What Else Is There To Write?

I began this blog about a week before I happened upon my mother at Adoption.com.  I remember that day clearly.  It was the day I told my husband I HAD to find her.  I had to know the truth.  That being relinquished for adoption had colored every aspect of my life with abandonment.  That I thought it was the reason I had such difficulty relating to women.  That I thought it was the reason I never trusted easily.

I’ll tell you a little story so you can understand.  Years and years ago, I was flying back to my alma mater for homecoming.  My friend Heather was picking me up.  Now Heather is a good one.  I met her freshman year of college in a theater class and we intensely disliked one another.  Then we met again at the end of our senior year when I applied to be her room mate for the summer and we hit it off instantly.  we were thick as theives the entire summer and are still good pals to this day.  She even stood up in my wedding. So anyway, the plane is getting ready to land and I start to panic.  What if Heather doesn’t come and pick me up?  I just know it!  I know it!  She’s not going to come and pick me up!

My heart rate sped up, my palms began to sweat.  I got a stomach ache.  I was almost in a panic.  And then another voice in my head said, “Issy!  what are you thinking?  She is your friend!  Of course she’s going to pick you up!”

And I calmed down.  And she was there.  And I was thrilled.

That thing with Heather though, that happened a lot with me inside my head.  I used to have a hard time trusting anybody.

I’ve gotten better over the years but it’s always been a struggle.

I knew that I needed to resolve this once and for all.  And then I did.  The answers stared back at me on a computer screen a week later. It was insane.

I jumped feet first.  I met my mother two days after I found her and it was one of the best days of my life.  I rode that high for about a week and it all went downhill from there.

I wish I could say everything I learned but it is just too disturbing.

I feel like I got tossed into a big storm that I was not ready to handle.  I feel like I bit off too much.

I kick myself at times because I did the research.  I read the books but the books couldn’t prepare me for the absolute ugly I found when I made contact.

And I am supposed to just accept all of this.  To not judge.  To be the understanding long lost daughter.  And not only that, I am supposed to embrace this, to enmesh myself into this, condone it, to forgive it.  I can’t do that.  Not now.  Probably not ever.  It is too much.

I always wanted to know where I came from.  It’s funny.  My adoptive parents, they praised me for a lot of things.  They told me on a regular basis that I was smart and creative and beautiful.  They took no credit for any of these things.  My mom has told me on many occasion how lucky she thinks she is.  She tells me that she and my dad could never had made children as wonderful as my brother and me.

I admit, I reveled in her praise and I would smile secretly to myself when she gave it.

When I looked in the mirror growing up, I saw a big mystery.  When I took honors classes and went to gifted and talented summer school, I assumed it was part of the mystery too.  The mystery of adoption.  I took pride in that mystery, it was a part of me.

That all changed the minute I found her.

I couldn’t look in a mirror for the first year and a half of my reunion without feeling revulsion. The mystery was solved, I look like a person whose lies left me abandoned and alone.  I look like a person I do not respect.  I looked ugly.

I gained twelve pounds in the months after my reunion.  I ate and ate the pain.  I tried my best to cover who I was because I hated who I was because it was a part of her.

This Christmas, I met a relative who I have heard awful stories about.  I can’t even begin to go there but I met him.  And he had my eyes and he had my hair and he had my skin and he had my mouth and he had my nose and he looked more like me than any of them.  And I wanted to puke right then and there.

My reunion has been the best and worst thing to ever happen to me.  The best because I found my own self worth in one simple phone call.  The best because learning my medical history prompted me to seek treatment for the depression I’ve been battling since I was twelve.  The best because for whatever happened after, I got to hug my mother and I really needed that hug.

But it’s been the worst thing ever to find everything else.

I still don’t know if it was worth it.

I Just Can’t Put Myself Out There

That is it.

That’s all.

I just can’t do it right now.

And I don’t think it’s my job to fix this.  I just don’t have the energy.

I know there are people who lament the fact that some adoptees think it should all be about them but I’m not that adoptee.  Not really.

I’m not being met half way and I don’t think I should have to hit myself over the head anymore with this stuff.

I’m not sure who I am trying to justify myself to with this writing.  Not myself or my husband or my kids.  They know…we’ve all been through the ringer.

Not my friends, my true friends who know the scoop.  It’s funny, not one of my real life friends gets angry with me when I tell them about my relationship with my mothers.  They don’t try to personalize it or defend firstmothers because this isn’t about political brouhaha.  This is my life here.  And they see how much I am hurt and they don’t think I deserve it.  I don’t think I deserve it either but at the same time, there is a part of me that is ashamed of the person i turned out to be because obviously I am not good enough for my own mother.

It’s embarrassing.

My amom and abrother are frankly just tired of seeing me get hurt.

It’s funny to me how so many people just want to see their own side.  We adoptees have been trying to heal everyone around us since the day we came on this planet.  Sometimes, I think we are able to see everyone’s position but our own.  It’s easier that way somehow.  And when we ask for a little respect, a bit of dignity…well sometimes all hell breaks lose.

So  anyway, it looks like it will be emails and Christmas cards from here on out.  Small doses of toxicity, I can handle.  It’s about all I can handle.

I can’t do anymore.

And I’m ok with that.

I really am.

Well That Was Depressing

And yet very true to my heart.

I don’t know…I feel pretty good.  Except when I think about the fact that there is a woman who gave birth to me who once again I don’t want to talk to.

I know that this is not the mature way to handle my situation but I don’t really know what to do anymore.

I think maybe I should call my therapist.  Maybe she has some answers for me.  Because I sure don’t have any.

I just wish it could all go away.

Hurts

Why don’t you know how to be what I need?

Why can’t you see me?

Don’t throw money at me.  I don’t care about money.  Don’t give me stuff.  I don’t care about stuff.  Stuff doesn’t change anything.

Look at me.

Look at me.

See me for who I am not for who you dreamed I would be.

Because I seem to be good enough for everybody but you.  And that’s the way it’s been since the day I was born.

And I am good enough.  I am good enough for me.

And I don’t owe you anything.

Our story is such a sad one.

You broke my heart before I even knew who I was.

Where can we go from there?  From that?

Nowhere.  Everywhere.  Who knows.

I can’t even pretend to know anymore.

I just keep trying to move forward.

You can’t give me what I need.

And it’s sad because

all

I ever needed

was a mother.

My Computer Died

Kaput.

It just wouldn’t turn on.  It turns out that after five years of wear and tear, my little mac just couldn’t take it anymore.

Thank goodness the hard drive was ok.

Shew!

So now I am back in business.

I have things I want to say but I am too tired at the moment.

AND MY KIDS WILL NOT STAY IN BED!

It’s a good thing they are so freakin’ cute (I put that in for you Addie).

Anyhoo, things are good for me.  I got my new computer, I’m off work for the summer and I have a new ipod.

I haven’t heard from T since I emailed her that I would not be able to spend my birthday with her as it coincides with abother holiday that is important to my immediate family.  Oh and I also told her about my ovarian cyst and how it was leaking fluid and I might need surgery and all that.  No response.  None.

Nice.

Not the way I’d do things but what are you going to do?

The people who really care are the ones who are actually here for me.

I don’t have time to cry about it.

Have I told you about my dog?

She’s hilarious.  She kind of fell into our family.  She’s a rescue pup who really needed a home and we were it.

We got her when she was about ten weeks old.  She has a special need in that she has a physical difference similar to my younger son’s.  Don’t ask.  it’s crazy.  I have a soft spot for animals in need.

Anyway, my dog is very cool when she is not eating her own poop.  She’s pretty small, about 20 pouds right now.  Her mom was found running with a gang of male dogs when she was very pregnant with my dog and her seven brothers and sisters.  She was taken in by this rescue organization.  They cared for her and her pups until they were weaned and ready for new homes.  They found a home for the mama too.  Mama had a bad case of heartworms and was really sick but is doing well now.

My dog is way cool.  I like hanging out with her.  I took her for a nice long walk today and after, she ran to her water dish, laid down in front of it, put her head in and drank with her head in the bowl.  It was pretty funny.  She’s a character that one.

My computer died, I’m currently a SAHM and my kids are both still in their respective schools until the end of next week.  Life is good.

Like I said, I have more to say but maybe tomorrow.

“Issyfits”

AmyAdoptee calls my rants “issyfits” which cracks me up.

Every time I have one on my blog, my stats jump through the roof!

Crazy.

I signed up to run another marathon today for the Leukemia Lymphoma Society.

Did you know that my my mother was all set to keep me until she called home and learned that her mother had been diagnosed with Lymphoma?

Her brother drove up to where she was and forced her to sign the papers.  She didn’t want to.

You always hear about people whose lives are changed by cancer but I bet not many who were given up for adoption because of it.  Crazy.

And I didn’t know any of it until two years ago.  The agency told my aparents that my mother relinquished because she was going to college in the fall.  What a joke.  What a lie.

Lymphoma changed my entire life.  For better for worse, who knows?

But I found that running last year really empowered me as an adopted person.  I was running and raising money to kick cancer’s ass.  Blood cancer took me away from my blood. Isn’t that nuts?

That’s the thing about running long distances, it strips away the layers of who you are.  The last grueling mile of the 26.2, I ran with my family.  My husband pushed my three-year-old in a stroller and my seven-year-old ran with me.  It was so awesome.

And I’m doing it again.  I’m doing it because I don’t want another person to lose their family, their name, their mother, their siblings, their grandparents because of cancer.  This is important stuff.

I don’t sit around throwing issyfits all the time.  I run, I help, I teach, I try.  I try really hard to make my life count for something.

So you can judge me.  Judge away.

I’m running a marathon to kick cancer’s ass and take back my life.

What are you doing?

And…

To the person who found this blog by searching the words “my adoptive mother hates me”…

oh no!  That is horrible.  I am so sorry.  You need to get you butt over to AAFC right now!  Click on this link here.

And to any other adoptee looking for a place to call home, please head over to the best adoptee forum evah!  We take all kinds, really.  And we do our best to support each other.  And we even have yummy bbq’s!

It’s a place by adoptees and for adoptees and it’s an excellent place to find out that even when things seem dark, you are never alone.

And Let’s Get One More Thing Straight

I am not your daughter and you are not my mother.

I am not here to participate in some creepy form of parasitism in which you get your kicks off of my experience.

I am not here to provide insight into anyone else’s child.  I never have been.

I swear it is so creepy how many people write here and elsewhere that they like to read my blog because it helps them understand their own kid.

That is just offensive.  Like somehow I am interchangeable.  No way.

Creepy.

Here’s a newsflash people.  Adoptees, we are not a dime a dozen throw away kids you can exchange for one another at the grocery store.  You can’t vampire off of one adoptee to get your fill of the child who wants nothing to do with you.  It doesn’t work that way.  Ick.  Yuck. Yikes.  How insulting.  How revolting.

I am a unique and radiant being.  I am myself.

Did you know that I can bake the most delicious cakes cookies and pies you’ve ever tasted?  Or that my eyelashes are thick black and naturally curly?  Or that I can bend my thumb backward all the way behind my hand?

I bet your kid can’t do that.  You know why?  Because your kid isn’t me!

Did you know that I am about the clumsiest person you will ever meet?  That I couldn’t hit a baseball until I was twenty-one years old?  Did you know that I have loved Strawberry Shortcake dolls since I was eight and still have my collection in a box in my bedroom closet?  I also own Strawberry Shortcake pillowcases (made by my MIL) and the world’s coziest pair of Strawberry shortcake pj’s.  I bet you kid doesn’t.  You know why?

BECAUSE I AM NOT YOUR KID!!!!

I am not, nor will I ever be your kid.

I am left handed.  I am quirky.  I have a huge mane of curly auburn hair that always ends up looking like a big triangle after a couple of weeks no matter how I get it cut.  I am sassy and artsy and lazy and sleepy and stinky and flirty and smart and fun.  I am only myself.  And i do not under any circumstances want to be your kid.

We adoptees are not interchangeable.  We are not mindless robots or pawns in some kind of sick game.  I do not want to be a part of your drama.  I’ve got enough of my own, thanks.

I am M and D’s kid and T and R’s kid and that is it.  I don’t need any other parents in my life.  Four is more than enough.

So stop.  Stop trying to get your jollies from my blog and my existence.  It is offensive.

I am an individual and I offer no insight into anyone else’s experience but my own.

And what is really, really sad is that this is not the first time I have had to say this.

Seriously, go get help.

Now I’m not trying to insult the mentally healthy readers who patronize this blog.  You are lovely.  I’m talking about the psycho’s who have bigger adoption issues than I’ve ever had who are transferring their crap onto other people’s children.   Dude, go for a walk.  Get a hobby. Get a dog.  Dogs are nice.

Codependency is bad.  And one-sided codependency with an anonymous stranger who blogs (and happens to be adopted) is just pathetic.

I hate to say this because I know it will sound cliche but some of you really need to get a life.

Just To Clarify

I never dreamed of ding-dong-ditching my mother. I always wanted to know her and have a long term relationship with her.
And unlike her I had done my research ahead of time. I read the books and watched the movies. I knew the pitfalls that could happen in reunion.
I really wanted to make this work.
I still do.
I just don’t know how it’s possible.
She crosses every boundary. She breaks every rule we established in therapy and she does it with a smile on her face and a wicked gleam in her eye.
And have I mentioned that I paid for therapy?
Yep.
She didn’t even offer to go halvsies.

The fact is, she lied to me and she lied to N. Verrier and she wasted everyone’s time.

I dreamed of finding and meeting my mother my whole life.

It’s funny, I hate my adoptive last name. it is awful. Horrid. Terrible. More than one friend, when they have heard my maiden name gapes at me and then says, “Wow! I’m so sorry.”
My SIL refuses to take my brother’s name, not because she is a feminist but because it’s just terrible.

But you know what? I kept it. i kept it as my second middle name for one reason only. If my firstmother was ever able to open my records she might not be able to find me if I dropped it.

But you know what is hysterical? My mother didn’t only change her last name, she changed her first name too and she did it more than once. She changed her names and she didn’t look back.

Now, tell me I’m the one not invested.  Go ahead.

Grateful?

Nope. Not really. Why should I be?

Grateful that I wasn’t rejected by T?
Um…nope. Surprised but not grateful.

I am extremely independent. Always have been.

I don’t need much and I don’t expect much.

I am certainly no longer an infant nor do I care to be.

In fact, I can’t wait to get old.

My biggest fantasy in life is when I am a little old lady living alone with my cats and my books. If my husband is still kicking it, he’s welcome. He’s a quiet one and he likes book too.

Oooh! I can’t wait.

Am I grateful that a not so nice person deemed herself fit to acknowledge me after 34 years of abandonment? Not really. Not once I spent more than one day with her.

Do I feel her pain?
No. Nor do I want to. I have my own from being ditched at three-days-old. It’s not my job to fix her.

Nope. No thanks. Pass.

Seriously, I’m okay with a Christmas card relationship. It seems the healthiest thing to me at this point.

Maybe a visit every couple of years or so.

I could handle that just fine.

And honestly, I still don’t understand the whining I see elsewhere…about all of us bad adoptees. Really? I’m bad? For what, setting boundaries? Being healthy? Not wanting to change or compromise the person I am?

Well if that makes me bad, I don’t want to be good.

Reaping and sowing people. Reaping and sowing.

Ain’t adoption grand?