Writing My Wrongs

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The previous post was password protected to protect the individual that is referenced. I typically don’t password protect posts. I rather dislike it in fact. I don’t visit blogs that password protect posts cuz I never remember the password. 

This post had to be protected. At least for now. There is a young adult in question and out of respect to him I feel it necessary. However, I also feel it necessary to share as I need advice and direction.

If interested, you can write me at bluestokking at gmail dot com.

Finally, the post has the potential to be massively triggering to all members of the triad. Or maybe it was just me.  It still makes me feel sick.

The concept of complicated grief, where grieving is considered to be more intense, disabling or extended than normal, has been much discussed as an area where psychiatric treatment may be warranted. It’s an interesting concept because it essentially sets limits on what should be considered a normal response to personal loss. – Mind Hacks

No time to post but wanted to share this article.

Ponder what it suggests in relation to adoption related grief. This captured my attention as I have been grieving and sad for 24 years.

Kay Redfield Jamison on love and loss

An Internet “troll” is a person who delights in sowing discord on the Internet. He tries to start arguments and upset people.

Trolls see Internet communications services as convenient venues for their bizarre game. For some reason, they don’t “get” that they are hurting real people. To them, other Internet users are not quite human but are a kind of digital abstraction. As a result, they feel no sorrow whatsoever for the pain they inflict. Indeed, the greater the suffering they cause, the greater their ‘achievement’ (as they see it). At the moment, the relative anonymity of the net allows trolls to flourish.

Trolls are utterly impervious to criticism (constructive or otherwise). You cannot negotiate with them; you cannot cause them to feel shame or compassion; you cannot reason with them. They cannot be made to feel remorse. For some reason, trolls do not feel they are bound by the rules of courtesy or social responsibility.

Perhaps this sounds inconceivable. You may think, “Surely there is something I can write that will change them.” But a true troll can not be changed by mere words. – Internet Trolls

Love this recent open forum ReadWriteWeb on dealing with negativity online as well as trolls. Particularly amused by the line of “don’t feed the trolls unless you are feeding them tranquilizers”.  Teehee.

I agree. I work hard not to feed trolls. Historically (as in years ago) I deleted them. These days I tend to leave their comments on my blog. I consider it a bit of a public service. Good for everyone to know the trolls. Trolls behavior is a reflection of them – not me. The only comments I do delete are those that attack other commentors. I will not allow my blog to be used as a platform for blog wars.

Anywho, check out the article.

“What is the shortest word in the English language that contains the letters: abcdef? Answer: feedback. Don’t forget that feedback is one of the essential elements of good communication.”

It is kind of a relief.

It saddens me but at the same time relieves me.

This no contact order.

Now that my daughter has officially said she wishes no contact with me I feel somehow lightened. I could have assumed that. For two years she ignored every birthday wish, every Christmas greeting, every comment on her blog or tweet reply.  I should have assumed but I did not. I wanted HER to make the rules. I did not want to assume I knew them.

Now I know.

Through my five years of reunion I just wanted feedback. What should I do or not do? Was she like other adoptees who could not verbalize? Did she not feel capable of asking for something? Should I be lighthearted or heavy? Should I say nothing or everything? Was she patronizing me? Throwing me a bone of her life with the hopes it would be enough for me and I would just go away? Did she want to know her medical history? Get her OBC? Want to know her story? Her first family?

Answering questions like this and many many more is impossible when the other party to your reunion gives you no feedback.  You stumble. You grasp. You flail. You cry a lot. You worry a lot. You assume and presume and resume and you say the wrong things and sometimes you say the right things. But you never know for sure.

There is no reply at all.

So your anxiety builds and you question and chase your own tail.

Maybe? Should I? Did I? How do I? Can I?  Round and round you go.

Finally it has come to a halt for me. Now I know the rules. Now I officially know what she expects of me. Nothing. Just go away.

Is it what I wanted?  Not at all.

But this I can work with. This I know how to handle.

And I feel okay with it. I told her I love her, I always will and that I welcome contact from her at any time. And I mean it.

I am good with this.

Now I know the rules.

The holiest of holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I have been keeping a Christmas memory book since the early 1990s. I used to fill it out rather religiously. This is evident from the early posts that have every little worldly detail and event captured along with the pasting of a photo and a sample holiday card I sent that year.

As the years went by the entries became spottier and less detailed. Some years are completely  missing. The years that involved the breakdown of my marriage and eventual divorce seem to be the least populated if not completely absent. Makes sense. I struggled through every day back then. Last thing I would want to do is capture the sad times.

I pulled the book out this year and am gleefully populating it. I can talk about my fiance, our lovely new home, my sons changing schools, my oldest son in the Latin Honor Society, friends, family and world events.

 Life is good.

As I flipped through the pages of the book, I was startled to see a small notation at the bottom of each completed page. I had forgotten I did this. Amongst the notes of the latest president, my dads sobriety (or not), and other notable family events I placed my daughter’s age along with hearts and other small doodles.

The Christmas 1992 entry was an interesting one.   I noted the marriage of her father to another woman (with the words “ouch” following that entry). I noted that my aunt and uncle had adopted another child (making their grand total equal to four children). I noted that Amber (my daughters original name) was six years old. Six! She will be 24 next May.  My how time flies even in a closed adoption.

Makes my heart ache.

I can vividly remember nearly every christmas that I spent without knowing where she was, if she was alive or dead. I remember pondering a few seconds before writing those notations if she was happy. I remember doing a mental tabulation of the years that had to pass before I could “legally” find her.  I would fantasize about her and I making christmas cookies, decorating a tree, eating pierogies at my mother’s house, musing over the family tradition of sharing oplatki at Christmas (along with making blasphemous jokes about communion wafer with my siblings), and finally attending a Polish midnight mass.

I found her in June 2005. I was permitted to send her the first christmas gifts that year. My how I rejoiced.  I spent so much time shopping, wrapping, and packaging those gifts. Somewhat surprisingly, there is no 2005 entry there in the holiday book to capture this event. I am okay with that. It is captured, imprinted, tattooed on my heart and onto the hallways of my mind. It was a blessed time. I remember it fondly. 

Reading these old pages is bittersweet. I no longer need to list her age or muse as I once did. I now know she is alive, what she looks like, where she works, and in the general area in which she lives. I am not quite sure what, if anything, I will write about her in the book this year. For now, for today, I am at peace that I finally know my child is alive. I have more than many other mothers have.

A few photos of holiday book pages below. Click thumbnails to make larger.

She was four.

She was eight.

She was ten.

“If you share your pain you cut it in half, if you don’t you double it.”

My oldest son started middle school on Monday of this week. This was huge for him, for me, for his brother, our family.

For him, it meant wearing a uniform versus street clothes, leaving friends behind, changing classes, learning how to unlock a locker, taking a bus to and from (and departing on said bus at 6:55 am), attending school located in the inner city versus the posh snooty burbs, navigating a whole new world pretty much on his own.

I was terrified for him.

He is an anxious child at times and he internalizes it all. He appears fine, really fine, and then, without notice will erupt into a puddle of tears, red faced and hyperventilating. He will be embarrassed and frustrated and angry and resistant to help or any sort of comfort.

He did none of that. He was happy and excited and comfortable all week. He did his homework with ease, texted me regularly on his new and very first cell phone, and even allowed me to do his Latin homework with him. (I always wanted to learn Latin).

He is doing great with middle school and I am pleased.

His younger brother is also doing better than I expected. For his first two years in elementary school he had his brother by side. These boys are TIGHT. My oldest is quite protective of his younger brother often to the extreme. I was afraid the little guy would not take kindly to now being in school without his older brother.

He was unfazed. No sign of missing his brother, no anxiety, just the typical “see ya Mom, bye” as he left the car each morning this week.

And I worried about what?

Perhaps I worried about myself. Regular readers may recall that for the past 6 years the first day of school meant sending my sons off to school but it also meant collapsing into a puddle of tears thinking about all of my daughters school days that I missed. It meant holding back anxiety attacks like this that cause me to shake and stutter and want to run and hide. It meant days like this one too.

Guess what?

IT DIDN’T HAPPEN THIS YEAR! 

I did not realize this until Wednesday of this week but for the first time in many years I did not cry over my daughter when I was supposed to be rejoicing over my sons!

Been thinking about Jmommas and others statements about expectations.

Specifically, wondering what is an expectation versus what is hope.

I am not sure I am clear on one versus the other..at least not as they pertain to my own situation and thought processes.

Expectation:
In the case of uncertainty, expectation is what is considered the most likely to happen. An expectation, which is a belief that is centred on the future, may or may not be realistic. A less advantageous result gives rise to the emotion of disappointment. If something happens that is not at all expected it is a surprise. An expectation about the behavior or performance of another person, expressed to that person, may have the nature of a strong request, or an order. – Wikipedia.org

Hope:
Hope is a belief in a positive outcome related to events and circumstances in one’s life. Hope is the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best. [1] Hopefulness is somewhat different from optimism in that hope is an emotional state, whereas optimism is a conclusion reached through a deliberate thought pattern that leads to a positive attitude. – Wikipedia.org

I would love for Jmomma and others to talk about how their expectations got them into trouble in reunion for the only expectations that I can confidently come up with in regards to my own is the following.

I expected (erroneously) to be treated like a person, a human, even a stranger. I expected my daughter to say thank you, no thank you, please, happy birthday, merry christmas, go away, etc. In short, I expected her to give me at least the courtesy she would given a stranger. (Yes, this is where adoptees pipe in and say “but you are not a stranger”). I did not expect to be avoided, have presents refused without explanation, have emails go unanswered for years on end. I expected basic common courtesies to be extended. Even if those expressions were rude and hurtful. I expected to be communicated with. (And yes, yes, yes, I know why I might not have been. Just run with me here. This is not about defending her actions. It is about explaining me and my feelings. There is a difference).

For the longest time it boggled my mind why I couldnt get a response to an email. How they could just go into the ether and never be answered.

I expected some interest (or hoped?) in her medical history, in her brothers, in her family, in her story.

And this is where I cross the line and get fuzzy. Did I really expect those things or did I hope for them? Did my expectations get formed based on all the other adoptees I knew? Did I wrongly assume that my daughter, like hundreds, maybe millions of other adoptees, would care about her medical history? Did I have unrealistic expectations and if so, why?

• I hoped I would find my daughter. I did.
• I hoped she would be happy and have had a good life. I don’t know if she is or did. I continue to hope.
• I hoped she would want to meet me. She doesn’t want to. I continue to hope.
• I hoped we could formulate some sort of relationship, even if cyber only. I don’t think we have. I continue to hope.
• I continue to hope she will consider getting to know her first family in the future.

Do I EXPECT those things? No. (Or do I?)

Does that then become some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy? Since I don’t expect, don’t really have much hope anymore, does that mean something negative? If she were to read this and see that I have little hope and even less expectations, would that be helpful or hurtful to her?  Would she say “Whoof, thank god the pressure is off. Now she will leave me alone” or would she feel left again?

Thoughts?