how you were. Mom told me to get out. So, like any rebellious teenager, I left, but hung out just outside the doorway. I heard her tell whoever was on the other end of the phone that you had changed your mind, you were throwing a fit to see your baby, and they had to drug you and restrain you to the bed. You kept it up for 3 days."
Sick. I was sick. Heartbroken. But wait.........."You mean, I fought? I fought them?" She said yes, apparently really hard. Hard enough to drug me into compliance.
I fought them. I wasn't a quitter. I didn't roll over and take it. I FOUGHT them. "Would you tell my son? I don't think I can right now, but could you? I want him to know I didn't give up - I fought. I tried." She said of course she would. I pulled out my phone.
The tears began to flow freely as I waited for him to answer. I'm not a silent crier. I heave, I sob, can't talk, and sound like I'm gasping for air. When he answered, I was trying to ask him if he would talk to my cousin. But, I couldn't get it out. He kept saying "Mom - are you ok? Mom - what happened?" I finally told him my cousin had something to tell him.
She relayed the story. I couldn't watch. I walked away, lit a cigarette, and tried to control myself. I ventured back over just in time to see her crying, saying repeatedly, "I know. I'm so sorry. I know." That got me started again. She handed the phone back to me, and all I could say was "I DID fight. I DIDN'T quit. I DID fight." I tried to console him. It didn't work. We were both devastated.
The nightmares began that night. Dreams of hands on my throat, being unable to breath, unable to move. Waking in a sweat with my heart racing, crying, gasping for air. I was so incredibly angry at my parents I couldn't even think. I knew that I wouldn't be able to pass this off to the background of my life again. I would not be able to feel peace about a situation of which I had no choice. We are talking about drugging a person into submission. Stealing their child through force. Taking away the right to parent their child without any reason to do so. It was now a verified fact. My parents stood by and let their 17 year old daughter be drugged and restrained into making the decision they wanted. Maybe it was their idea to do it; maybe it was hospital protocol; maybe the adoption agency was so desperate for babies they justified it. I don't know. BUT, they knew it was going on - my mother was the one who told her sister. How could you allow that to happen to your daughter? How could you be so intent on ridding yourself of your own grandson that you could stand by while this happened? Oh yes, I forgot. You went to Mexico for a vacation, what, the day after he was born? Right. You weren't there to witness the atrocity or the aftermath. Out of sight; out of mind. Thanks mom and dad.
I knew what I had to do. I had to pull that paperwork out and really see it, not just look at it. I remembered what the psychologist said - don't look at what IS there; look at what ISN'T there based on your limited memory. I would get as far with this as I could. I had to - this is my life we are talking about. I wanted it back, nightmare free with a clearer understanding of what really happened. Painful or not, I had to begin again. I also felt a call to that adoption agency was most certainly in order. I wanted whatever else there was in that file or files that pertained to me.
I decided there was no way I could really get the information I needed to make an adequate assessment of the situation. I was in reunion, I was happy, my son and I were building a relationship. In many ways, I felt freer than I had in years. I had to put the past in the past and let it go. Besides, what could I do about it? Absolutely nothing. It was 35 years ago.
That worked for a few months. I was happy, or so I thought. Anger began to creep in as I realized all I had lost over the years. Every time I thought about it, I always came back to the question - was I really drugged? I woke up one night from a sound sleep with the thought "you were drugged - you know it" and decided that I could not continue without learning the truth.
I didn't fax a request to the hospital again. This time I took my filled out request form in person to the records department of the hospital. I handed them to the woman who looked at them and said, "these records have likely been destroyed." I informed her that my friend's mother who was in the same home a decade earlier had received her records a few short months before, so I knew that wasn't true. And I wanted mine. "I'm not sure we can find them." My reply was polite, low key and respectful. I told her, "Look. I've requested this information twice before and received nothing. I know those records exist. I'm sure they are in some dark, dirty corner of a dusty file room in the lower bowels of this hospital. But, if I don't receive the records in a timely manner - let's say two weeks - I will come back with an attorney and demand the records be found. Now, neither one of us wants that. All that means is you will be embarrassed and I will be out money. Give it a try - please?" Long pause. "Would you like to pick them up?" Oh yes please. Just give me a call.
Better than that, a large envelope arrived about 5 days later. It had the hospital name on the outside and I knew what it was. I took the envelope, sat down, and opened it with shaking hands. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw on the top page. I was staring at a copy of my son's footprints. Tears. I was in tears. I was so completely thrown off, I had to stop and wipe my eyes. I had to adjust my glasses to realize what I was really looking at. It was the footprints of my newborn son who I had never held. The baby that existed, but didn't exist. The tiny prints of toes that I never got to count on little feet I never kissed. Never touched. Wasn't even allowed to see. It was too much for me. I got up, left the papers on the table and walked away.
Later, I returned, ready to face the past. I separated the papers into two stacks: records dealing with me and records dealing with my son. I began to read mine (it would be some time before I could look at his. When I did, it was devastating to me.) I found nothing remarkable. No mention of any drugs other than copious amounts of demerol and some codeine. Except for something called Tuinal* (how it appears on the records) with no doses listed.
All of the handwritten chart notes were positive, upbeat. I had a good night. I was sleeping now. Blah, blah, blah. No mention of any complaints, pain or anything really. I assumed I was the model little beemommy - even though I couldn't remember a thing. This was confusing to me. How could I have just rolled over like the proverbial dog and let this happen? Did I not fight? Did I not object? Did I not question? Nothing in the notes indicated I had. This made me feel worse about the situation. So, clearly I wasn't drugged. The psychologist was mistaken. I was just another one of many who rolled over and took it. Signed the papers. Gave up. OK, then. That's my story. Deal with it.
If it is possible, the guilt I now felt over relinquishment was more than it was before. I had given up. Surrendered. Ran the white flag up the pole, played the game, did the "right" thing. Never stood up. Never fought. I was a loser. A quitter. I hated myself for it.
Maybe my mother was right all along. It was my idea, but I didn't remember it that way. She insisted it was. I. Gave. My. Child. Away. What kind of person was I? I thought of suicide. A lot. But, I figured I would mess that up, too. Then I would get locked in the place with the plastic tableware and have to deal with THAT on top of everything else.
I had to move on. I didn't want to ruin my marriage, my career and my reunion because I felt so bad about myself. I had to deal with this and move on. Fortunately, I was entering my last year of college and I literally threw myself into that. My degree means more to me than just an education. As far as I'm concerned, it saved my life. We Mothers of Loss know that it is quite possible to disconnect from feelings, shut it away and not look at it, think about it. Is that healthy? Not at all. But the human mind can only take so much at one time. If we have learned anything it is to shut off that painful part of ourselves so that we may function in the everyday world. Or at least think we can.......
Over the next year or so, I concentrated on school. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, I had lots of group projects keeping me busy. That plus a full time job and classes helped to keep my mind off my troubles. I felt I made progress with acceptance of my past situation and I slowly began to feel more at peace with myself.
In August of 2014, I had the opportunity to meet up with my cousin with whom I had been very close growing up. She was the only person, besides my immediate family, that was around me when I was pregnant. We had grown up together, but because of life situations, we lost touch with each other over the years. She met my son for the first time and welcomed him with open arms. We realized how much we missed each other over the years and made plans for dinner the next day to reconnect and fill in each other on our lives.
We discussed our childhoods, our times together, family members and just life in general. At some point, the conversation turned to my son and his relinquishment. I told her that I was basically at peace with the situation - I had to be, since I couldn't alter the past. The one thing that still pained me, would always pain me, was that I could not remember being in labor. I felt it sad that I had a child and did not have the memories of labor, good or bad, that I had with my subsequent daughters.
"Well, that's probably because they were giving you the same stuff they gave you when you were drugged and restrained for 3 days."
"What? What did you just say?" I heard, but I needed to make sure I heard it right.
"You were drugged and restrained for three days? They probably gave you the same stuff."
Immediately, I started to cry. My cousin realized in that instant what she hadn't known all along:
"You didn't know?" Her eyes were huge. She teared up looking at me. She had in one second delivered the truth and a blow at the same time. And she knew it.
"I thought, I mean, I wondered, I mean, the psychologist said, I don't...................how do you know this?"
"I overheard a conversation Mom (my mother's sister) had with one of the other sisters (there were two others). I heard your name, I was worried about you, and I was trying to see if I could find out how you were. Mom told me to get out. So, like any rebellious teenager, I left, but hung out just outside the doorway. I heard her tell whoever was on the other end of the phone that you had changed your mind, you were throwing a fit to see your baby, and they had to drug you and restrain you to the bed. You kept it up for 3 days."
Sick. I was sick. Heartbroken. But wait.........."You mean, I fought? I fought them?" She said yes, apparently really hard. Hard enough to drug me into compliance.
I fought them. I wasn't a quitter. I didn't roll over and take it. I FOUGHT them. "Would you tell my son? I don't think I can right now, but could you? I want him to know I didn't give up - I fought. I tried." She said of course she would. I pulled out my phone.
The tears began to flow freely as I waited for him to answer. I'm not a silent crier. I heave, I sob, can't talk, and sound like I'm gasping for air. When he answered, I was trying to ask him if he would talk to my cousin. But, I couldn't get it out. He kept saying "Mom - are you ok? Mom - what happened?" I finally told him my cousin had something to tell him.
She relayed the story. I couldn't watch. I walked away, lit a cigarette, and tried to control myself. I ventured back over just in time to see her crying, saying repeatedly, "I know. I'm so sorry. I know." That got me started again. She handed the phone back to me, and all I could say was "I DID fight. I DIDN'T quit. I DID fight." I tried to console him. It didn't work. We were both devastated.
The nightmares began that night. Dreams of hands on my throat, being unable to breath, unable to move. Waking in a sweat with my heart racing, crying, gasping for air. I was so incredibly angry at my parents I couldn't even think. I knew that I wouldn't be able to pass this off to the background of my life again. I would not be able to feel peace about a situation of which I had no choice. We are talking about drugging a person into submission. Stealing their child through force. Taking away the right to parent their child without any reason to do so. It was now a verified fact. My parents stood by and let their 17 year old daughter be drugged and restrained into making the decision they wanted. Maybe it was their idea to do it; maybe it was hospital protocol; maybe the adoption agency was so desperate for babies they justified it. I don't know. BUT, they knew it was going on - my mother was the one who told her sister. How could you allow that to happen to your daughter? How could you be so intent on ridding yourself of your own grandson that you could stand by while this happened? Oh yes, I forgot. You went to Mexico for a vacation, what, the day after he was born? Right. You weren't there to witness the atrocity or the aftermath. Out of sight; out of mind. Thanks mom and dad.
I knew what I had to do. I had to pull that paperwork out and really see it, not just look at it. I remembered what the psychologist said - don't look at what IS there; look at what ISN'T there based on your limited memory. I would get as far with this as I could. I had to - this is my life we are talking about. I wanted it back, nightmare free with a clearer understanding of what really happened. Painful or not, I had to begin again. I also felt a call to that adoption agency was most certainly in order. I wanted whatever else there was in that file or files that pertained to me.
Friday, May 15, 2015
15 Hours: Nothing to you, EVERYTHING to me (Part 1)
I am currently in the process of trying to break down and subsequently work through the time frame of the birth of my lostnowfound son. Received information has brought about more questions than answers. One of the things that really, really bothers me is what happened in the 15 hours prior to arriving at the hospital for his birth?
In 2007, I received my son's OBC, a newborn hospital picture, and a small piece of paper with the pertinent birth information: weight, length, etc. The agency associated with the unwed mother's home gave it to me. It was really quite unremarkable until I read one line: Duration of Labor: 18 hours. Eighteen hours? Seriously? I remember only about 3 or 4 things about the entire birth process, and my labor lasted 18 hours? With my second child, I was in labor 7 hours. The third? 2 hours. I realize I was young and it was my first delivery, but 18 hours?
At that point in my life, I wasn't ready to dive into the whys and the what fors of what really happened. It was the fog with a twist. I knew I was wronged, I knew I was forced, but I tried to put it out of my mind. We all know the impossibility of that. But, in 2007, I was just beginning to admit to myself that I was lied to, it didn't get better, you didn't forget and you have to live with the decision forced upon you for the rest of your life. I was just admitting that my mother orchestrated the whole thing, that she DIDN'T have my best interest at heart, and that subconsciously she had made me pay for my "mistake" for as many years as I could remember. I was finally discovering that I wasn't a waste of air space on the planet. I was in college and actually was very smart, made very good grades, and enjoyed it tremendously. So, the worm had started to turn, but I still wouldn't have had the emotional stability to deal with that which I have dealt in the last 3 years. If you could call me stable. I stumbled and fell many times, but I'm stilling standing. But, I digress.
To say it bothered me that I could not remember my labor would be like saying that I was slightly annoyed for being attacked by hornets. I wanted to remember. Upon reunion, I hoped that the memories would come back and I could find some precious moment where I could find love, or pain, or anything really. It didn't happen and I chalked it up to "emotion blocking". I couldn't remember or I wouldn't remember, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I accepted it as what was and decided I might as well accept it.
My first stumble came when a psychologist described true emotional blocking. These aren't the exact words, but the conversation went something like this:
"So. You remember waking up in a room and having no idea why you were there, how you got there, or what was happening?"
Me: "That's right. I was in some room that kind of looked like a hospital room, but there was a desk with some chairs stacked on it, like it was being used for storage. I just remember waking up, looking around, and being afraid."
Him: "Then what happened?"
Me: "I don't know. I kind of feel like maybe I passed out? I just don't remember. Is that what emotional blocking is?"
He asked me about the other memories I had of labor and delivery. I told him what I could remember, and how I just felt like I was going in and out of consciousness. It was strange to have a very definite, prominent memory, then - blackness. It bothered me. I wanted to remember.
Me: "But, that's emotional blocking, right?"
He then asked what I remembered about the days following. Who visited me? How did I feel physically? How did I feel emotionally? What was I thinking? I told him that I didn't remember any visitors, or any feelings from that time. To be honest, I only remember one thing about it (which I told him) until the day I left the hospital and returned to the home. Most of that first day, and the 2 days following are just - blackness.
Me: "But that's normal, right? I'm hiding those feelings because it's too painful, right?"
Silence. Pen twirling. Note consulting. Pensive.
"Do you have your medical records from the hospital? Can you get them?"
Me: "I have tried twice, but never received anything."
Him: "You need to get those records. Go over them with a fine tooth comb. Look not only for what IS there, but for what's NOT there based on what little you remember."
Me: "So you think that will help me remember? Maybe shake it loose?"
Him: "Jackie, emotional blocking is when a person cannot admit an event happened. You not only admit it, you want to know exactly what happened complete with emotions and a time frame. That isn't the sign of someone refusing to acknowledge the situation. Have you ever considered that you might have been drugged? What you describe sounds more like a person who was heavily drugged and less like a person who just refuses to remember and is in denial."
If he had slapped me in the face, I wouldn't have been more surprised. And yet, I always wondered if that was a possibility. They wouldn't actually do something like that, would they? They don't really treat people like that, do they?
Shaking and nauseous, I thanked him. I'm not sure what for. Time was up. My head was pounding. I was sweating. I wasn't sure I could stand without assistance, but I did. I walked out of the office, zombie like, and got in my car. Even though it was summer and well into the 90's, I sat in my car with the windows rolled up and stared ahead. Then the tears came. I knew he was probably right. I didn't know how I knew, but I knew it. One thing I knew for sure - I had a lot of work to do. And I wasn't sure I was strong enough to survive it. And I needed a cigarette.
In 2007, I received my son's OBC, a newborn hospital picture, and a small piece of paper with the pertinent birth information: weight, length, etc. The agency associated with the unwed mother's home gave it to me. It was really quite unremarkable until I read one line: Duration of Labor: 18 hours. Eighteen hours? Seriously? I remember only about 3 or 4 things about the entire birth process, and my labor lasted 18 hours? With my second child, I was in labor 7 hours. The third? 2 hours. I realize I was young and it was my first delivery, but 18 hours?
At that point in my life, I wasn't ready to dive into the whys and the what fors of what really happened. It was the fog with a twist. I knew I was wronged, I knew I was forced, but I tried to put it out of my mind. We all know the impossibility of that. But, in 2007, I was just beginning to admit to myself that I was lied to, it didn't get better, you didn't forget and you have to live with the decision forced upon you for the rest of your life. I was just admitting that my mother orchestrated the whole thing, that she DIDN'T have my best interest at heart, and that subconsciously she had made me pay for my "mistake" for as many years as I could remember. I was finally discovering that I wasn't a waste of air space on the planet. I was in college and actually was very smart, made very good grades, and enjoyed it tremendously. So, the worm had started to turn, but I still wouldn't have had the emotional stability to deal with that which I have dealt in the last 3 years. If you could call me stable. I stumbled and fell many times, but I'm stilling standing. But, I digress.
To say it bothered me that I could not remember my labor would be like saying that I was slightly annoyed for being attacked by hornets. I wanted to remember. Upon reunion, I hoped that the memories would come back and I could find some precious moment where I could find love, or pain, or anything really. It didn't happen and I chalked it up to "emotion blocking". I couldn't remember or I wouldn't remember, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I accepted it as what was and decided I might as well accept it.
My first stumble came when a psychologist described true emotional blocking. These aren't the exact words, but the conversation went something like this:
"So. You remember waking up in a room and having no idea why you were there, how you got there, or what was happening?"
Me: "That's right. I was in some room that kind of looked like a hospital room, but there was a desk with some chairs stacked on it, like it was being used for storage. I just remember waking up, looking around, and being afraid."
Him: "Then what happened?"
Me: "I don't know. I kind of feel like maybe I passed out? I just don't remember. Is that what emotional blocking is?"
He asked me about the other memories I had of labor and delivery. I told him what I could remember, and how I just felt like I was going in and out of consciousness. It was strange to have a very definite, prominent memory, then - blackness. It bothered me. I wanted to remember.
Me: "But, that's emotional blocking, right?"
He then asked what I remembered about the days following. Who visited me? How did I feel physically? How did I feel emotionally? What was I thinking? I told him that I didn't remember any visitors, or any feelings from that time. To be honest, I only remember one thing about it (which I told him) until the day I left the hospital and returned to the home. Most of that first day, and the 2 days following are just - blackness.
Me: "But that's normal, right? I'm hiding those feelings because it's too painful, right?"
Silence. Pen twirling. Note consulting. Pensive.
"Do you have your medical records from the hospital? Can you get them?"
Me: "I have tried twice, but never received anything."
Him: "You need to get those records. Go over them with a fine tooth comb. Look not only for what IS there, but for what's NOT there based on what little you remember."
Me: "So you think that will help me remember? Maybe shake it loose?"
Him: "Jackie, emotional blocking is when a person cannot admit an event happened. You not only admit it, you want to know exactly what happened complete with emotions and a time frame. That isn't the sign of someone refusing to acknowledge the situation. Have you ever considered that you might have been drugged? What you describe sounds more like a person who was heavily drugged and less like a person who just refuses to remember and is in denial."
If he had slapped me in the face, I wouldn't have been more surprised. And yet, I always wondered if that was a possibility. They wouldn't actually do something like that, would they? They don't really treat people like that, do they?
Shaking and nauseous, I thanked him. I'm not sure what for. Time was up. My head was pounding. I was sweating. I wasn't sure I could stand without assistance, but I did. I walked out of the office, zombie like, and got in my car. Even though it was summer and well into the 90's, I sat in my car with the windows rolled up and stared ahead. Then the tears came. I knew he was probably right. I didn't know how I knew, but I knew it. One thing I knew for sure - I had a lot of work to do. And I wasn't sure I was strong enough to survive it. And I needed a cigarette.
Saturday, May 9, 2015
Collateral Damage in Adoption - I'm so sorry
Coming out of the adoption fog is not always easy. Ok, it's NEVER easy. It hurts. It is painful. It is gut-wrenching. Harder still is the realization that people I have met in my life were affected by this "choice" made for me. I didn't understand that at the time. Sadly, these same people didn't have a clue as to what was wrong with me, why I acted the way I did. Neither did I. Let me explain.
I met a man who I will call Bill. Bill was younger than I, very kind, sweet and treated me like an absolute queen. I treated him terribly. I've thought about him throughout the years and would give anything if I could apologize and explain to him what was going on with me at that time in my life. Alas, that's not to be. I guess that's my penance to pay. So, right here, right now, I will say that which I will never get to say to him directly.
Dear Bill,
I was a bitch. I am very cognizant of the way I treated you. You were loving and kind; I was bitter and hateful. You offered me love; I laughed in your face. I really hate qualified apologies, but I feel I owe you an explanation. First, however, let me say that I am profoundly sorry for the way I treated you. You didn't deserve it - nobody does.
Seven years before I met you, I lost my son to a forced adoption. I was 17 years old. My parents made me give my son away - they couldn't be bothered to help. Yes, people can force you to do that. I was forced into an "unwed mothers" home. I was made to feel like the lowest of the low because of "what I had done." I was told I could not bring "that baby" home. If I tried, I would be homeless. Just to make sure it happened and the papers were signed, they stood by while I was drugged and restrained in the hospital for three days for begging to see and hold my own baby. Once the papers were signed, no one ever spoke of it again. In the past couple of years, I have learned that someone - I'm not sure who - was likely paid off by the father to make this happen. I suspect he was under threat of jail for being almost twice my age and he had the money to buy his way out. I don't know that for sure and I may never know for sure. But, I will keep trying to discover the truth until the day I die. This was in 1976, and no help was forthcoming. If there was help available to allow me to be a parent to my son, no one ever mentioned it. Much later I found out my only other "option" would have been to become a ward of the state because I was underage. My son would also have become a ward of the state and not likely placed with me. But, even that option wasn't presented to me; I learned this fact about 3 years ago.
My sense of self was completely shattered. I was made to feel like I was damaged goods, especially by my mother. I hated myself. I hated what I did to my family and I hated my family for what they did to me. Try to understand there was no outlet for this pain and hate as I was told to never speak of it. To act like it didn't happen. Which is lame, because it did happen and I still feel the effects of this some 38 years later.
When I met you, I had just divorced. Another good relationship destroyed by my toxic behavior. I hurt so bad and had no idea who I was or that there was anything left in me that was any good. Honestly, you scared me. You looked at me like I was some kind of angel. You treated me with the utmost respect and care. Quite simply, I couldn't deal with that. At the time, I could not have admitted the things I am now able to admit - the absolute mental and physical agony I suffered. In my eyes, you were suspect. Like maybe there was something wrong with YOU for feeling that way. I could never at the time have accepted your love. I was a walking, talking, breathing, disaster area. So, I latched onto, and subsequently managed to marry, a man that was even more messed up than I. That lasted 13 months. He was abusive. I guess you get what you pay for.
After my second divorce, you came back. I was even more messed up then than I was the first time. As I recall, I laughed in your face. That's the way I remember it. I'm ashamed of the way I treated you. You came back with your heart on your sleeve; I ripped it off, threw it on the ground and stomped on it. Yes, that makes me a horror of a human being. I am so sorry. I have no words.
I doubt you have sat around and pined for almost 30 years. I realize this might have been just a crush for you. You might not even remember me. I doubt your life was destroyed because of my rejection. Clearly, you have led a good life as best I can tell. I know you have been married long term and have children. I'm very happy for you! I am also extremely proud of your service to our country and I want to thank you for that. I'm sure your accolades were earned at great expense to yourself and your family. You have my utmost respect.
I think of you often and with love. I wish I had been together enough as a person to give our relationship a try. But, I wasn't. And for that and the hurt I caused you at the time, I am sincerely and regretfully sorry. Carry my love and respect for you in your heart. Know that I would give anything to turn back time and try again. I can only move forward with hope for my future, possibly for the first time in my life.
Every time I hear Don Henley sing "The Boys of Summer" I think of you. I wish you peace, blessings and light in your life. May you be continually blessed everyday.
"Thought I knew what love was - what did I know. Those days are gone forever, I should just let them go, but - I can see you. Your brown skin shining in the sun. I see you walking real slow and smiling at everyone. I can tell you my love for you will still be strong - after the boys of summer are gone." If I only knew then what I know now...................................
I met a man who I will call Bill. Bill was younger than I, very kind, sweet and treated me like an absolute queen. I treated him terribly. I've thought about him throughout the years and would give anything if I could apologize and explain to him what was going on with me at that time in my life. Alas, that's not to be. I guess that's my penance to pay. So, right here, right now, I will say that which I will never get to say to him directly.
Dear Bill,
I was a bitch. I am very cognizant of the way I treated you. You were loving and kind; I was bitter and hateful. You offered me love; I laughed in your face. I really hate qualified apologies, but I feel I owe you an explanation. First, however, let me say that I am profoundly sorry for the way I treated you. You didn't deserve it - nobody does.
Seven years before I met you, I lost my son to a forced adoption. I was 17 years old. My parents made me give my son away - they couldn't be bothered to help. Yes, people can force you to do that. I was forced into an "unwed mothers" home. I was made to feel like the lowest of the low because of "what I had done." I was told I could not bring "that baby" home. If I tried, I would be homeless. Just to make sure it happened and the papers were signed, they stood by while I was drugged and restrained in the hospital for three days for begging to see and hold my own baby. Once the papers were signed, no one ever spoke of it again. In the past couple of years, I have learned that someone - I'm not sure who - was likely paid off by the father to make this happen. I suspect he was under threat of jail for being almost twice my age and he had the money to buy his way out. I don't know that for sure and I may never know for sure. But, I will keep trying to discover the truth until the day I die. This was in 1976, and no help was forthcoming. If there was help available to allow me to be a parent to my son, no one ever mentioned it. Much later I found out my only other "option" would have been to become a ward of the state because I was underage. My son would also have become a ward of the state and not likely placed with me. But, even that option wasn't presented to me; I learned this fact about 3 years ago.
My sense of self was completely shattered. I was made to feel like I was damaged goods, especially by my mother. I hated myself. I hated what I did to my family and I hated my family for what they did to me. Try to understand there was no outlet for this pain and hate as I was told to never speak of it. To act like it didn't happen. Which is lame, because it did happen and I still feel the effects of this some 38 years later.
When I met you, I had just divorced. Another good relationship destroyed by my toxic behavior. I hurt so bad and had no idea who I was or that there was anything left in me that was any good. Honestly, you scared me. You looked at me like I was some kind of angel. You treated me with the utmost respect and care. Quite simply, I couldn't deal with that. At the time, I could not have admitted the things I am now able to admit - the absolute mental and physical agony I suffered. In my eyes, you were suspect. Like maybe there was something wrong with YOU for feeling that way. I could never at the time have accepted your love. I was a walking, talking, breathing, disaster area. So, I latched onto, and subsequently managed to marry, a man that was even more messed up than I. That lasted 13 months. He was abusive. I guess you get what you pay for.
After my second divorce, you came back. I was even more messed up then than I was the first time. As I recall, I laughed in your face. That's the way I remember it. I'm ashamed of the way I treated you. You came back with your heart on your sleeve; I ripped it off, threw it on the ground and stomped on it. Yes, that makes me a horror of a human being. I am so sorry. I have no words.
I doubt you have sat around and pined for almost 30 years. I realize this might have been just a crush for you. You might not even remember me. I doubt your life was destroyed because of my rejection. Clearly, you have led a good life as best I can tell. I know you have been married long term and have children. I'm very happy for you! I am also extremely proud of your service to our country and I want to thank you for that. I'm sure your accolades were earned at great expense to yourself and your family. You have my utmost respect.
I think of you often and with love. I wish I had been together enough as a person to give our relationship a try. But, I wasn't. And for that and the hurt I caused you at the time, I am sincerely and regretfully sorry. Carry my love and respect for you in your heart. Know that I would give anything to turn back time and try again. I can only move forward with hope for my future, possibly for the first time in my life.
Every time I hear Don Henley sing "The Boys of Summer" I think of you. I wish you peace, blessings and light in your life. May you be continually blessed everyday.
"Thought I knew what love was - what did I know. Those days are gone forever, I should just let them go, but - I can see you. Your brown skin shining in the sun. I see you walking real slow and smiling at everyone. I can tell you my love for you will still be strong - after the boys of summer are gone." If I only knew then what I know now...................................
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