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.

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.

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...

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.

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.