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I got back by lashing out physically. I still remember the last time I hit him. We were home from school one afternoon and he was, as usual, watching Gina TV. I lost my temper, as always, and ended up punching him in the small of the back. He howled like I'd never heard before, and I urged him to be quiet or Dad would wake up and we'd be in trouble. He went into his room and closed the door and cried for what seemed like hours. I felt so guilty to know that I had been the cause of such pain for him that I never laid a finger on him again. We didn't get along for years--maybe partly because I acted out at our parents and he didn't give them any trouble at all. Maybe he resented me for causing so much trouble; I felt like he didn't understand me and wasn't worth talking to, but those days are long past.
Adoption Community Information
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| Junior High and High School |
Date Posted: 08-22-2007 at 06:59 AM |
| When I was a kid, I thought adoption was awesome and shared my story with anyone who would listen. I thought it was great that I was different from the other kids and that I got so much attention for it. I went through some dark periods, but I wasn't aware that's what they were and I didn't know why I had them, so I just kept on playing and growing and doing what kids do. When puberty hit at 9, everything changed. I was uncomfortable in my own body, as is every pubescent, but that discomfort really affected me deeply. I did the normal thing, comparing myself to all my friends and checking off things I'd already gone through and taking note of and fearing the things I hadn't gone through yet. I must have unconsciously started comparing lots of other things, though, like family situations and personalities and my own feelings about that sort of thing. I never felt like I measured up. Everyone else seemed so happy--well, not happy because my friends and peers were all changing, but they seemed to take it so... so normally. I know this sort of paranoia is normal in pubescent kids, but I took it very hard. I felt myself getting angry and sad more often, and lashing out at my parents and brother. Again, all normal, but I was super-sensitive to it. All of a sudden, I felt like a bad daughter, like I caused more trouble than I was worth. Perhaps it's because I felt bad that I started acting bad. I stole small amounts of money from my mom's purse, I lied all the time about anything, and I ate in secret. I hated myself for it, but they were impulses I acted on and I felt like I couldn't stop it. My choice of boyfriend did not help matters. I met a 19 year-old British guy online when I was nearly 17, after I'd been forbidden from chatting because I'd given our address to a stranger after specifically being told that I could chat as long as I didn't do that one thing. Go figure, I did it. That didn't stop me from chatting, because I felt I could really be myself online, not the shell of a person I felt I was in the real world. The boys I knew in real life were immature, groping, pervy little twits, and although I desperately wanted to be noticed by them, I never was. So I went elsewhere, and found an intelligent, hysterical, mature guy who fascinated me. I knew I wouldn't be allowed to talk to him if my parents knew where we had met, so I lied; I told them it was through a pen-pal service I'd seen advertised in one of my grandmother's magazines (I felt that because I'd seen the ad for real it wasn't such a big lie). When I finally did tell them the truth, after I knew Dan and I were getting pretty "serious," they were incredibly displeased. However, they agreed to let him visit me in Tucson so they could meet him and go from there. When they found out we were having phone sex, the offer of a visit was swiftly removed from the table. They were afraid I was becoming sexually active before I was ready; they were probably right, but, needless to say, I freaked out. My senior year of high school was a living nightmare. I lost interest in school (very uncharacteristic of me), I stopped hanging out with friends in favor of being online, I spent all my time except for mealtimes in my room or out at choir concerts or at a rare social event, and I was becoming much angrier and darker than I had ever been. I felt such hatred towards my family that it scared me. After one particular argument with Mom, I went emotionally numb; she came home from work one day, burst into my room, and started off with "You little liar!" I can't remember what I had lied about, but I had and she was furious. It's the only time she has ever truly yelled at me. It was a tirade, that's the only word for it. I don't remember much of what she said, but I do remember that, towards the end, she bent slightly at the waist, trying to look into my face, clenched her fists, and shouted "We love you! Can't you see that we love you?!" I always thought that was such a cinematic line. It didn't feel real to me. She begged me to show some sign that I understood what she was trying to say, and I think I just shrugged. Somehow it all stopped and I stormed around getting ready to go out with a friend; Dad wanted to ground me, but Mom told him to let me go. I was so shocked I would have left no matter what either of them had said; I think they would have had to physically restrain me. Anyway, my parents and I kept battling with each other about my relationship with Dan, until finally, after a $1300 phone bill in long-distance calls, I was forbidden to ever talk to him again. We were on vacation when that conversation took place. I'd moved in with my grandparents in Wisconsin temporarily, until I started my freshman year at Lawrence University. I knew about the phone bill before I'd moved, but I didn't mention it for fear of the repurcussions. When Mom arrived in WI, she didn't mention it so I figured I'd gotten away with it and would come out unscathed. Then we went up to a family cottage in northern Wisconsin where my mom took my aside into a bedroom and explained to me what was going to happen: I was to come home with Mom and Sean instead of staying in Wisconsin, I was to get a job to pay off the phone bill, I was to see a therapist chosen by my parents to help me deal with whatever I was going through, and I was to break off all communication with Dan. That's the one time I can remember truly showing emotion in front of my mom; we sat on the bed, my head on a pillow on Mom's lap, as she stroked my hair and I wept without restraint. I still feel shame that I let her see me like that. I don't remember much about the rest of that trip, but I did call Dan the next day from the cottage phone to let him know that I was in big trouble and to expect an e-mail from me breaking up with him--but it wasn't real. When we came back from the cottage, Mom supervised as I typed up a final e-mail; she read it to make sure it was acceptable, and then I was allowed to send it. That was one of the lowest points I'd experienced in my life until that point. I called his house the very next chance I could, to reassure him that I had no intentions of breaking it off. If anything, I felt more strongly about him than I ever had. I went back home with my mom and brother, got a job at PetsMart and paid off a small amount of the money I'd racked up on the phone bill. My parents hid the phone cord so I couldn't go online or call Dan, although I found it and called him anyway. Sometimes I would call him late at night, sneaking out through the sliding glass door and sitting in the backyard in the shadows so my dad didn't see me. I can't say they didn't know or suspect that I was still talking to Dan, but they didn't show any sign of knowing. Maybe they feared my reaction if they tried to take anything else away from me, because I didn't think I had much else to lose. I had a big 18th birthday party, and was allowed to go to college that fall. At the airport, Mom was putting something extra in my suitcase and found Dan's letters and cards to me; she took them from me and said she would destroy them. She did get rid of the letters and cards, but I found a few little things in her dresser drawer a few years later that I quietly took back. |
| The College Years & Beyond |
Date Posted: 08-22-2007 at 07:42 AM |
| My freshman year at college started out wonderfully, then got progressively worse. My roommate and I got along great, I felt free and independent for the first time ever, and Dan came to visit over Spring Break. When I called Mom to tell her that Dan and I were still together and he was coming to visit in a weeks' time, she hung up on me. I cried, and then I laughed; I felt as if I'd just been freed from prison. It was amazing meeting Dan for the first time and having our feelings validated. After he left, more than halfway through the school year, my roommate moved out; she said I made her feel unwelcome in her own room, and that I never talked to her anymore. I spent much of my time on the computer talking to Dan, with my back turned to the room. (It hadn't occurred to me until now that my depression may have been sparked off by being separated from Dan that first time.) I did fairly well academically that first year, despite the emotional rollercoaster I was on, and visited home for two weeks during the summer. I don't remember it. My sophomore year was hellish. I lived alone--my roommate was in the army and had been called off after 9/11--and that was the worst possible situation for me to be in. I shut myself up in my room, stopped going to classes, treated everyone with suspicion, and cried all the time. I had no idea what was wrong with me, but I felt like I was becoming insane. A visit from Dan provided a brief respite, but when he left it was like he'd never been. My English professor--also named Gina, and one of my favorite professors at LU--met with me and said she thought I might be depressed. It was the first time anyone seemed to understand that I wasn't okay, although that may be because I hid it from everyone until it was obvious that something was wrong. She set up an appointment with a school counselor, who diagnosed me with clinical depression and started me on anti-depressants. Several weeks went by and nothing was improving. I met with the counselor, but it got to the point where I started thinking about what I would write in a suicide note, and I drew the line there. I don't think I would ever have harmed myself, but the fact that I was even contemplating it alarmed me immensely. My grandparents helped me check myself into the hospital that night. I remember when the doctor examined me and, when he pressed on my stomach, he asked "Have you been working out?" It's one of the most touching things anyone has ever said to me; he instilled a bit of positive self-esteem into a poor, frightened young woman in a terrible frame of mind. I will never forget that. I spent two nights in the psych ward. The first night was the worst. It had taken hours to get me checked in, so it was very late at night by the time I was up in the ward being shown the ropes before going to bed. I had to sign some forms and hand over my possessions (shoelaces, headphones with cords, etc.) and the like. I was given some scrubs to wear as pajamas, and, being a short woman, the legs were way too long and they smelled like a hospital. I was shown to my room--again, no roommate--and left to it. The room had high ceilings, a large window with a grate on the inside, an attached bathroom, and a video camera. I dressed in my PJs, brushed my teeth, and turned out the lights; I was nearly asleep when a nurse poked her head in and said I had to either leave the door open or turn on the bathroom light because it was too dark to see me otherwise. I turned on the bathroom light shut the bathroom door most of the way, feeling completely dehumanized. Another piece of "paperwork" I'd had to fill out that night was a small rectangular piece of paper with three sections for each of the day's meals; I had to choose which items I wanted and that's what I'd get to eat. I filled it out by checking all the foods I would like to eat if they were available. Imagine my surprise when two nurses brought me two trays piled with food the next morning! I had misunderstood how often I would have to fill the form out; I thought it was just a general menu and they would give me what they had available, when it was actually just the options for that one day. I had oatmeal, cereal, pancakes, two kinds of juice, milk, coffee, and several pieces of fruit. I was humiliated, but the other patients were happy to take some of the food off my hands. That day I "painted" some stained-glass style plastic art, had some group therapy (which I don't remember at all), saw my grandparents and one of my uncles, spoke to Dan and my parents on the phone, and met with a psychiatrist who increased the dosage of my anti-depressants and prescribed a handful of anti-anxiety pills to take only when I felt very stressed out. The nurses gave me one that night before bed, and I don't know why I didn't mention to them then that I didn't need it, I just took what they gave me. One of the older patients taught me how to play cribbage, and we stayed up until after 10 playing, with a couple others watching. When I walked past the "living room" to go to bed, he beckoned to me from inside it. It was dark and I couldn't see what he wanted. He grabbed my hand and tried to make me touch him, but I pulled back, panicked, and hurried off to my room. I told one of the nurses the next day and she was upset that I hadn't told them the night before; apparently, that guy had a history of being a bit of a pervert and no one was ever to be alone with him. I think I escaped a bullet there. I checked myself out after my second night there. I was feeling much more calm and relaxed, and ready to go back to Tucson. I packed up my room at Lawrence, talked to the dean about my circumstances (about which he was incredibly understanding, to my surprise), and left. I gave my mom the plastic thing I had painted while I was in the hospital as a present. It had green pears with darker green leaves, but aside from that I don't really remember. I was terribly proud of it for some reason. I started seeing a couple of different psychologists and a psychiatrist to monitor my medication, and really started doing better. I enrolled at the University of Arizona and was relieved to attend school with my friends from high school. I didn't do very well, though, and started isolating myself and dropping out of classes. I finished that semester with a 0.67 GPA or some such awful number. I moved into an apartment with a couple of friends and got a full-time job answering customer calls for Verizon Wireless pre-paid cell phones. I quit that after a couple of months and found a job as a data entry clerk at a collection agency. My relationship with my roommates quickly soured (none of us were really mature enough to live with each other), and life became a waiting game until our lease was up. I moved back in with my parents and, the following summer, re-enrolled in classes at the U of A with a new vigor for learning. I worked my *** off to complete three years' worth of work in one and a half, and after petitioning the university to ignore my work from the year in which I destroyed my GPA, I ended up with a 3.75, and got a 4.0 during my last semester there. I visited my grandmother and uncle in Wisconsin in June of 2006, and moved to England on a fiance visa that July. Dan visited me three more times in Tucson, and I visited England three times, as well. We knew we wanted to be together, so I finally took the leap of faith and moved out here so we could be together for good. My parents have never met Dan, although they have had several opportunities. I carried a lot of rage towards them for that for a long time, but have finally let it go. Nobody from my family came to our wedding here in England; my dad doesn't fly because he's been in three plane crashes in his life, and my mom doesn't sail, and it would have been too difficult to make it meet in the middle. Mom said she would feel uncomfortable coming to England alone and being around people to whom she had been "talked trash" about. And it's true, I did rant about how evil she and Dad were when I first arrived in England; I was angry and didn't think about how that might affect my parents' feelings. Finally, my brother didn't want to come over alone because he was only 20 and wouldn't feel comfortable, either. Regardless, Dan and I were married on December 30th, 2006, went to Edinburgh for our honeymoon, moved into our own place in May of this year, and are settling in very well. After reading Nancy Verrier's "Coming Home to Self: The Adopted Child Grows Up," I realized what an effect my relinquishment and adoption have had on me, and that I've been allowing myself to act like a scared little baby for most of my life. I am in the process of mending my relationship with my adoptive parents--especially my adoptive mother, who was on the receiving end of most of my aggression--and learning to deal with the emotions I'm finally acknowledging. It's scary and it's hard work, but it feels good! I'm still very confused emotionally and psychologically. I often feel directionless, purposeless, especially when it comes to what I want to do for a career. I have trouble trusting my husband when it comes to sex, so we don't really share that with one another very often. Thankfully, he is patient and understands that it will take time for me to be more free with that part of myself. So that's where I am right now. I miss university terribly, and would like to go to Oxford or Cambridge at some point in my life to study more literature. I have no idea where I will be in my life in two years' time, but for the first time in a long time, I know that I will still be alive then and will be ready to tackle it when it comes. Thanks for reading! |
| My Dad |
Date Posted: 08-23-2007 at 03:55 AM |
| I was going to write about my adoptive parents in one entry, but I think my dad needs one all to himself. I don't know a lot about his early years or their circumstances, but he was born in 1947 and given up for adoption for whatever reason. I believe he was adopted straight away by a couple, raised for a while in New York state, then when his father's health went downhill when Dad was high school age, they moved to Tucson for the dry air (maybe his dad had tuberculosis or some other lung condition). When he was at college at the U of A, he was drafted into the Vietnam War, much to his horror. I don't think we ever talked about whether he tried to conscientiously object. He was tall and thin, so in Vietnam he was one of the soldiers that had to crawl head-first into the tunnels the Vietcong (?) had dug all over the jungles. He doesn't talk much about his time there, but he once admitted to feeling very guilty that he made it out alive and many of his friends and comrades didn't. After the war, I think he travelled westward through Asia and the Near East, which is when he saw a Pakistani woman trying to nurse her dead infant. He had a vasectomy when he arrived back in the US, which is why my parents had to adopt. Dad felt there were enough people in the world without having to bring more into it. He married three times and divorced twice before he met my mom. One of his wives died in a car accident on her way to Casa Grande, Arizona; whenever Mom had to travel down there for her job, Dad would become very nervous and agitated (moreso than usual, anyway). He spent a few years travelling as a musician, playing drums and perhaps the occasional piano. He claims to have met the Bee Gees in Australia (and told them to "lose the guy with the high voice" !), befriended Alice Cooper, and played with several jazz greats (whose names I can't recall). He hated travelling, but he has lots of stories about it. One story involves a plane crash in a cold, snowy climate. The plane hit the ground with such force that one of his eyes popped out of its socket, and he had to hold it in until he received medical care. Apparently, he and his bandmates and the pilot found a main road and tried to hitch a ride to the nearest hospital. One car drove by, saw that one of the band members was black, and sped off; Dad says he threw a rock at the car when it was quite far away and, even with only one working eye, hit it straight in the middle of the rear window. I grew up not knowing if I could trust Dad's recollection of things--which I think is a fair reaction to such stories as I told above. The filter in his mind that integrates events into memory has very fine mesh in some places and gaping holes in others and even, apparently, wormholes that change the nature of the information and moves it around in chronology. I can't tell you the number of times he's tried to fight with Mom based on something she said or did, when it was one of his other wives. I believe him when he tells of his many careers and that he has experienced many traumatic events that have skewed his view of reality, but the finer details tend to be changeable and usually outrageous. He worked in the circus for a while before going to college, and he says he saw a friend get impaled by a long pole hurled by a monkey. I don't disbelieve that the animals got out of control once in a while and wounded people, but I have a hard time believing one of them gored a worker with a pole as if it were throwing a javelin. My dad is a very angry man, and it took me a long time to understand the way he works and then to forgive him for it. He never hurt us kids, and I'm pretty sure my mom wouldn't have let him hurt her (although he did throw the cat at her once), but his anger was still terrifying. He broke things a lot. We lived in a mobile home for most of my childhood, and there were holes all over the place from when he slammed doors open and the knobs went through the thin wood; he broke cupboard doors, he destroyed phones, he busted a microwave or two, and he even flipped the dinner table in the middle of a meal once. He has threatened my mom with divorce more times than I can count, although we all knew he didn't mean it. He would chase us kids down the hall to our rooms, his pounding footsteps shaking the whole mobile home with their forcefulness. He once ripped a sun visor off its bar in our car, and Mom kicked him out of the car for that; it was no mean feat for him to find his way home, since we lived at least an hours' drive away from where he'd been evicted. He said terrible things to us kids, even saying that he had never wanted any; that made me ask myself, "Well it was your choice to adopt me, not mine!" He called us names, swore at us, yelled at us if we made any noise, and was capable of making life a living hell... And afterwards, all was calm. He was both a hurricane that blew through our lives and left destruction in his path, and the calm weather afterwards that spoke softly and apologized and offered to make it up to us. I hated him more often than I loved him for a long time. Once, when I was sitting in my dorm room during my freshman year of college, a student ran down the hallway and I found myself cringing and weeping because I thought Dad was coming for me. I asked Mom once, when we were forced to drive away from the house because Dad was in such a rage, why she didn't divorce him. "Oh," she said, "he used to be much worse." That horrified me. It still does, to an extent, but I see now what she meant. With age, he has softened. He still flies into a rage about nothing, but it doesn't last as long and his words don't carry such an impact; perhaps it's because I'm more used to it now, but I do think time has done a bit of the work. What has made it all worth the trouble is that Dad really did (and does) love his family. He always hugs and kisses Mom when she comes home from work, he rubs her head, pats her bottom, and just makes general gestures of affection to her. I discovered that, once I'd gone away from home, he's the one who gives me the biggest hug when I return. It's a bit awkward and self-conscious, but he really means it. And he is very intelligent and talented and funny. He dances like a moron and tells jokes no one thinks are funny, and can be very sweet. I'm not a daddy's girl by any means, but he holds a special place in my heart. His is a soul in great pain, but it eases with time, allowing him to bring us closer to him. He bickers now, more than fights, and I actually like bickering with him because he's so outrageous. Plus I can swear at him without being disrespectful (don't ask how that works), so conversations with him are generally colorful. While he did cause a lot of hurt feelings and emotional stress in the past, I'm thankful that he never meant his threats about leaving Mom. We always had a solid family (even if he didn't believe it), and that's something I would not have had in my biological family. Here's to you, Daddy-o. |
| Call me Ishmael. |
Date Posted: 08-28-2007 at 03:38 AM |
| I was re-reading some of my favorite parts of Moby Dick in bed last night when something struck me about how I feel an intense connection to Ishmael, the given name of the narrator of the novel and the Biblical character after which the narrator was named. This will prove to be a really strange post, perhaps off-putting because of its content... but please bear with me, as I am going somewhere with it. The famous first line of Moby Dick is "Call me Ishmael." A footnote explains for us Biblical ignorants that Ishmael is the son of Abraham (father of Judaism) and his wife Sarah's Egyptian handmaid, Hagar. Sarah can't conceive, so she gives her husband Hagar as a second wife so he will have an heir; the law at the time stated that, though Hagar be the birth mother, any children she bears will be considered Sarah's children. Hagar conceives, but starts acting funny because she has risen in status in the household. Sarah kicks the pregnant Hagar out. In the desert, Hagar is visited by an angel, who tells her that she will have a son called Ishmael, describing him as "a wild man" whose "hand will be against all men, and all men's hands against him" (Gen. 16:12). (This is the line that influenced Melville to have his narrator identify himself with Ishmael; I'll go into that later.) Sarah later conceives Isaac (who famously is prepared for sacrifice by his father Abraham to show their obedience to God), with whom God makes a covenant; Sarah again kicks Hagar and Ishmael out of Abraham's house once Isaac is weaned at 3 years old, as he is likely to reach maturity and will be his father's true heir. I'm ignoring the wider Biblical significance of what becomes of Ishmael to favor the details of the story that spoke to me. This story could be of particular significance to adoptees who felt their parents favored their biological children, but I feel it could be significant for anyone in the adoption triad. The theme that seems to run throughout it is one of feeling like an outcast within the context of family and society--be it outcast by the birthmother, or outcast by society for daring to get pregnant, or outcast by God, perhaps, and being unable to conceive. For adoptees, the story even echoes the idea that many of us formed about ourselves that we are inherently bad; God tells Hagar before Ishmael is born that he will always struggle with other people because it is in his nature, as if he is born wicked (my own postulation). He, too, is rejected by his "mother" Sarah, and is paralleled by her second rejection of him after Isaac survives infancy. It's even uncertain that Ishmael will even be born before God intervenes--Hagar could very well have died in childbirth or something. Ishmael's existence and relationships seem to always hang in the balance, to be on the verge of collapse--and I can identify with that. I think many of us can. Ishmael the narrator in Moby Dick carries his own significance relating to the whole adoptee issue, too. First of all, his true name is never revealed, so in a sense his true identity always remains a mystery. We adoptees do not usually keep our birth names; instead we adopt and adapt whatever persona is given to us, forced upon us by society (echoes "all mens hands against him"). That line itself, of Ishmael being a wild man and having his hand raised against all men, etc., speaks volumes to me; I can be at once a perpetual victim and a victimizer, testing loved ones and then bemoaning the chaos that follows as if it wasn't my doing. Back to the novel: the narrator is the sole survivor of the white whale's catastrophic attack on the Pequod--he is an orphan, in a sense, whose continued existence in the world only serves to remind him of everyone he has lost. Ishmael's view of the world is heartbreakingly bleak and yet hopeful; he acknowledges that everyone's life is indelibly connected to and dependent on others: "...I saw that this situation of mine was the precise situation of every mortal that breathes; only, in most cases he, one way or other, has this Siamese connexion with a plurality of other mortals. If your banker breaks, you snap; if your apothecary by mistake sends you poison in your pills, you die" ("The Monkey-Rope"). And yet, he spends much of his time in the novel inside his own head, fantasizing and philosophizing, having rejected what the world outside his mind has to offer him. Instead he is attached to the events in the world only by the delicate silken strand of his consciousness. I, too, sometimes feel as if my connection with the world is a tenuous one, as if the slightest vibration could completely destroy it. I live in anxiety and fear, punctuated by brief moments of happiness and optimism. I'm not sure which is my true outlook, whether I'm a pessimist who fools herself into optimism, or an optimist who shortchanges herself into pessimism. I don't know, perhaps it doesn't matter. There is so much beauty in Ishmael's prose, and so much bleakness. So much of what he says touches me to the core, makes me terrified of the reality of what he writes because, if it's true, what does it all mean? "Who aint a slave?" "All men live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round their necks." There is such urgency and impermanency laced in Moby Dick, and it scares me that I identify with it so readily. Am I crazy, or does everyone else feel this way too? I wouldn't be surprised if Melville wrote a line about that, too--about all men thinking they are alone in their thoughts when that couldn't be further from the truth. I freakin' love Moby Dick. |
 Recent Comments: |
| Thanks, Janny! |
By fauxgina(01-14-2008 at 08:18 AM) |
| Janny, thank you very much for your support and encouragement! I hope I'm not giving the impression that my family is awful, because they're not. I've had a better life than many, and I appreciate that very much. But the issues we have had have weighed on me heavily for many years, and they're all being aired out now just to purge my system. But you're right: all families, no matter how they came together, have the potential for petty feuding. That's what this is becoming: feuding. I sincerely hope it doesn't get to the point where Dan and I start to feel as bitter about it as Mom and Dad do--if it hits that point, I will become very depressed indeed. I've seen in-fighting among families before, and maybe I'm making excuses when I say I don't feel my family is like that, but while it has been infinitely angering and hurtful, it's nothing to break off contact for. I truly believe that. I will post a new entry now to talk about some other stuff I've been thinking lately. But it's nice to know that I'm not the only "loser" out there who is "wasting" my talents. ;) |
| Pettiness is alive and kicking!!! |
By Jannyroo(01-12-2008 at 02:12 PM) |
| Oh Gina, I'm glad to see that pettiness is as alive and kicking in afamilies as much as it is in my own family that I was raised and psychologically traumatised by!!! LOL What torture this family is giving you! No wonder you're keeping your distance from them, I think that has to be a healthy place to be eh? I know from my own experience that I've had to be at some emotional and geographical distance from my family for some decades now. Each time I try to 'let them in' a bit, they scorch me time and time again when I least expect it. The defenses are up most of the time now, although I hope for better things...... at a distance..... caution is always the order of the day. Great friends and my own life are my self made safety net....sadly, my friends and those of my faith have proved to be more of a family than my own. That hurt for some years until I just acquiesed and learned to accept it .. some. Some examples to get your head around: My parents would not condone my brother marrying, so he got his girlfriend pregnant and in those days YOU GOT MARRIED. They have been together ever since and that must be getting on for 40 years or so! Ever since, he was treated like a second class citizen, even though he proved his worth and so on. In fact if one is measured by the amount of money, car, houses, place abroad to renovate, etc, then he's done the best out of all of us!!!, but he was ignored.......... and he keeps his distance from everyone now, only appearing for mum's funeral.... Next: my sister and husband has a farm (ee I ee I owe) and on this farm was a brand new carpet and brother arrived with new puppy and wanted dog to stay in house. Ohhhh nooooo!!! Not having it. Let it stay in the van or leave. In the end, the dog pooped on the carpet. Now I wouldn't consider that to be the end of the world, but it led to .... 16 years of not speaking. Yep, you read right. Pettiness rules ok. Even now, apart from coming together for mum's funeral, they don't have anything to do with each other..... Now I'm all for keeping carpets clean, but if a puppy does a whoopsie on the carpet, it can be cleaned. But get this. After all that hoo hah about the carpet, some years later, my sisters carpet was in such a terrible state, that one had to wonder what all the fuss was to start with.... Next: My father has stayed out of my life for the best part of it, cos I didn't match up to the 'successful' young woman he felt I should be capable of. He felt I was a loser and wasting my talents. He didn't realise that once the marriage was over and my parents divorced when I was 11 years old, that I was pretty screwed from then on for the rest of my life. I felt rudderless and floating throughout life, especially when my son was adopted..... Next: My mother was attempting to be the go between on almost Kissenger like proportions whilst the family exploded into petty diatribes about each other. A sister not speaking to other sister, brother not speaking to anyone except mom, and so it went on, year after year, changing like shifting sands.... time and time again... I just couldn't stand it. It wasn't my way, there had to be something better than this????. Happiness has to be an awful lot more than what your job, care, mega bucks, says about you, surely? There are so many more worthwhile attributes such as loving kindness, goodness, self control, peacefulness, cherishing, altruism, endurance, self sacrificing, tenderness, laughter, loyalty, faithfulness, joy, long suffering, mildness....... who gives a stuff as to what career someone has, if they are lacking in good old heartedness, caring, compassion? Nope, this trend towards self elevation (or if you fail, elevate your kids so that they can carry the banner for you), it has to stop IMHO. Personal relationships are more important than affluence, career, cars, latest technology. I heard a guy on the radio the other week, that went to spend several weeks out in the desert. He said 'it was just God and me and the elements' and he said 'I was really scared'. It taught him a lot as to what is really important, when its a life and death situation. Imagine a world with no Ipods, computers, mobile phones, internet, top of the range housing, cars, just us and the elements of this earth.... wow, how sobering. One girl sent out there as part of a 'brat camp' rehab course said what scared her is that she couldn't escape herself. She was forced to face who she really was inside and it changed her perspective of the relationships she'd been toxic with completely. She began to appreciate what a load of **** she'd been dishing out to her family, whilst she screamed abuse at them, due to drugs, booze, etc... Unfortunately, so many people put emphasis on qualities that really have no real importance in the cohesion of society. I'm truly sorry that your afamily's values are so skewed rather than seeing the person you have now become Gina, they are focusing on the 'image' that seems so important to them, and bears no resemblance to the person before them. I'm also saddened that your brother has subscribed to the same philosophy. Like you said, you have a companion for life and that is an achievement. To be happy with that person is another (over here in the UK I think its 1:2 marriages ends in divorce) achievement. The only comfort I can give you Gina is that you don't have to explain to us. If your family can't 'forgive' you (and for goodness sake, for what?) then they are the ones who have the problem. Sometimes maturity comes to the children and the adults and parents seem to have abandoned it, for whatever their baggage they have, it would seem that they either can't or won't face it or work through it. That is sad. But you have made great strides Gina in your personal life and coming to terms with your adoption. My encouragement would be: stop explaining yourself, let them think whatever they want, if visiting them once a year is too much, cut it down to once every 2 years (sorry, this is my experience of what I've had to do...), live your life and enjoy all the peace and contentment you have. Leave them to their own micro worlds that they don't want to envisage themselves out of, and enjoy yours Gina. Like my family, don't let them take away the special qualities you have developed through your own experiences. We all have something to contribute to society, whether its being a mother raising children, poetry, waitress, hospital cleaner, postman, bus driver, refuse collector... where would we be without any of these? Let those who wish to elevate themselves do so, for those that recognise the qualities that truly matter, take heart. Those are the things that matter. Its such a shame that in this Westernised world, we have lost some values along the way of supposed wealth and 'progress'. Take heart. You are valued here Gina. (((Hugs))) Janny |
| how to make a link |
By Jannyroo(01-07-2008 at 09:40 AM) |
| Can you tell me how to put a link like this together please? http://forums.adoption.com/2062743-post674.html. I keep asking around and to date, no-one has been able to show me. Would really appreciate it, I feel such a dork!!! (is that a permissible word?, if not, idiot). |
| Yeh, you're so right |
By Jannyroo(09-30-2007 at 10:45 AM) |
| [quote] Let me just clarify that I did not mean that "serotonin" is bandied about, but the idea of a "chemical imbalance." Serotonin IS an incredibly important chemical (as I know all too well), and a person MUST have enough of it in his or her system (but not too much) in order to feel content, as you say. Christine meant by her comment that she feels that too many patients (and doctors) rely on falling back on the idea of a chemical imbalance to avoid having to do the "work" involved with therapy. I take her advice with a grain of salt, as well as those who promote drugs, because both parties are trying to peddle their own respective wares and it's in their own interests to convince you that the other party is mistaken.[end quote] You are so right. What I found interesting is that when I was having regular ups and downs of near manic depression and I hated the world and people with some relief in between, I noticed that once the vitamins (especially the biocare multi and the B complex) were started that my response to counselling, advice and my "take" on life was SO VERY DIFFERENT once I was attempting to and succeeding in optimising my nutritional requirements. Therapy succeeded much better afterwards than the before, if that makes sense. ... and then the 5-HTP made things even better and then the amino acids made it even better than that - (please note that 5-HTP CAN'T be taken along with any anti depressant, but please start as soon as you are weaned off. The multi, B's and amino acids will help enormously whilst you are still on the anti depressants. By amino acids i mean the general ones - methionine, cysteine, cystine, lysine = Amino plex (Biocare) or tyrosine, glutamine, phenylalanine and others) but please please, do get the book The Mood Cure by Julia Ross, as it explains ALL and also some precautions for some amino acids (there are 22 in all) such as high/low blood pressure, lupus, migraine, liver impairment, severe kidney damage, overactive thyroid, pregnancy, and others. That's why I included the free phone number of a nutritionist. GABA reduces blood pressure but I find extremely effective in calming me down within ½ hour, at 500mg per capsule, but some need smaller amounts. Also, Essential Fatty Acids (omegas 3,6, 9 - cod liver oil, GLA and ? respectively are great for calming mood swings down and the brain needs it for a host of processes, not least moods). Obviously its hard to write down here in a few minutes what I've learned for me over the years, but at least there are some pointers here to get you started. I've been known as a very moody person over the years and yet my friends that have known me up to 20 years have all noticed the difference... I'm approachable!!! (Ha ha - English, LOL slang everywhere else!). here's to better times. I don't think I could have "survived" as much as I have in reunion without the vitamins etc taking the punishing discharge of emotions (that wears the vitamins out as they buffer the assault). Vitamin C, 1g capsules are also a life saver - they buffer the stress and pollution that is rife these days. All of these need to be taken alongside modified eating habits. Vitamins don't make a poor diet better, they do however, make a good diet better. They can only work as well as our body allows them. Junk in, junk out. Good stuff in, good quality vitamins in, better results. Here's to a better future and more success in counselling!!! (((hugs)))) |
| Thanks Jannyroo |
By fauxgina(09-28-2007 at 06:39 AM) |
| Thank you so much for putting so much thought and time into your response. I know we've talked about 5-HTP before, so I will definitely have to check it out if I do need to be on some sort of "supplement" to help with my moods. I have written down key words to research myself, so thanks again for really putting some thought into your response. Let me just clarify that I did not mean that "serotonin" is bandied about, but the idea of a "chemical imbalance." Serotonin IS an incredibly important chemical (as I know all too well), and a person MUST have enough of it in his or her system (but not too much) in order to feel content, as you say. Christine meant by her comment that she feels that too many patients (and doctors) rely on falling back on the idea of a chemical imbalance to avoid having to do the "work" involved with therapy. I take her advice with a grain of salt, as well as those who promote drugs, because both parties are trying to peddle their own respective wares and it's in their own interests to convince you that the other party is mistaken. |
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