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Part of: Musings and Memories... Picking and choosing |
Date Posted: 03-06-2006 at 10:37 PM Comments(0) |
| Previously with Jerry, my therapist in NY, we had spent a lot of time with me going over various messed up things that had happened in the past and him telling me how my parents were wrong, my mother a bit nuts, and how I was OK. Of course, we all know I was very far from being OK. It probably would have helped a bit more if I really told him what was going on in my life and it goes to show you that lying, or hugely omitting things, in therapy doesn’t do anyone bit of good. Maybe I was just not ready for it at the time, but now in Boston, I guess it could be said that I had hit a proverbial rock bottom. This time it seemed that I was able to really hop up and do the work. Jeanne was also in concert with Jerry that my mom was a bit nuts, but we also focused a lot on the reasoning why she was damaged and in exactly what way. And figuring out how her particular way of dealing with her own issues directly effected my own life was probably a huge key to my future. It was great to be able to say more than “ My mother is just a crazy witch”, and to assign a real noun to the whole experience of growing up in my house. Jeanne was quickly able to see signs that my mother was a narcissist personality and not only gave me to read, but a copy for myself forever kept to this day, of Alice Miller’s “Drama of the Gifted Child”. I knew nothing of Alice Miller and wouldn’t know anything for many, many years. My first thought of the slim little paper back tome was that the word “gifted” was applied in the same verbiage as all my schools. Gifted was a good thing. It meant you were smart, above average, high I.Q., took honors courses. Not necessarily so with Miller. “Gifted” is what one became when a child was put into an environment where their needs were made to be second and their existence was hinged on the approval and happiness of the previously damaged adult figure. “Children who fulfill their parents conscious or unconscious wishes are “good”; but if they ever refuse to do so or express wishes of their own that go against those of their parents, they are called egotistical and inconsiderate…” In my 18 year old handwriting I copies many quotes word for word, carefully in y early architectural penmanship. In the previous quote I had heavily underscored on the word “inconsiderate”. I haven’t thought about being so very inconsiderate in years. Probably because I am so conscious of being considered inconsiderate, that I just never am. And yet, I am still frequently shocked and happily surprised when I find out that people genuinely like me. I was always inconsiderate in my mother’s eyes, but it was after the great punk rock rebellion that I became the thorn in her side. “It is one of the turning points in analysis when the sarcastically disturbed patient comes in to the emotional insight that all the love he has captured with so much effort and self denial was not meant for him as he really was, that the admiration for his beauty and achievements was aimed at the beauty and achievements, and not at the child themselves…” Growing up in my house, it wasn’t so much that I was even applauded for anything. My mother had to be aware of positive reinforcement and self esteem building, she did after all go to school for this stuff, but she didn’t apply it at all. I wasn’t doted on, wasn’t helped with the homework, asked about reports. It was more a if I was just expected to go about my own business and get my work done independently. Just bring home the straight A’s. One time in 5th grade, I was doing poorly in Spelling. It was like the ground tumbled apart beneath my feet. I was a horrible person to be relentlessly pressured to remove the dark seal of the “C” from my very visible forehead where all could see it. Forced to study until I was weary, my father would test me and be so frustrated and harsh if I was incorrect, that I dreaded the sessions and waited for everyone to end in tears. They always did. It was very much as if my parents did enjoy my achievements if they were able to share them. I was “good” if I was quiet and not seen, but if I ever did attempt to speak up for myself I was quickly shushed and made to feel guilty for daring to speak out. I think it goes beyond my own upbringing, as I can see the pattern in the occurrences at my Grandmother’s. My cousin Michael was five years older than me. A product of his own dysfunctional life, he was an odd child. Also an only child, we had the brother sister relationship with each other that neither of us really had. Meaning he teased me terribly. Often in a very mean way. Sometimes, it was scary. Like when he picked me up to reach a tall branch for the huge Oak in Grandpas’ yard and left me hanging there. The neighbor behind the house saw the whole thing and rescued me. Or when he attempted to make me walk under the same tree where he had one of those huge metal Tonka trucks suspended by a rope and had planned on hitting me with it. He did miss. Thank God his timing was off and it crashed behind me, because that thing really could have killed me. What I recall most clearly was the time he smushed me in the couch cushions. Sandwiched me between two sets and then sat on me. I couldn’t breath. I wasn’t laughing. And when he finally let me out, I went and told on him. I was crying. And I got in trouble for being such a spoilsport. I remember my Grandmother telling me to “Just hush, forget it, it’s OK” but it wasn’t OK to almost be suffocated in the TV room while no one hears you and can’t leave their coffee to check out the weird noises. I think my mother grew up in a family and a time when appearances meant a lot. Even appearances played for the sake of those who were living them and knew, inside, the truth. I was taught to not rock the boat, not complain, and above all “be nice”. It didn’t help that I like to call a spade a spade and to point out illogic or misjustice..shussshhhh no, don’t say that. It’s OK..even when it wasn’t. I think my mother also felt very invisible growing up there. She had a lot of anger towards her station in the family, not the treasured oldest boy, my uncle, not the bratty younger sister who got her way. She was the good one, the invisible one..the one who worked and put herself though school, who bought her own car, who got nothing. Maybe by time she had her own life, she needed for herself to declare her own importance, but in doing so, cast me into the invisible role. In any case, it was good to begin to get an understanding on her. At that point, my father was gone, from my life and heart, and I was not willing to give up on my mother. That was a real struggle for me and I was sure of what I wanted as an outcome. So we spent a lot of time on naming all the issues and identifying the problems. What is interesting looking back is I do not remember discussing how my mothers issues hinged on the decision on placing this baby. For sure her feelings and disappointments of me, had a great baring on my decision and my wanting to please her by the great sacrifice and my doing the right thing. I mean, here she was , so disappointed and mad at me that she was not contacting me and all I wanted to do was figure out a way for her to let me come back home when it was over. Plus I was dealing with my own huge feelings of abandonment and hurt. Here I was, her only daughter, pregnant and alone, living among strangers and she would not even call me. That hurt a lot. It is easier to act out something almost atrocious if your own mother is providing a living role model for you. I don’t recall this being questioned. My therapy about my mom was much more future oriented. As were my letters and correspondence to Darrin, my contact with Laura. It was more about carving a place where I could fit in when I returned. Talk of what I would do, and how I would leave Boston with a prescription for the pill to fill. Art school or not? Not about how I got there in the first place. The other thing that I do, to this day, feel uncomfortable with was how we handled Him. For whatever reason, I was still very sure that He could not be told. Since I did know who my baby’s father was and where he was, I was advised to not declare him on the birth certificate. He would be listed as “Unknown” even if he was, indeed, very known. The agency knew how to deal with this sort of situation and I was assured not to worry at all. It would be no problem. And as long as I didn’t tell him, I was happy. I didn’t care what they did. What they did do was run an add in a NY newspaper in the legal section. One of those smarmy things that sometimes can be see even today that means that a man is being denied his chance to parent his child. If He ever saw the ad, which I doubt, he did not respond and he lost any right he could have and was made, legally, unknown. I was convinced that the baby was a girl and I referred to her as Asia. Asia meant life, and while always pro choice, I found some comfort in the meaning. While it felt like forever, time passed by and soon I was approaching my due date. Still completely healthy, with exception for a great need to drink Mylanta all night long, I was longing for it to be over, yet did not want to go on with what I had to do. At one point, I got to “pick” the parents. Other women tell stories of looking though tons and tons of profiles, not me. They listened to what I had to say, what I wanted and then offered me a profile of a couple that they thought I would like. Being ever so corporative, I liked them. I got the “Dear Birthmother” letter, handwritten from both Mom and Dad, on nice stationary. I went further and received their photo album with happy pictures of their house, their cat, smiling happy family gatherings and lots of cousins in the same age range. The album was adorn with stickers. I liked stickers. I liked the Mom’s smile. So I kept the album and the letters and the profile and went home to begin to spin stories and visions of my baby growing up with these people. The agency said that I could met them if I wanted, but I had no use for that. I could not see the point of having to go through such a drastic, stress inducing, situation. What could I say? “So , hi..you want my baby?” This was the last days of complete closed adoption. I had never heard of real openness. To me, just that I could pick them, see pictures, was a god send. No one told me what I really might be looking for or how a meeting might have benefits in the future. No one made me think outside my comfort zone. The idea of meeting them scared me so I didn’t do it. Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I hadn’t had liked them. What if I had wanted to see more. I felt a little disappointed at the time, but I couldn’t see any reason not to like them. They kind of looked like my family and I did like that. They had the same religion, the same Irish Italian background, they were Democrats. Many years later, I would read the same parent profile with new eyes and see that it was too tailored for me. I don’t know how I didn’t see it then. It was almost written to me with certain triggers and appeals that they would have known that I was looking for. I don’t know if they were just the next couple on the list, or if they thought we would fit and then molded it just a bit to ensure that I would go for it. But I did without a backwards glance. OK, they will do. It shames me now. I was due November 12th. The day came and went. On the morning of November 13th, I felt “funny”. Actually, it felt like I was peeing my pants. A quick peek in the bathroom confirmed that I thought that maybe my water had broken, but just a little bit. Nothing else was happening so I said nothing to Joan. |
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