I have not been able to write lately because I have not been able to feel. That's not exactly true. I cry quite easily these days. I'm 37 weeks and 2 days pregnant and am very emotional. I have been avoiding feelings about Leslie again though, that's what I mean by I haven't been able to feel. The feelings are just below the surface I don't know how to access them nor do I really want to. I go through many phases like this. During these times I simply want to avoid my feelings. I often think that they're easier to manage if I avoid them. Logically, I know that this isn't true. I understand that this is maladaptive behavior that does not help the healing process. I wonder though, will I ever really heal? My therapist believes that the pain will never subside. I will always experience grief and I need to get to a place where I accept the feelings that come up. I need to be able to "sit with" the feelings rather than suppress them, avoid them, and pretend that they do not exist.
I know that a major reason why I am having such a hard time waiting for my son to arrive is somehow related to the loss I feel. I have been waiting ten years to be a mother. What's a couple more weeks, right? Oh it's hard alright. I can't move around much because I have such bad pelvic girdle and round ligament pain so I'm stuck at home much of the time. The minutes feel like hours. The hours feel like days. I want my son to be born so badly. Now if I was living in ignorance of my feelings the way I have for much of the time since I relinquished Leslie, then I would not see the connection between the almost desperate desire for my son to be born and the loss associated with the adoption. Well, I'm aware now so I know that the waiting is extra hard for me. People try to cheer me up by reminding me that I am so close to having my son in my arms. Really though, that just irritates me. I guess they don't know how long I have been really waiting. I have been waiting ten years, but once my son is in my arms the waiting does not end. I have to continue to remind myself and accept that I will always be waiting. My son who is about to be born will never be a replacement for the daughter I gave away. I am sure in many ways I will grow as I give love unconditionally to my son. I think that that love might also help me to heal in some ways. However, that love will never replace the love and the loss I feel about my daughter.
Today I absentmindedly took Leslie's pictures off of the fridge. I did it without thought, without understanding the meaning. The meaning is that right now it's too hard to see a picture of her face each time I open that appliance. It hurts too much. That's okay. I have to have compassion for where I'm at because judging my process never helps. Right now, I see a picture of her face and I feel sad. I also feel anger. I wish someone who was in a position to help me, namely my social worker, would have told me that most birthmothers feel deep pain at many times throughout their life because of the loss. It angers me that the social worker is an adoptive mother. How could she be unbiased? How could she be the support that I needed? I'm angry that I hurt. It's not that I would have made a different decision if I had known about the future pain. The choice I made was best for Leslie and me. I deserved to have all of the facts and possibilities presented to me. This is why I'm angry that I hurt. Right now I blame the adoption agency and I blame the system for letting me live my life without the knowledge about how I would be impacted. Here I am, ten years later, and now really starting to deal with the pain. I'm finally facing it. Well, I'm facing it as well as I can at this time.
Writing this blog is one way that I am attempting to confront the loss. I think it's important for birthmothers to share their experience. I hope that at some point a woman who is considering relinquishment reads what I write. I want her to know my experience. Although I have read many psychological studies that state the loss will permeate the birthmother's life, I am not presuming that my experience is the "norm." The reason why I would like another woman considering relinquishment to read about my experience is that I would hope that me sharing my true feelings would impact her in the way she needs it to. I was literally blind going into the decision. I never spoke with another birthmother. I never read anything written by a birthmother. I had no idea what any birhtmother experienced. I made my choice out of desperation. In retrospect, it would have benefited how I handled the grief if I heard/read about other birthmother's experiences.
Well, I have rambled on and I am not sure what else I can say about anything right now. I will sign out with an honest check it. I'm hurting. I am trying not to think about Leslie because I do not want the grief to overwhelm me, especially since I'm already third trimester hormonal and emotional right now.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Maladaptive coping strategies
There are many ways I attempt to deal with my pain that are incredibly unhealthy. I think this stems from the fact that so much of what I feel is unconscious. Frequently, I feel depressed, irritated, anxious, and/or agitated and I have no idea why. As I stated in my last post, it really wasn't until about a year ago that I made the connection. The source of much of my pain is from the choice I made to relinquish Leslie. It's sort of like walking around blind. Since I couldn't see I would bump into people constantly. Well, that's putting it mildly. I was blinded by my pain, but I didn't just bump into people. I have caused real wreckage. A couple of days ago I was reading an article in The Counseling Psychologist titled "Birth Parents in Adoption: Research, Practice, and Counseling Psychology" (2005). Authors Wiley and Baden stated that birthmothers experience grief in a myriad of ways, one of which being trouble in relationships. This stems from an inability to trust. In intimate relationships jealously and problems with commitment are common. Well, that explained a lot for me. I'm not blaming my pain or the adoption for the many severed relationships. I caused those, and there have been many. But the correlation makes sense.
I often say that hurt people hurt people. Now imagine living your life not knowing why you're hurt and often not even knowing that you are in pain. Over the years I have repeatedly felt betrayed by my friends, family, and significant others, but how often was that their fault. I propose that very little of the blame rests on them. After losing a large number of friends and significant others there comes a point where you have to stop and consider what the connection between all of that loss is. I can tell you now what the connection is. Me. I am incredibly sensitive so I can get hurt easily. I mentioned before that I am easily agitated and quick to get angry. Have I always been like this? Was I an angry child? In many ways I was. My parents mindlessly neglected my needs and did not give me the love and support I needed. I think the way I grew up predisposed me to be receptive to pain. I have to include that context because I do not believe that pain happens in isolation. There are many contributing factors.
But here's the catch. I have worked through much of that childhood pain yet I still experience the same symptoms. Remember them? I do. I'm overly sensitive, quick to blame others for my pain, and easily agitated. Oh and here's another one. I have such a hard time experiencing joy. This realization is really difficult to admit because I gravitate towards a victim mentality, unconsciously of course. What other explanation fits? I blame others for the hurt, frustration, and irritation that I feel. That means that I believe it is their fault, not mine. I am the victim. So much of what upsets me is insignificant. That doesn't mean that I have legitimately been hurt. I have in my own mind. And that doesn't mean that the people in my life are without fault. Sometimes they are. Sometimes my husband says things that really trigger me. The important question is why the words trigger me. I think that all of this unresolved grief has left me in a state of frequent volatility. Figuratively, I am a walking time bomb and the trouble is that I have no idea when I will detonate. At any given moment something could trigger me.
I think this is a good time to share one of my maladaptive coping strategies. If you're a woman who is ready this, you might relate to what I have to share. Body image is a HUGE trigger for me. In high school I thought I looked great. I thought that I was pretty good looking. I even dabbled in vanity because a Cosmo magazine article stated that acting extra confident is sexy. A year after Leslie was born I started to obsess about my body. I used to blame a friend of mine for this. I had this gorgeous friend who was about five years older than me who would obsess about her weight. She pretty obsessively watched what she ate and barely a day went by without some comment from her about how fat she was getting. At that time I still ate like a typical high school kid. I ate what I wanted when I wanted. Since I was a waitress at an Italian restaurant, I ate a lot of pasta. I would eat pasta for lunch, bread for snacks, then more pasta for dinner. My friend would comment on how lucky I was that I could eat like that without gaining weight.
When I first started examining how I became body obsessive, an exercise addict, and practiced disordered eating my mind drifted back to those memories. I remembered that friend and I thought it was her fault. Upon closer examination of the time line, I realize now that the negative self-image began after the adoption became finalized (one year after Leslie was born). That was when I let the cultural messages of inadequacy filter in. I compared myself to other women. I decided I wasn't pretty enough or thin enough. Simultaneously, my body began to change. The pasta I was eating regularly began to stick to my thighs and hips and arms. I looked in the mirror and began to hate what I saw. I never learned about healthy eating from my family. I did not see the connection between the quality of food I was putting in my body and health. I did know that if I wanted to loose the weight I would need to restrict what I ate.
For years I would binge then restrict my eating. Sometimes I would purge, but I never developed a ritual of it. It was a monthly kind of habit. Initially I tried exercise. I got a gym membership. At first I would go regularly, but within months I tired of the practice. There was no passion in that solitary, indoor activity for me. I resigned to my miserable existence. I watched television excessively. I immersed
myself in the lives of the fictional characters. I jumped from relationship to relationship thinking that the next guy would be the solution. Love is all we need, right? Well, what I needed was some self-love. It never came. Instead, I moved into disordered eating. I restricted my daily calorie intake to between 700 and 1000 calories. The closer to 700, the better I felt about myself. I was in control. It was a scary place to be in because of the roller coaster emotions. When I was able to restrict the way I planned I felt fabulous like I was the director in my own life. When I made a "mistake" and went for the treat I plummeted to failure status. The highs and lows were really hard. What was my solution? Pharmaceuticals.
Wellbutrin was the solution for me it promotes weight loss and because I thought it would treat the depression. Well, weight loss happened. I whittled myself down to 103 pounds. I'm 5'6. I was thrilled if I fit into a size 0, but life was okay if a size 2 fit my body. The depression didn't go away though. It persisted. Why though? It should have worked! I am chemically imbalanced! That's what the advertisements contended. I had been seeing a therapist regularly for over two years. She helped me a lot. We worked through much of those old childhood wounds, yet I was still a depressive. She encouraged me to stay on the meds. Why wouldn't she encourage that? The simplest explanation is that I am chemically imbalanced. That might be so, but I do not think it is the whole story. In fact, I would argue that a chemical imbalance is the least likely explanation.
I do not blame any of the therapists I have seen for missing the source of my malaise. Actually, maybe they knew I was not ready to deal with the crux so they waited. I do know that access to literature on the birthmother experience is challenging. Because I am a UC Berkeley Alumni I still have access to their libraries and online journals. I have tirelessly searched the Cal article databases for data on birthmothers. There is not a lot and it is hard to find. The number of participants in the studies are small. In fact, the largest study I read was a survey of 300 birthmothers. The standard though, in every study, is that relinquishment grief runs deep. It permeates every aspect of the birthmother's life. Often she has huge gaps in her memory. The events leading up to the adoption, the pregnancy, the birth, and the first year before the adoption was finalized are often a blur for the birthmother. Birthmothers frequently experience PTSD. They have trouble in relationships. I knew none of this until recently. The first I heard about PTSD was a year ago from a social worker. When I read "The Girls Who Went Away" I was surprised that every single woman who relinquished her child experienced grief long after the birth. In fact, it impacted their lives irrevocably.
No one at the adoption agency told me that my choice could create such havoc in my life. That doesn't mean that I would have made a different choice. I think that I could have coped in healthier ways if I was warned. I needed support. It NEVER came. This is the reason I write this blog. I write in case there is another birthmother out there struggling. I write for women/girls thinking about relinquishing their children. I want them to be prepared. I write so that I can heal my wounds. I hope for connection. I don't have another birthmother to talk to because I don't know any. In my experience, when we open up to someone who has experienced the same kind of pain as us we relate and start to heal. So here I am, making myself available to other women. Here I am attempting to heal because avoiding the pain is a coping strategy that has not functioned for me.
I often say that hurt people hurt people. Now imagine living your life not knowing why you're hurt and often not even knowing that you are in pain. Over the years I have repeatedly felt betrayed by my friends, family, and significant others, but how often was that their fault. I propose that very little of the blame rests on them. After losing a large number of friends and significant others there comes a point where you have to stop and consider what the connection between all of that loss is. I can tell you now what the connection is. Me. I am incredibly sensitive so I can get hurt easily. I mentioned before that I am easily agitated and quick to get angry. Have I always been like this? Was I an angry child? In many ways I was. My parents mindlessly neglected my needs and did not give me the love and support I needed. I think the way I grew up predisposed me to be receptive to pain. I have to include that context because I do not believe that pain happens in isolation. There are many contributing factors.
But here's the catch. I have worked through much of that childhood pain yet I still experience the same symptoms. Remember them? I do. I'm overly sensitive, quick to blame others for my pain, and easily agitated. Oh and here's another one. I have such a hard time experiencing joy. This realization is really difficult to admit because I gravitate towards a victim mentality, unconsciously of course. What other explanation fits? I blame others for the hurt, frustration, and irritation that I feel. That means that I believe it is their fault, not mine. I am the victim. So much of what upsets me is insignificant. That doesn't mean that I have legitimately been hurt. I have in my own mind. And that doesn't mean that the people in my life are without fault. Sometimes they are. Sometimes my husband says things that really trigger me. The important question is why the words trigger me. I think that all of this unresolved grief has left me in a state of frequent volatility. Figuratively, I am a walking time bomb and the trouble is that I have no idea when I will detonate. At any given moment something could trigger me.
I think this is a good time to share one of my maladaptive coping strategies. If you're a woman who is ready this, you might relate to what I have to share. Body image is a HUGE trigger for me. In high school I thought I looked great. I thought that I was pretty good looking. I even dabbled in vanity because a Cosmo magazine article stated that acting extra confident is sexy. A year after Leslie was born I started to obsess about my body. I used to blame a friend of mine for this. I had this gorgeous friend who was about five years older than me who would obsess about her weight. She pretty obsessively watched what she ate and barely a day went by without some comment from her about how fat she was getting. At that time I still ate like a typical high school kid. I ate what I wanted when I wanted. Since I was a waitress at an Italian restaurant, I ate a lot of pasta. I would eat pasta for lunch, bread for snacks, then more pasta for dinner. My friend would comment on how lucky I was that I could eat like that without gaining weight.
When I first started examining how I became body obsessive, an exercise addict, and practiced disordered eating my mind drifted back to those memories. I remembered that friend and I thought it was her fault. Upon closer examination of the time line, I realize now that the negative self-image began after the adoption became finalized (one year after Leslie was born). That was when I let the cultural messages of inadequacy filter in. I compared myself to other women. I decided I wasn't pretty enough or thin enough. Simultaneously, my body began to change. The pasta I was eating regularly began to stick to my thighs and hips and arms. I looked in the mirror and began to hate what I saw. I never learned about healthy eating from my family. I did not see the connection between the quality of food I was putting in my body and health. I did know that if I wanted to loose the weight I would need to restrict what I ate.
For years I would binge then restrict my eating. Sometimes I would purge, but I never developed a ritual of it. It was a monthly kind of habit. Initially I tried exercise. I got a gym membership. At first I would go regularly, but within months I tired of the practice. There was no passion in that solitary, indoor activity for me. I resigned to my miserable existence. I watched television excessively. I immersed
myself in the lives of the fictional characters. I jumped from relationship to relationship thinking that the next guy would be the solution. Love is all we need, right? Well, what I needed was some self-love. It never came. Instead, I moved into disordered eating. I restricted my daily calorie intake to between 700 and 1000 calories. The closer to 700, the better I felt about myself. I was in control. It was a scary place to be in because of the roller coaster emotions. When I was able to restrict the way I planned I felt fabulous like I was the director in my own life. When I made a "mistake" and went for the treat I plummeted to failure status. The highs and lows were really hard. What was my solution? Pharmaceuticals.
Wellbutrin was the solution for me it promotes weight loss and because I thought it would treat the depression. Well, weight loss happened. I whittled myself down to 103 pounds. I'm 5'6. I was thrilled if I fit into a size 0, but life was okay if a size 2 fit my body. The depression didn't go away though. It persisted. Why though? It should have worked! I am chemically imbalanced! That's what the advertisements contended. I had been seeing a therapist regularly for over two years. She helped me a lot. We worked through much of those old childhood wounds, yet I was still a depressive. She encouraged me to stay on the meds. Why wouldn't she encourage that? The simplest explanation is that I am chemically imbalanced. That might be so, but I do not think it is the whole story. In fact, I would argue that a chemical imbalance is the least likely explanation.
I do not blame any of the therapists I have seen for missing the source of my malaise. Actually, maybe they knew I was not ready to deal with the crux so they waited. I do know that access to literature on the birthmother experience is challenging. Because I am a UC Berkeley Alumni I still have access to their libraries and online journals. I have tirelessly searched the Cal article databases for data on birthmothers. There is not a lot and it is hard to find. The number of participants in the studies are small. In fact, the largest study I read was a survey of 300 birthmothers. The standard though, in every study, is that relinquishment grief runs deep. It permeates every aspect of the birthmother's life. Often she has huge gaps in her memory. The events leading up to the adoption, the pregnancy, the birth, and the first year before the adoption was finalized are often a blur for the birthmother. Birthmothers frequently experience PTSD. They have trouble in relationships. I knew none of this until recently. The first I heard about PTSD was a year ago from a social worker. When I read "The Girls Who Went Away" I was surprised that every single woman who relinquished her child experienced grief long after the birth. In fact, it impacted their lives irrevocably.
No one at the adoption agency told me that my choice could create such havoc in my life. That doesn't mean that I would have made a different choice. I think that I could have coped in healthier ways if I was warned. I needed support. It NEVER came. This is the reason I write this blog. I write in case there is another birthmother out there struggling. I write for women/girls thinking about relinquishing their children. I want them to be prepared. I write so that I can heal my wounds. I hope for connection. I don't have another birthmother to talk to because I don't know any. In my experience, when we open up to someone who has experienced the same kind of pain as us we relate and start to heal. So here I am, making myself available to other women. Here I am attempting to heal because avoiding the pain is a coping strategy that has not functioned for me.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Missing memories
Yesterday I met with my therapist in order to continue processing the grief that has manifested as a result of my choice to relinquish Leslie. I have been seeing this therapist now for a little over one year. I sought her out because I finally came to realize that my way of treating the loss was maladaptive, namely avoidance. I have seen other therapists over the past ten years, but I never went into details about the adoption. I would give the therapist a rough overview of the circumstances then insist that the adoption did not effect me. Until recently, I never saw a correlation between the pain in my life and my choice to relinquish.
I am beginning to understand why I would not have made the connection. It's not that I lack the capability to be introspective. Believe me, I am very introspective. Honestly, sometimes I am a little too introspective. I freely admit that I can be quite self-obsessed at times. Okay, we got it. No problems with introspection. So why was I unable to see that this HUGE decision impacted my life? This is where the title of this piece comes in: missing memories. Have you ever been through something traumatic and when you try to reflect back on the event, the memories preceding the event, or shortly after your memory is suddenly impaired? Large chunks of my memory from the time I was sixteen to twenty-one are missing. The biggest missing pieces are from the time I was seventeen to twenty. I relinquished Leslie when I was seventeen.
I was just reading "Birth Parents in Adoption: Research, Practice, and Counseling Psychology" (2005) written by Wiley and Baden when I came across a passage about memory loss being common among birth mothers. I learned a bit about PTSD last year and how memory loss around the traumatic event is common for those experiencing the disorder. A year ago I sought help from the adoption agency I placed Leslie through. I had never done that before. I spoke with a fabulous social worker new to the agency who assured me that she could help and reminded me that the agency offers life-time counseling to birthmothers. I made an appointment with her and felt a bit of relief because I believed I would finally get the help I needed. I met with the social worker and towards the end of an almost two hour appointment she told me she thought that I have PTSD. She suggested that I seek out a therapist who is trained in EMDR therapy so that I can process through some of the trauma.
Why is it that memory lapses are so common among women who have relinquished a child? Is that we all experience PTSD? I understand that how the missing memories act as a defense mechanism, shielding me from pain. The problem though is that I have not been protected from these painful memories. Instead, I live my life not knowing why I feel things so deeply. Have I always been this way? Was I a sensitive child? Or, is can I source my emotional sensitivity to a traumatic event that happened over ten years ago? That could be. From what I have read, the grief associated with relinquishing a child will never fully subside. Instead, I have to learn to accept the feelings as they come and work with them until they pass. But how can I do this when much of the time I have no idea that what I am feeling is so closely related to this unresolved trauma? I do not have an answer to this question. I will continue to think about it and write about it here so that I can process these confusing feelings.
I am beginning to understand why I would not have made the connection. It's not that I lack the capability to be introspective. Believe me, I am very introspective. Honestly, sometimes I am a little too introspective. I freely admit that I can be quite self-obsessed at times. Okay, we got it. No problems with introspection. So why was I unable to see that this HUGE decision impacted my life? This is where the title of this piece comes in: missing memories. Have you ever been through something traumatic and when you try to reflect back on the event, the memories preceding the event, or shortly after your memory is suddenly impaired? Large chunks of my memory from the time I was sixteen to twenty-one are missing. The biggest missing pieces are from the time I was seventeen to twenty. I relinquished Leslie when I was seventeen.
I was just reading "Birth Parents in Adoption: Research, Practice, and Counseling Psychology" (2005) written by Wiley and Baden when I came across a passage about memory loss being common among birth mothers. I learned a bit about PTSD last year and how memory loss around the traumatic event is common for those experiencing the disorder. A year ago I sought help from the adoption agency I placed Leslie through. I had never done that before. I spoke with a fabulous social worker new to the agency who assured me that she could help and reminded me that the agency offers life-time counseling to birthmothers. I made an appointment with her and felt a bit of relief because I believed I would finally get the help I needed. I met with the social worker and towards the end of an almost two hour appointment she told me she thought that I have PTSD. She suggested that I seek out a therapist who is trained in EMDR therapy so that I can process through some of the trauma.
Why is it that memory lapses are so common among women who have relinquished a child? Is that we all experience PTSD? I understand that how the missing memories act as a defense mechanism, shielding me from pain. The problem though is that I have not been protected from these painful memories. Instead, I live my life not knowing why I feel things so deeply. Have I always been this way? Was I a sensitive child? Or, is can I source my emotional sensitivity to a traumatic event that happened over ten years ago? That could be. From what I have read, the grief associated with relinquishing a child will never fully subside. Instead, I have to learn to accept the feelings as they come and work with them until they pass. But how can I do this when much of the time I have no idea that what I am feeling is so closely related to this unresolved trauma? I do not have an answer to this question. I will continue to think about it and write about it here so that I can process these confusing feelings.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
The grateful mother
This is the first Mother's Day in ten years that I feel happy. The last ten of them I would spend the whole day wondering who would acknowledge that I am a mother of sorts, a birthmother. Some years one or two friends would call. Other years no one would call. The feeling that was always persistent regardless of any acknowledgment was pain. I would do my best to suppress and distract myself from that pain. Any thoughts about what my life would be like if I had made the choice to mother Leslie were quickly pushed as far away as possible. A motherhood fantasy could happen at any time during the year, but I was particularly vulnerable to one on Mother's Day. It's logical that I would think about that, isn't it? Nevertheless, I tried my hardest to ignore those thoughts and the feelings that were triggered by the fantasies. For many of those ten years I worked as a food server. As you might imagine, I avoided working Mother's Day whenever possible. If I had to work I would have a painful reminder of my loss as I approached the table I was servicing. The happy mothers with their children would remind me of my pain.
My solution was to do my best to forget that it was Mother's Day. I tried my hardest to ignore the thoughts about who would remember that I am a birthmother. I rarely called my mom to wish her a happy Mother's Day. Yesterday, she called me to wish me a happy Mother's Day for the first time. At first I felt hurt that she had never done that before. Sometimes, when I am in my pain, I forget that it must be hard to deal with. Even my husband has a really hard time helping me through my grief when I allow it to surface (or when I have no control and am triggered by something that reminds me of my pain). He has admitted to not knowing what to say or how to help me. What do you say to someone who is hurting? How do you support someone who is experiencing pain that you do not understand? Some friends have told me that they thought about me on Mother's Day but chose not to acknowledge my experience on that day because they figured I would rather not be triggered. If you have a friend who is a birthmother and are assuming that she would rather forget her pain, I suggest that you ask her. Maybe she does not want to live in it alone. Maybe a call from someone she cares about might be just what she needs. Maybe not, but I always appreciate it when friends and other loved ones ask me what I need.
I have a lot more to say about this and I want to share more about how happy I am today. I am so grateful that I finally get to be a mother. I will give birth to my son sometime in the next three to six weeks and I am thrilled. I can't wait to hold him, kiss him, snuggle him, and nurse him. I'm excited about the sleepless nights, the dirty cloth diapers I will have to wash, and soothing his cries. This leads me to the other rant that is on my mind today. I absolutely hate it when people instruct me to enjoy the quiet nights before the baby is born because they will end soon. When I am asked how the pregnancy is going I answer honestly. It sucks. I have never been in more physical discomfort in my life (for some reason my pregnancy with Leslie was really easy). I cannot exercise. I can only walk for a few minutes before I experience pain somewhere in my body. Even standing hurts. When I share some part of this small physical misery the standard response is that I should enjoy my freedom from baby while it lasts. Now I am not a violent person, but every single time I hear that I want to punch the person who said it. Perhaps a little over the top? Well, I don't actually do it so I think not.
Here is what I think... Would you remind a cancer survivor that life is really hard? Would you say to him/her,"Enjoy the rest while you recover because you will have to go back to work soon." I probably shouldn't be comparing myself to a cancer survivor because they experience such deep emotional and physical pain. The past ten years I have pretty much only experienced emotional pain. There was some physical pain, most of which I caused (e.g. disordered eating and exercise addiction that I practiced so that I would not have a physical reminder of the pregnancy on my body). What I am trying to get at is the feeling that we have a new lease on life. I hear about that feeling a lot in my studies when I am learning about the treatment of chronic disease. These people who recover from cardiovascular disease, cancer, et cetera often feel incredibly grateful for their lives. Many are even grateful that they got sick because they learned to love, experience, and feel gratitude for life in a way that they never felt before. Through their pain something beautiful was born: a new perspective, a new paradigm. In this way I relate to those survivors. I have a "new lease on life."
For ten years I ignored motherhood. I now allow myself to embrace it and let me tell you... I'm thrilled. I am so unbelievably grateful. I get to care for another human being in an incredibly special way. What an honor it is. I am responsible for meeting his needs. I am so lucky that I get to experience this part of life. I am especially grateful because for ten years I ignored the nurturing motherhood feelings that resided within me. I fought hard to suppress them. I now allow myself to think about motherhood. I keep preparing for it like it is the most important piece of research in my thesis. I read about different parenting practices: Attachment Parenting, Diaper-Free parenting and Elimination Communication, infant care, vaccinations, childhood nutrition, the problems associated with Behaviorism as it approaches parenting ("Punished by Rewards" by Kohn), et cetera. I work with my therapist around my fears about being a good mother. I'm starting to toot my own horn so I had better stop there. The come away point is that I am so incredibly grateful.
My solution was to do my best to forget that it was Mother's Day. I tried my hardest to ignore the thoughts about who would remember that I am a birthmother. I rarely called my mom to wish her a happy Mother's Day. Yesterday, she called me to wish me a happy Mother's Day for the first time. At first I felt hurt that she had never done that before. Sometimes, when I am in my pain, I forget that it must be hard to deal with. Even my husband has a really hard time helping me through my grief when I allow it to surface (or when I have no control and am triggered by something that reminds me of my pain). He has admitted to not knowing what to say or how to help me. What do you say to someone who is hurting? How do you support someone who is experiencing pain that you do not understand? Some friends have told me that they thought about me on Mother's Day but chose not to acknowledge my experience on that day because they figured I would rather not be triggered. If you have a friend who is a birthmother and are assuming that she would rather forget her pain, I suggest that you ask her. Maybe she does not want to live in it alone. Maybe a call from someone she cares about might be just what she needs. Maybe not, but I always appreciate it when friends and other loved ones ask me what I need.
I have a lot more to say about this and I want to share more about how happy I am today. I am so grateful that I finally get to be a mother. I will give birth to my son sometime in the next three to six weeks and I am thrilled. I can't wait to hold him, kiss him, snuggle him, and nurse him. I'm excited about the sleepless nights, the dirty cloth diapers I will have to wash, and soothing his cries. This leads me to the other rant that is on my mind today. I absolutely hate it when people instruct me to enjoy the quiet nights before the baby is born because they will end soon. When I am asked how the pregnancy is going I answer honestly. It sucks. I have never been in more physical discomfort in my life (for some reason my pregnancy with Leslie was really easy). I cannot exercise. I can only walk for a few minutes before I experience pain somewhere in my body. Even standing hurts. When I share some part of this small physical misery the standard response is that I should enjoy my freedom from baby while it lasts. Now I am not a violent person, but every single time I hear that I want to punch the person who said it. Perhaps a little over the top? Well, I don't actually do it so I think not.
Here is what I think... Would you remind a cancer survivor that life is really hard? Would you say to him/her,"Enjoy the rest while you recover because you will have to go back to work soon." I probably shouldn't be comparing myself to a cancer survivor because they experience such deep emotional and physical pain. The past ten years I have pretty much only experienced emotional pain. There was some physical pain, most of which I caused (e.g. disordered eating and exercise addiction that I practiced so that I would not have a physical reminder of the pregnancy on my body). What I am trying to get at is the feeling that we have a new lease on life. I hear about that feeling a lot in my studies when I am learning about the treatment of chronic disease. These people who recover from cardiovascular disease, cancer, et cetera often feel incredibly grateful for their lives. Many are even grateful that they got sick because they learned to love, experience, and feel gratitude for life in a way that they never felt before. Through their pain something beautiful was born: a new perspective, a new paradigm. In this way I relate to those survivors. I have a "new lease on life."
For ten years I ignored motherhood. I now allow myself to embrace it and let me tell you... I'm thrilled. I am so unbelievably grateful. I get to care for another human being in an incredibly special way. What an honor it is. I am responsible for meeting his needs. I am so lucky that I get to experience this part of life. I am especially grateful because for ten years I ignored the nurturing motherhood feelings that resided within me. I fought hard to suppress them. I now allow myself to think about motherhood. I keep preparing for it like it is the most important piece of research in my thesis. I read about different parenting practices: Attachment Parenting, Diaper-Free parenting and Elimination Communication, infant care, vaccinations, childhood nutrition, the problems associated with Behaviorism as it approaches parenting ("Punished by Rewards" by Kohn), et cetera. I work with my therapist around my fears about being a good mother. I'm starting to toot my own horn so I had better stop there. The come away point is that I am so incredibly grateful.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Waiting and waiting and waiting
I am 34 weeks along now and feel as though I am coming out of my skin. I know that part of the reason I feel this way is because I cannot exercise. I love movement and I especially love being outdoors this time of year. The weather is a perfect 75-85 degrees... I should be meandering up a trail, through trees, toward the top of a mountain. Well, that is not a possibility for me. I have had too many preterm pregnancy scares so I am stuck to modified bed rest. My doctor has ordered me to limit the amount of walking, no heavy lifting, and absolutely no exercise. I am bored out of my mind and this is not a great situation for me to be in because my thoughts wander easily. I'm ahead in my school work, we have purchased everything we need for the baby, and we have taken all of the necessary infant preparation classes. I have used television as a means of distraction, but I am entirely bored with that.
What now? I am obsessing about our son. What will he look like? Will he have my hazel eyes or my husband's green eyes? His curly hair or my wavy hair? Then I imagine holding him, nursing him, and snuggling him. I never got to do that when I was pregnant with Leslie. I would not allow myself. I buried those feelings. When I was pregnant with Leslie I imagined what my life would be like without her. I hoped for what many teenager girls probably hope for... relationships, partying with friends, looking "beautiful," cute clothes, and the like. I distracted myself by imaging a life different from that I was experiencing. I could not imagine what motherhood might be like because then I would not be able to go through with it. I imagined full wardrobes and how I would look in the clothing without the pregnant belly. I focused on how attractive I would be. I imagined freedom, freedom from my parents, a life that I would choose. Those fantasies made the third trimester bearable for me.
Well here I am ten years later and in a very different situation. My husband and I planned this pregnancy. In my mind I am now allowed to imagine motherhood. I am twenty-seven years old, married, and in love. We own a house. I finished my undergraduate education at the University of California, Berkeley. I've almost finished half of my MA program. My husband has a great job. I've been in therapy for years. I have worked through much of my childhood wounds. I'm sober. This might sound really petty and I believe that these things do not make me any more capable to love. Is love all it takes to be a good mother? What makes a good mother? These are big questions that I do not really know the answer to. I do know that I am in a very different place now than I was ten years ago. My home life is stable. I still have the occasional turbulent day that I myself cause, but I feel different. I do think that my capacity to love has changed. I can now be selfless in a way that I rarely could in high school when I made the decision to place Leslie with another family.
I think I'm getting a bit off track from what I intended to write about. I have allowed myself to fantasize about motherhood and now I am obsessed with that fantasy. I am having the hardest time staying in the present. A big part of that is because I am so physically miserable right now. So I try to distract myself. I watch television. I cook. I eat. I sleep. I manage, but my life is not very fulfilling right now. I am fixated on my future 3-6 weeks from now, which is making the present unbearably boring. I want to hold my son more than anything. I'm guessing that expectant mothers typically feel this way. They're intensely excited excited to meet the little miracle that has been growing inside of them for months. We can feel the child move within us and that makes us want to hold and cradle the little one with a deep longing.
I said before that I am coming out of skin. I am finally allowing myself to imagine motherhood and I am obsessed with the idea. For nine years I have denied myself that longing. Now that I am allowing myself to desire this it is overwhelming me. In a way it is consuming me. I can think of little else. I keep preparing, planning, and reading about how to take care of this little one growing inside of me. Do you relate? Can you imagine? Nine years of suppressing my desire to mother has led me to obsession. Now how do I manage the next 3-6 weeks? How do I get through it? How do I manage? I really have no idea.
What now? I am obsessing about our son. What will he look like? Will he have my hazel eyes or my husband's green eyes? His curly hair or my wavy hair? Then I imagine holding him, nursing him, and snuggling him. I never got to do that when I was pregnant with Leslie. I would not allow myself. I buried those feelings. When I was pregnant with Leslie I imagined what my life would be like without her. I hoped for what many teenager girls probably hope for... relationships, partying with friends, looking "beautiful," cute clothes, and the like. I distracted myself by imaging a life different from that I was experiencing. I could not imagine what motherhood might be like because then I would not be able to go through with it. I imagined full wardrobes and how I would look in the clothing without the pregnant belly. I focused on how attractive I would be. I imagined freedom, freedom from my parents, a life that I would choose. Those fantasies made the third trimester bearable for me.
Well here I am ten years later and in a very different situation. My husband and I planned this pregnancy. In my mind I am now allowed to imagine motherhood. I am twenty-seven years old, married, and in love. We own a house. I finished my undergraduate education at the University of California, Berkeley. I've almost finished half of my MA program. My husband has a great job. I've been in therapy for years. I have worked through much of my childhood wounds. I'm sober. This might sound really petty and I believe that these things do not make me any more capable to love. Is love all it takes to be a good mother? What makes a good mother? These are big questions that I do not really know the answer to. I do know that I am in a very different place now than I was ten years ago. My home life is stable. I still have the occasional turbulent day that I myself cause, but I feel different. I do think that my capacity to love has changed. I can now be selfless in a way that I rarely could in high school when I made the decision to place Leslie with another family.
I think I'm getting a bit off track from what I intended to write about. I have allowed myself to fantasize about motherhood and now I am obsessed with that fantasy. I am having the hardest time staying in the present. A big part of that is because I am so physically miserable right now. So I try to distract myself. I watch television. I cook. I eat. I sleep. I manage, but my life is not very fulfilling right now. I am fixated on my future 3-6 weeks from now, which is making the present unbearably boring. I want to hold my son more than anything. I'm guessing that expectant mothers typically feel this way. They're intensely excited excited to meet the little miracle that has been growing inside of them for months. We can feel the child move within us and that makes us want to hold and cradle the little one with a deep longing.
I said before that I am coming out of skin. I am finally allowing myself to imagine motherhood and I am obsessed with the idea. For nine years I have denied myself that longing. Now that I am allowing myself to desire this it is overwhelming me. In a way it is consuming me. I can think of little else. I keep preparing, planning, and reading about how to take care of this little one growing inside of me. Do you relate? Can you imagine? Nine years of suppressing my desire to mother has led me to obsession. Now how do I manage the next 3-6 weeks? How do I get through it? How do I manage? I really have no idea.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Writing her letters
I am allowed to write Leslie one letter a month. Her new adoptive mother thought that any more than that might overwhelm Leslie since she is going through so much with her original adoptive mother. Her original adoptive mother is now a raging alcoholic who has her movements monitored with an ankle bracelet. She only gets supervised visits with Leslie and her older adopted sister Michelle. I do not know the extent of how her alcoholism has affected the girls. I'm just grateful that she has been out of that home environment for several years now. Her adoptive father, Greg, has had full custody of both girls for over three years now. He remarried about four years ago to a woman with three kids of her own. They now have a two year-old together. I like to think of them as a modern day "Brady Bunch." Leslie seems incredibly well adjusted, still excelling in school, enjoying her friends, as well as participating in plenty of extracirricular activities. I'm getting off topic though...
Each month I have this opportunity to write Leslie. I have been writing for over two and a half years now since I have had contact with Leslie. Every month though, it is a struggle for me to write her. It's not that I do not know what to say. I have worked as a nanny for many years so I know how to communicate with children. It is incredibly important to me that I write her monthly, or at least every other month if life gets a bit chaotic. I want to show Leslie that I am dependable. I grew up never knowing what to expect from my parents. Their behavior and actions were more often than not incredibly erratic. Frequently, my basic needs were not met. There was rarely any food stocked in the refridgerator. I never knew if I would come home to a sober or a drunk father. My mother's moods were incredibly unpredictable. I struggled to maintain a daily routine. So my letter writing to Leslie is entangled with my hopes and expectations regarding what she feels about me. Now I know I have no influence over he perceptions, but that does not stop me from wanting her to know that I am different than her original adoptive mother (Darla).
Well, the letter writing causes me a lot of anxiety. It seems obvious why now. I really want Leslie to think the best of me. In my mind each letter is meant to show her that I am different than Darla. I want her to know that I am responsible, reliable, caring, nurturing, etc. Really, I must want her to know that I am not my parents that I am not "dysfunctional." Who am I kidding though? I am, in many ways, dysfunctional. I am not perfect, but in those letters I want to sound so mature, intelligent, interesting, etc. The letters are my opportunity to show her that I am someone worth knowing. At least that is what I have come to know that I unconsciously believe.
Some days I am overwhelmed with feelings of hope, but not in the way that you might think. I hope that she will want a relationship with me. I hope that she will forgive me for giving her to another family. I hope that she will forgive me for choosing a terrible mother for her. I grew up with an alcoholic parent. It was in many ways horrific. I hope that she will like me. I secretly hope that in those letters I say something right so that she will look up to me. I hope that she will be proud that I am her birthmother. I hope that I accomplish enough, that I'm smart enough, that I'm beautiful enough to meet her expectations of me.
I admit it. The moments that those thoughts filter through my mind are not good moments. I did not place Leslie with another family because it was what was best for me. I could have chose abortion. That would have been easier for me. I chose adoption because it was the best option for her. I was in no way ready or able to raise a child without perpetuating the same cycle of emotional abuse that I experienced. On good days and when I am having a "grounded" moment I remember that and the expectations I have melt away. Whether or not Leslie decides to have a relationship with me is her choice and it is independent from the choice I made. The choice I made was about her not me so whether or not she wants a relationship with me is also about her and not me.
She may want to be in my life. She may not. She may like me, look up to me, admire me like I secretly hope she will, but then again she might not. Whatever happens happens and today I accept that. Today I remember that my choice was about Leslie's life and that it will always be that way.
Each month I have this opportunity to write Leslie. I have been writing for over two and a half years now since I have had contact with Leslie. Every month though, it is a struggle for me to write her. It's not that I do not know what to say. I have worked as a nanny for many years so I know how to communicate with children. It is incredibly important to me that I write her monthly, or at least every other month if life gets a bit chaotic. I want to show Leslie that I am dependable. I grew up never knowing what to expect from my parents. Their behavior and actions were more often than not incredibly erratic. Frequently, my basic needs were not met. There was rarely any food stocked in the refridgerator. I never knew if I would come home to a sober or a drunk father. My mother's moods were incredibly unpredictable. I struggled to maintain a daily routine. So my letter writing to Leslie is entangled with my hopes and expectations regarding what she feels about me. Now I know I have no influence over he perceptions, but that does not stop me from wanting her to know that I am different than her original adoptive mother (Darla).
Well, the letter writing causes me a lot of anxiety. It seems obvious why now. I really want Leslie to think the best of me. In my mind each letter is meant to show her that I am different than Darla. I want her to know that I am responsible, reliable, caring, nurturing, etc. Really, I must want her to know that I am not my parents that I am not "dysfunctional." Who am I kidding though? I am, in many ways, dysfunctional. I am not perfect, but in those letters I want to sound so mature, intelligent, interesting, etc. The letters are my opportunity to show her that I am someone worth knowing. At least that is what I have come to know that I unconsciously believe.
Some days I am overwhelmed with feelings of hope, but not in the way that you might think. I hope that she will want a relationship with me. I hope that she will forgive me for giving her to another family. I hope that she will forgive me for choosing a terrible mother for her. I grew up with an alcoholic parent. It was in many ways horrific. I hope that she will like me. I secretly hope that in those letters I say something right so that she will look up to me. I hope that she will be proud that I am her birthmother. I hope that I accomplish enough, that I'm smart enough, that I'm beautiful enough to meet her expectations of me.
I admit it. The moments that those thoughts filter through my mind are not good moments. I did not place Leslie with another family because it was what was best for me. I could have chose abortion. That would have been easier for me. I chose adoption because it was the best option for her. I was in no way ready or able to raise a child without perpetuating the same cycle of emotional abuse that I experienced. On good days and when I am having a "grounded" moment I remember that and the expectations I have melt away. Whether or not Leslie decides to have a relationship with me is her choice and it is independent from the choice I made. The choice I made was about her not me so whether or not she wants a relationship with me is also about her and not me.
She may want to be in my life. She may not. She may like me, look up to me, admire me like I secretly hope she will, but then again she might not. Whatever happens happens and today I accept that. Today I remember that my choice was about Leslie's life and that it will always be that way.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Choice
Last night I had to go to the hospital because I was in so much pain that I couldn't walk. My OB was concerned because the symptoms I was experiencing could have indicated I was in preterm labor. I arrived at Labor and Delivery tired, agitated, and grumpy. Luckily, the nurse who was assigned to me was really sweet. After reviewing my records she noticed that I had a birth ten years ago and that I chose adoption. She was the first health care provider who has acknowledged the choice I made over ten years ago. My OB knows because she is the person who delivered my child in 2000, but other than these two women my situation is either ignored or overlooked. I understand that. Even my husband who really desires to be supportive is more often than not at a loss regarding how to help me. I suppose it is easier to just ignore it. Is this her first birth? Answer: no. Then they see the note in my file that indicates I placed my daughter up for adoption and they decide to ignore my choice. They still ask me questions about the birth, but they never acknowledge what happened after the birth.
Well this nurse was different. She is an adoptive parent. She acknowledged my choice alright. She even went on to thank me for making the choice I did. She shared with me that her son is now twenty-three years old. A few months ago he tattooed the word "Choice" on his shoulder. He informed his mother that he tattooed that word on his shoulder because he wants people to ask him about it... he wants women to know there is another choice besides abortion and that choice is adoption. Okay, I see why the word choice is so important to this man. I wonder what my daughter will think when she is his age. Will she be pro-life and believe that the "choice" for women is adoption? My feelings about this are a tangled mass of confusion. I know that I am powerless over how she is raised and with what values. Would she judge a woman for choosing abortion because her mother chose adoption? Are her adoptive parents swaying her in a particular direction? I do not know because I think it would be inappropriate for me to ask them.
I guess what I am rambling on about is powerlessness. I really want to feel acceptance, but some days it is just too hard to get to that place. I know that I made the right choice for Leslie and myself. However, that does not mean that I will be okay with the pain everyday. Some days are easier than others. I keep wishing that I wouldn't be triggered anymore. I need acceptance around that too. It will always hurt and that's fine. In fact, I bet it's normal. In the book "The Girls Who Went Away" every single birthmother felt pain her whole life. The pain does not get easier with time. What can change is our perception of the pain. So that's my goal... to accept it, work through it, talk about it, and try not to ignore it.
Well this nurse was different. She is an adoptive parent. She acknowledged my choice alright. She even went on to thank me for making the choice I did. She shared with me that her son is now twenty-three years old. A few months ago he tattooed the word "Choice" on his shoulder. He informed his mother that he tattooed that word on his shoulder because he wants people to ask him about it... he wants women to know there is another choice besides abortion and that choice is adoption. Okay, I see why the word choice is so important to this man. I wonder what my daughter will think when she is his age. Will she be pro-life and believe that the "choice" for women is adoption? My feelings about this are a tangled mass of confusion. I know that I am powerless over how she is raised and with what values. Would she judge a woman for choosing abortion because her mother chose adoption? Are her adoptive parents swaying her in a particular direction? I do not know because I think it would be inappropriate for me to ask them.
I guess what I am rambling on about is powerlessness. I really want to feel acceptance, but some days it is just too hard to get to that place. I know that I made the right choice for Leslie and myself. However, that does not mean that I will be okay with the pain everyday. Some days are easier than others. I keep wishing that I wouldn't be triggered anymore. I need acceptance around that too. It will always hurt and that's fine. In fact, I bet it's normal. In the book "The Girls Who Went Away" every single birthmother felt pain her whole life. The pain does not get easier with time. What can change is our perception of the pain. So that's my goal... to accept it, work through it, talk about it, and try not to ignore it.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Leading up to 17 and pregnant...
Freshman year of high school I was living in Southern California with my grandma, grandpa, and my dad. One day I came home from school and my grandma had a surprise for me. She had read my journal and was ready to tell my dad that my boyfriend and I were having sex. I tried to convince her not to, but after hours of pleading she told him anyway. My father was beyond livid. It didn't help matters that he was on another alcoholic bender. My dad decided that I needed to be moved away from this boy. My father sent me to live with my mother and younger brothers in Northern California. I think my mother wanted the second income, which could be why she asked me to convince my dad to move with me. My parents had been separated off and on for years so moving back together was a disaster waiting to happen.
That summer my father and I moved to Discovery Bay with my mother and brothers. Discovery Bay is a town that was built up around man-made canals that feed into a delta. In the spring and summer families owning water-front properties often take their boats out to enjoy water sports. The place was a blast in the spring and summer, but incredibly boring in the fall and winter months when it is too cold for water sports. When I lived in Discovery Bay the closest grocery store was in Brentwood, which is about a twenty minute drive from the DiscoBay. The closest mall was thirty minutes away. My parents never encouraged me to try extracurricular activities, nor was I interested. Within a few weeks of starting at my new school I found other kids to smoke, drink, and use with.
Initially I would only party on the weekends. I wanted people to think I was tough, hard-core so I would be the chick waling around the party drinking from a handle of vodka. Did I mention that things were simultaneously getting progressively worse at home? My mom wouldn't share a room with my dad so he was stuck sleeping on the downstairs couch every night. He would drink almost daily. I did whatever I could to be anywhere but home. The house reeked like booze and was constantly a disaster. I had a part-time job as a food server, which funded my partying. As my father's alcoholism progressed, he became more emotionally abusive. One day I came home to a belligerent father who attempted to attack me. I gave my mother an ultimatum: either she and I move out of that house or I would find somewhere else to live. While my father was away on a business trip the following week my mother and I moved out of the house.
Unfortunately, moving into a new house with my mother did not fix anything for me. My mom worked long hours and because she was so stressed she would lash out her irritation at me. I'm not sure if she was using drugs with her boyfriend, but I do know that he used regularly. He had a reputation. My mother and I would fight and so I would move back and forth from my father's house to hers hoping for some semblance of stability. The security I craved never came, but I did find Ecstasy. When I went to raves with my friends and took "E" I felt the happiness I always dreamed of. I felt attractive, fun, and loved by the strangers I met at the parties. I was addicted to that state. During that time, my mother found my birth control pills and disposed of them. I'm not sure why actually.
Not taking birth control was terrible for me because I was too insecure to ask a boy to put a condom on. In early June I met an older guy at a rave. I was attracted to him because he seemed to know many people at the party. He seemed connected, cool, and interesting. We exchanged numbers. In the sober light of day he didn't seem as interesting but a I couldn't resist talking to a twenty-two year old who was interested in me. I felt more attractive because he was interested in me and since I was lonely I decided to spend time with him. We would go to raves together, party at my house with friends and E. The first time we slept together was on July 3, 1999. It is an easy date to remember because i got pregnant that first time. I was nervous and apprehensive about sleeping with someone I wasn't that into, but as I said before I was lonely. A few weeks later I discovered I was pregnant...
That summer my father and I moved to Discovery Bay with my mother and brothers. Discovery Bay is a town that was built up around man-made canals that feed into a delta. In the spring and summer families owning water-front properties often take their boats out to enjoy water sports. The place was a blast in the spring and summer, but incredibly boring in the fall and winter months when it is too cold for water sports. When I lived in Discovery Bay the closest grocery store was in Brentwood, which is about a twenty minute drive from the DiscoBay. The closest mall was thirty minutes away. My parents never encouraged me to try extracurricular activities, nor was I interested. Within a few weeks of starting at my new school I found other kids to smoke, drink, and use with.
Initially I would only party on the weekends. I wanted people to think I was tough, hard-core so I would be the chick waling around the party drinking from a handle of vodka. Did I mention that things were simultaneously getting progressively worse at home? My mom wouldn't share a room with my dad so he was stuck sleeping on the downstairs couch every night. He would drink almost daily. I did whatever I could to be anywhere but home. The house reeked like booze and was constantly a disaster. I had a part-time job as a food server, which funded my partying. As my father's alcoholism progressed, he became more emotionally abusive. One day I came home to a belligerent father who attempted to attack me. I gave my mother an ultimatum: either she and I move out of that house or I would find somewhere else to live. While my father was away on a business trip the following week my mother and I moved out of the house.
Unfortunately, moving into a new house with my mother did not fix anything for me. My mom worked long hours and because she was so stressed she would lash out her irritation at me. I'm not sure if she was using drugs with her boyfriend, but I do know that he used regularly. He had a reputation. My mother and I would fight and so I would move back and forth from my father's house to hers hoping for some semblance of stability. The security I craved never came, but I did find Ecstasy. When I went to raves with my friends and took "E" I felt the happiness I always dreamed of. I felt attractive, fun, and loved by the strangers I met at the parties. I was addicted to that state. During that time, my mother found my birth control pills and disposed of them. I'm not sure why actually.
Not taking birth control was terrible for me because I was too insecure to ask a boy to put a condom on. In early June I met an older guy at a rave. I was attracted to him because he seemed to know many people at the party. He seemed connected, cool, and interesting. We exchanged numbers. In the sober light of day he didn't seem as interesting but a I couldn't resist talking to a twenty-two year old who was interested in me. I felt more attractive because he was interested in me and since I was lonely I decided to spend time with him. We would go to raves together, party at my house with friends and E. The first time we slept together was on July 3, 1999. It is an easy date to remember because i got pregnant that first time. I was nervous and apprehensive about sleeping with someone I wasn't that into, but as I said before I was lonely. A few weeks later I discovered I was pregnant...
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The dreaded question: "Is this your first?"
I do not understand why this question is almost always the question I am asked. Other moms seem to be particularly interested in asking the question. Medical professionals nearly ubiquitously inquire after the answer. I am really, really hoping there is a reason to necessitate the question in that case. In fact any health care professional be it a massage therapist, acupuncturist, nutritionist, chiropractor, et cetera seem to need to know if this is my first child. Are people just curious? Is it a habit to ask?
I am much more tolerant of medical staff who ask me if this pregnancy is my first. I hope that my obstetrician is simply trying to evaluate if my pelvic girdle has widened because of a previous pregnancy or the duration of my labor because the length could be influenced if I have had a previous birth. Every year since Leslie was born I would come across some medical paperwork that would ask how many pregnancies I have had and completed. In a way, I am used to those impersonal almost anonymous questions that I answer in a waiting room somewhere. That does not mean that it did not hurt to answer the question. It always has. Now though, the situation has escalated.
Strangers ask me if this is my first child. Friends of friends see my growing pregnant belly and almost every time, with out fail I am asked the dreaded question. Sometimes I answer honestly. In fact, I even have an “elevator” answer. (I have been asked so many times now in the past three months that I have been showing that I have had to develop an elevator answer). Who has time to listen to my story, to hear all of the details, to know my pain when all they were after was a yes or no answer? My way of being polite is to answer either dishonestly or to give them my adoption elevator response.
It is so easy to get angry with this because I am regularly triggered by the question. Recently, I was at a local lab having my blood drawn for the gestational diabetes screening. I warned the phlebotomist that I am a bit weary of needles so she peppered me with small talk in order to distract me. The first question was, "How far along are you?" followed by, you guessed it, "Is this your first?" Sometimes I feel annoyed by the question. At other points I feel angry. If it happens at a particularly bad moment I feel very sad. When the phlebotomist asked me that dreaded question I was having a hard day. Two days before was Leslie's tenth birthday. Typically January through March are hard months for me. How are they hard? Well, the normal life stuff like an oil change, putting gas in the car, teeth cleaning, laundry, et cetera all build up and become monumental events that I simply cannot handle. I avoid my responsibilities during those months and procrastinate. I wait until the absolute last minute and then rush about trying to accomplish the tasks I have been avoiding. The other way in which those months become hard for me is my volatile emotional nature during that time. One minute I'm up, the next I'm down. On top of that, I am incredibly hard to please during this time.
On Leslie’s birthday I had a plan to distract myself from my feelings, namely through housework. I do not mean cleaning. Although it is an effective means of distraction, it does not fit with my procrastination technique used in the months of January, February, and March. Instead of cleaning I thought a little house decorating would do the trick. Yes, I do see the symbolism here... I do not want to clean my house (my house being my psyche), instead I want to decorate it. Hmmmmm.
The morning of Leslie's birthday I rushed off to the local farmer's market for Sunflowers. I bought a beautiful bouquet for $5. I also stopped by Target for the perfect red curtains for the guest bedroom and stopped by Michael's to pick up the poster I had custom framed. Excited by how improved I thought my house would be I rushed home. I quickly made lunch for my husband and I so that I could start on my projects. After procuring all of the necessary equipment, ladder, nails, hammer, I began by hanging the glass wall vases that would hold the Sunflowers. Two vases in and my husband inserts his opinion. Did he not get the memo that unsolicited opinions were off the agenda for the day? Apparently not, which makes sense because I never sent it. He was supposed to know after all. The calendar did read March 21st, didn't it? Jeff informs me that the vases are placed too low in the hallway and I just lose it. A wave of uncontrollable irritation rushes over me. I might have cried, but I really cannot be sure because my memory is clouded by the intensity of the emotion. I had noticed that where I placed the vases was not great, but hearing it aloud made it real. The failure thoughts set it. I cannot do anything right. Then I jump to the next fear. If I cannot manage to hang wall vases how can I handle being a mother? I could not handle it in high school, how am I any different now? I gave up on my project and relocated myself to the couch where I could really indulge in my pity-party. "I'm such a terrible person," "I'm a failure," "I can't handle life," and "I will be a terrible mother" plagued my psyche. I cried. I was defeated. The emotions and the thoughts beat me.
Somehow my husband sensed that if the project was finished I would feel a bit better. He hung the silly vases and I was especially grateful. Unfortunately, my feelings were bigger than I thought. They could not be subdued. The projects, dinner out, and a movie were unsuccessful distractions. I got through her birthday miserably, but at least the day would end. Well, the unmanageability of Sunday rolled into Monday. I could not manage simple conversations without tears. Errands still felt like mountains to climb. When the phlebotomist asked me if this child is my first, as usual, I lied. "Yes, this is my first" is how I responded and I left the lab feeling defeated.
I am much more tolerant of medical staff who ask me if this pregnancy is my first. I hope that my obstetrician is simply trying to evaluate if my pelvic girdle has widened because of a previous pregnancy or the duration of my labor because the length could be influenced if I have had a previous birth. Every year since Leslie was born I would come across some medical paperwork that would ask how many pregnancies I have had and completed. In a way, I am used to those impersonal almost anonymous questions that I answer in a waiting room somewhere. That does not mean that it did not hurt to answer the question. It always has. Now though, the situation has escalated.
Strangers ask me if this is my first child. Friends of friends see my growing pregnant belly and almost every time, with out fail I am asked the dreaded question. Sometimes I answer honestly. In fact, I even have an “elevator” answer. (I have been asked so many times now in the past three months that I have been showing that I have had to develop an elevator answer). Who has time to listen to my story, to hear all of the details, to know my pain when all they were after was a yes or no answer? My way of being polite is to answer either dishonestly or to give them my adoption elevator response.
It is so easy to get angry with this because I am regularly triggered by the question. Recently, I was at a local lab having my blood drawn for the gestational diabetes screening. I warned the phlebotomist that I am a bit weary of needles so she peppered me with small talk in order to distract me. The first question was, "How far along are you?" followed by, you guessed it, "Is this your first?" Sometimes I feel annoyed by the question. At other points I feel angry. If it happens at a particularly bad moment I feel very sad. When the phlebotomist asked me that dreaded question I was having a hard day. Two days before was Leslie's tenth birthday. Typically January through March are hard months for me. How are they hard? Well, the normal life stuff like an oil change, putting gas in the car, teeth cleaning, laundry, et cetera all build up and become monumental events that I simply cannot handle. I avoid my responsibilities during those months and procrastinate. I wait until the absolute last minute and then rush about trying to accomplish the tasks I have been avoiding. The other way in which those months become hard for me is my volatile emotional nature during that time. One minute I'm up, the next I'm down. On top of that, I am incredibly hard to please during this time.
On Leslie’s birthday I had a plan to distract myself from my feelings, namely through housework. I do not mean cleaning. Although it is an effective means of distraction, it does not fit with my procrastination technique used in the months of January, February, and March. Instead of cleaning I thought a little house decorating would do the trick. Yes, I do see the symbolism here... I do not want to clean my house (my house being my psyche), instead I want to decorate it. Hmmmmm.
The morning of Leslie's birthday I rushed off to the local farmer's market for Sunflowers. I bought a beautiful bouquet for $5. I also stopped by Target for the perfect red curtains for the guest bedroom and stopped by Michael's to pick up the poster I had custom framed. Excited by how improved I thought my house would be I rushed home. I quickly made lunch for my husband and I so that I could start on my projects. After procuring all of the necessary equipment, ladder, nails, hammer, I began by hanging the glass wall vases that would hold the Sunflowers. Two vases in and my husband inserts his opinion. Did he not get the memo that unsolicited opinions were off the agenda for the day? Apparently not, which makes sense because I never sent it. He was supposed to know after all. The calendar did read March 21st, didn't it? Jeff informs me that the vases are placed too low in the hallway and I just lose it. A wave of uncontrollable irritation rushes over me. I might have cried, but I really cannot be sure because my memory is clouded by the intensity of the emotion. I had noticed that where I placed the vases was not great, but hearing it aloud made it real. The failure thoughts set it. I cannot do anything right. Then I jump to the next fear. If I cannot manage to hang wall vases how can I handle being a mother? I could not handle it in high school, how am I any different now? I gave up on my project and relocated myself to the couch where I could really indulge in my pity-party. "I'm such a terrible person," "I'm a failure," "I can't handle life," and "I will be a terrible mother" plagued my psyche. I cried. I was defeated. The emotions and the thoughts beat me.
Somehow my husband sensed that if the project was finished I would feel a bit better. He hung the silly vases and I was especially grateful. Unfortunately, my feelings were bigger than I thought. They could not be subdued. The projects, dinner out, and a movie were unsuccessful distractions. I got through her birthday miserably, but at least the day would end. Well, the unmanageability of Sunday rolled into Monday. I could not manage simple conversations without tears. Errands still felt like mountains to climb. When the phlebotomist asked me if this child is my first, as usual, I lied. "Yes, this is my first" is how I responded and I left the lab feeling defeated.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Basics
Why I chose adoption: Over ten years ago I chose an open adoption for my daughter because I wanted her to have the best life possible. I grew up in a Christian home with my father teaching Sunday school. At the time, abortion was not an option for me. My home life was chaotic and I did not want to raise my daughter in that world, but at seventeen I would have had to rely on one of my divorced parents to help me. My mother was emotionally turbulent and my father was a raging alcoholic. I knew I was not balanced myself. Before I got pregnant I drank, used drugs, and partied to escape from my family. I wanted Leslie to have the kind of life I dreamed about: loving parents who love each other, stability, comfort, and safety. I did not have the financial resources to, the maturity, the wisdom, or the patience needed to raise a child. I did not want to repeat the cycle of emotional and sometimes physical violence that my family life predisposed me to.
After placement: After the adoption was finalized I did not have any contact with my daughter for over six years, but not because I did not try to reach her. The family I chose for her divorced when she was around two years old. From what I am told, their separation was hard for her. The adoptive father has remarried and for the past several years my daughter has lived in a harmonious home. My daughter only has supervised visits with her first adoptive mother.
Currently: I have had contact with Leslie for the past two years now. I get to write her a letter once a month and periodically writes me back. I still have not got to meet Leslie in person because her adoptive family would like to give her more time to adjust.
Why I write: Another reason I have chosen to create this blog is so that I might be able to dialogue with other birthmothers. My adoption journey has been very lonely. There are not a myriad of support sources for birthmothers. There are very few memoirs and “self-help” books written on the subject. There is only one support group in my area and none of the women in the group are my age (all of the women in that group placed their children decades ago). In case there are other young women who would like to hear the experience of another birthmother, I am writing.
I should also tell you: I have chosen to use pseudonyms for many of the people in my life, including my daughter. Although I am comfortable sharing my experiences publicly, I do not know if all of my loved ones would appreciate the same kind of openness.
I will start by sharing either a story or an event as it relates to what I am feeling around the adoption. Since, in my experience, adoption penetrates every aspect of the birthmother's life I could be sharing about other problems that have come up for me. For example, I was eating disordered for several years and through therapy and self-exploration I learned that getting as thin as possible was one way in which I tried to ignore my pain. I did not want any reminder of the pregnancy on my body. Personal body-bashing still comes up as a coping mechanism for me. So I might discuss topics here that may seem unrelated to my adoption journey. I have learned that this grief has penetrated me so deeply that much of the pain I currently experience is related to underlying feelings of abandonment, betrayal, and sadness.
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