"Throughout life people will make you mad, disrespect you and treat you bad. Let God deal with the things they do, cause hate in your heart will consume you too.” – Will Smith
In one of her sarcastic, raging emails, my daughter made a comment about “forgiving me and moving on” (or something like that. I don’t remember the exact context but it was sarcastic and hateful. I could go look it up but don’t think I can stand another viewing. It’s like injecting slow acting poison into my veins.)
I was struck, deeply, by my reactions to her words – sarcastic as they were. I don’t want her forgiveness. I realize there was a time when I did but that time has passed.
I did not do anything wrong.
(The angry adoptees can now come running from blog woods now chucking spears at me.)
Was her adoption wrong? Presumably yes.
Was the agency wrong? Yes.
Was, and is the system wrong? Yes.
Was I wrong? Did I do something bad?
I loved her father. Deeply. I had sex with him. She was conceived. I chose not to abort her.
I was naïve, frightened, isolated, intimidated, threatened, coerced and shamed into giving her a “better home”. Information regarding the damaging affects of adoption was completely unknown to me. As for the legal process, it was unknown or intentionally withheld.
That is not wrong. That is youth.
If I am to “forgive” her (and I am still working on this) for her “youthful” behaviors towards me, surely she can ponder for a second the same in my regard?
I truly felt (but did not tell her) “There is nothing for you to forgive”. I realize in her position and her undying need to hold me accountable for all mistakes, her parents, the agencies and my own, the last thing she wants to hear is that I don’t believe forgiveness is warranted. I held back that thought.
I am actually growing from the harsh words she has thrown my way.
It is amazing to me that the worse my daughter treats me the better I want to treat my own mother.
I spend hours thinking about mothers and daughters.
Every time my daughter does something that causes me deep pain and to recoil, I ponder when, if, how many times my own mother felt that from me.
The less my daughter sees me as a person the more I see my mother as one. The more my daughter hurts my feelings the more I care about my mothers. Now that I see how excruciatingly painful it can be to be so badly treated by your child, I hurt for my own mother.