All that Glitters Is Not Gold

Mirrors should think longer before they reflect"  ~Jean Cocteau

Oh, please, don’t let me fool you. While I sometimes appear all calm, cool and collected in my blog, or even in my correspondence with my daughter, the truth is that underneath it all is a woman, even a young girl, who hurts and hurts deeply.

My first reactions are not usually those of respect. But I have learned to bite my tongue and hold my fingers. I have learned to stop and think and question why something is making me feel the way I am feeling. I have learned to ponder if I am angry at the situation, the person, or even myself.

Sure, I would love to lash out. Love to tell her how much she hurts me, angers me, is rude to me. I would love to tell her how much she makes me cry, how I ache for her, how I dislike the distant that she puts between us.

But what will that accomplish?

Will that make her feel better? Will that make her like me? Respect me?

I don’t think so. I think it would make her fear me. Fear the burden of my anxiety and pain. It would make her feel responsible for it. I think it would make her run for the highest mountain she could find. Not only might it make her afraid of me but it might make her afraid of herself. For she is, my daughter. She could easily jump from the thought that if I am crazy and uncontrollable that genetic beast may lay dormant somewhere in her cells as well.

Its not easy. Trust me. Often there are full days of total withdrawal from my life. Nights of crying. Nights of laying in bed and looking out the window at those stars. There is being snappish with my husband and there is crying uncontrollably with my therapist. And even more importantly, there is my venting and ranting in private with my ehbabes yahoogroup and my private eLJay.

I do act rashly and harshly and I do cry and I am often angry.  It’s been built up for 20 years. Twenty years of drinking the ‘I-am-fine-and-adoption-is-wonderful-koolaid’ has ended and behind the tidal wave of koolaid is one pissed off and sad and angry young girl. Once the splash of koolaid has passed, there remains, seated, a mother that aches for her child. A mother, rocking, but with no baby in her arms. A mother searching for the sound of a child crying, but no child is found.

On the floor is a young girl with big bad 80s hair and flowered pants crying for someone to pay attention to her. For someone to help her. For someone to stop yelling at her and stop telling her she is wrong and bad and evil and not good enough

I am trying to love her these days. And in loving her I am finding that I am loving my daughter too. For isn’t that what all parents do, give to our children what we did not have? My need and feeilngs were disregarded. I will not do that to her.

I need to be patient and kind to both of us.