Do you think it is true that if you still cry when you tell your adoption story that you are not “healed”?

Was musing with a few friends on separate occassions about this.

I shared that no matter how hard I try, when I speak publicly, I choke up and stammer and cry.  I have a love hate relationship with this. Part of me is just plain old annoyed that the emotions take over cuz I want to sound all credible and smarty pants. Then another part of the psycho gemini that I am feels that it is good, okay, and natural to cry. It shows the depth of the pain and trauma. This is something I want people to see.

Yet, I reflect on a woman I met at the A Girl Like Her Screening in Hartford a few weeks back. After the Q & A she came up to me, remarked about my sharing and then said something like “so obvious that you are still not healed due to your crying”.  Part of me was like “WTF, seriously?”  Yet a few days later another friend brought this up to me.

I strongly reject the people who tell us how to heal, when, why, under what circumstances and what the benefits are of doing so mighty quick. (Don’t even take me there unless you are prepared to tell me that you also tell a rape victim that she needs to just get ovvuh her sorry ass self..)

Yet even still, I wonder, will the day come that I don’t cry when I tell my story or talk publicly about it. Is the lack of crying a sign of some sort of growth that I have yet to achieve?

You respond and say you have not heard of the book drawn from the authors open adoption experience nor have you heard the interview.  You also share your thoughts on open adoption and adoptive parent entitlement.

Later, you download the book from the Kindle store and when your therapist shares the link to the audio interview with you, you promptly ignore it.

However, you do start to read the book.   You find it easy to read (for now) but wonder if you will be able to get through it.  You tend to avoid such things.  You never saw Juno (and won’t).  You don’t read or view or support pro-adoption propaganda. Yet since this book came to you via your therapist, something inside you compels you to read it.   You ponder if there is a deeper meaning to the mention of it by your therapist to you. You also posit that reading it is research for your own book you are once again working on. You also ponder if you are once again over-thinking and reading too much into everything and are setting yourself up for a fall.

More to come.

If only.

Surely I look a bit out of place, perhaps like a tourist to the State House, with my head bobbing too and fro, my ears catching audio clips from a conversation between a State Rep and a Program director or a mother and her toddler child. There have to be several hundred people in the room, nearly half teen parents with their baby on their hips or with their hands holding little toddler hands.

I don’t kid myself into thinking these parents are having an easy time of it but I also know that parenting is hard at any age. It is always expensive. Always life changing. I was married when I had my second son. He is now fifteen. I had a terrible pregnancy, gave birth to a 12 pound child after three days of induced labor followed by a cesarean section. I had post partum depression followed by years of a challenging marriage and a third and final child. None of it was easy despite being married and upper middle class. The young parents are amazing. They are facing the challenges I did (and many  I did not) but they do so keeping their children with their family of origin.

If only.

An elected official carrying the same last name as members of my mothers’ extended family takes the podium. I am interested in him for the few seconds I muse over the fact that his name is an Irish one in my mothers’ family. I wonder if he is related. I decide he is not as I am aware Boston has a massive Irish community and I never heard of a single member of my mothers’ family living here. My mind reflects on the movie The Departed and I reflect on the term Shanty Irish.  My mother used that term.  I thought she made it up, I thought it was slanderous. Turns out it was rather common place.  My mothers family never figured out if they were Lace Curtain Irish or Shanty. I am sure many would have considered me shanty, a disreputable person of Irish descent.

My mind returns to the white haired suited official, but only for a moment. I am turned off by the heavy Boston accent and return to scanning the room. A mother looking harried and lost approaches the table, a child with a runny nose and somewhat dirty clothing is by her side.  She asks for directions to check in. I smile at the child, his greenish white snot glistening in the dim lighting, grubby clothes not fitting quite right. Child smiles back. Wide smile. Happy smile. He may grow up poor but he will grow up knowing his mother did her best, she loved him. She wanted him. She kept him. She was strong enough to fight the forces working against her, the forces lusting over her baby and the price he could be sold for.  I smile again at the snot running down his nose. He smiles again. I never got to see my daughters snotty nose.

If only.

The  booming voice of Representative Gloria Fox (D-Roxbury) takes the podium. Strong powerful voice.  I am inspired. I am drawn to powerful strong women. I am interested in what she has to say.  I try to listen yet am interrupted by another mother and her toddler asking me if I know where the restroom is.  I don’t but I offer to help them locate it. She smiles and tells me she can find it herself. I return to Rep. Fox and I hear her say we all have a vested interest in each and every healthy baby brought into the world.  I choke back tears and try to force down the lump in my throat. The only people that had a vested interest in my daughter were the agency that took her from me and the couple that paid a great deal of money for her to become theirs.

If only.

Angel, teen father to twins, takes the stand.  My eyes violently turn towards him. A father? A responsible teen father?  You mean they aren’t like unicorns?

Angel is young, attractive, well spoken. He shares his story of how he and the mother of his twins were both in college when she became pregnant.  I am having difficulty breathing.  I am simultaneously fascinated, angry, sad, moved, touched, and enraged.  Angel is a slight fellow, average height, dark hair, attractive, presumably Hispanic. The dark hair reminds me of my daughters’ father. Angel manned up to his girlfriend. He will have his children in his life. His twins will know who their daddy is.  His girlfriend will raise her children.

If only.

A young mom, now a college student, tells the story of her pregnancy. She shares how a guidance counselor at her high school confronted her and informed her they did not “need” people like her “a pregnant teen” at their school.

Need? WTF? What education professional says that to student? My adult parent self screams inside and then I flash to my own experience.   I was an honor student in high school. I was president of student government. I got pregnant two months AFTER graduation.  I know without question that had I gotten pregnant in high school I would have killed myself (and my child…we would have been together then).  I wonder if my wacky old guidance counselor would have preferred suicide of the president of student government over her becoming pregnant. I want to hug the mom that is speaking. I want to tell her how amazing she is, how lucky her child is to have her.

If only.

A young lady, a mother, a college student takes the stand. She is introduced as a poet.  I think of her as a powerhouse dynamo spoken word artist. She is incredible. She recites, raps, shares, and recites her story in an incredible work of art.  She talks of coming out of prostitution, having her child, going to college. She says, sort of sings that she wants to be a “mentor, an innovator, a trailblazer”. I suspect she is thinking of young people when she says this.  I don’t think she realizes a 45 year old mother of three, parent to two, is finding her to be quite innovative. This girl, this young woman, needs to go national. I wonder if she is on YouTube. I wonder how I can hear her speak again.

If only.

The opening session wraps up and the many teen parents head off to meet with their respective representatives. I look around for a second unsure what I should do next. Should I stay and help the Alliance staff clean up? Where are they going to go? What are they going to do?

I check my watch and realize I should head back home. I have at least a 2.5 hour ride back to Connecticut.  I pack of my things, say my goodbyes and express my thanks to the members the alliance.

As I wander out of the Statehouse I am overcome with emotion.  I am confused. I am awe struck. I am emotionally bleeding. Not sure which way I should go. I cross the street and start walking across the Boston Common.  Tears blur my view as I walk the direction I will later learn is the wrong way.  I will circle The Common in its entirety and panic before I find my way back to the garage.

Many people pass me as I walk, slowly, deliberately,  confused and crying.  The beauty of the city is that no one questions the crazy people.  No one looks at the crying woman circling The Common.

The event is a bittersweet experience for me.  It is inspiring, encouraging, enlightening to see change happen. It is powerful to see press and policy makers supporting the rights and needs of teen parents. It is gut wrenching to see the struggle yet hope and determination of these young parents and the programs that support them.  I wish I had access to, knowledge of, such programs in 1986.  Children understand poverty. They dont understand a mother that gives them away to strangers. I wish I knew of such programs, such adults when I was pregnant and alone. My life could have been different. Very different.  I might have raised my daughter. I might have avoided 27 years of trauma therapy. She might be talking to me today.

If only.

“If we do not have the depths, how do we have the heights? Yet you fear the depths, and do not want to confess that you are afraid of them. It is good, though, that you fear yourselves; say it out loud that you are afraid of yourselves. It is wisdom to fear oneself. Only the heroes say that they are fearless. But you know what happens to the hero.

With fear and trembling, looking around yourselves with mistrust, go thus into the depths, but do not do this alone; two or more is greater security since the depths are full of murder. Also secure yourselves the way of retreat. Go cautiously as if you were cowards, so that you pre-empt the soul murderers.” – C. Jung, The Red Book

I laugh.

Kooky? Intrusive? Isn’t therapy supposed to be intrusive? Isn’t that the point? I asked him.

“Isn’t the goal of therapy to be intrusive? Haven’t you professionals designed it that way?” I inquire as I fidget in the green leather Queen Anne style chair.  I find myself still curious if where a client sits in the therapy session is indicative of anything.

He responds with his own giggle.

“Well, yes and no. I am struggling to articulate what I mean.”  He says. I see him continue to debate the thought.

“So, let me just say it. In the coming days, I want you to consider thanking her. Thank that 13 year old girl.” he offers with a slight anxious tone to his voice

“Just look at her and say thank you.”

Thank her?  What am I thanking her for, I wonder to myself? I also wonder why he would find it difficult to suggest this to me. Why that is considered intrusive?

I remain quiet for a few minutes. He senses my ambivalence.  He then asks about the ambivalence and when I agree with the observation he explains further.

===============
I don’t remember the exact time period in my life. I am going to guess based on the images in my mind that I was thirteen years old, perhaps fourteen.

My parents’ living room may have had blue carpeting though for some reason I am thinking that came afterwards. Blue carpeting and counter tops are very 80s. This memory is likely late 70s.  Oh, no, wait; it might actually be early 80s.  My estimated age of thirteen or would make the year 1980 or so.  The blue carpeting might have been there after all.

My mother is seated behind me on a couch.  No idea what the print is, what couch it was, we had several.  I can sense her knees directly behind my back. I am sitting on the floor. My sisters are to my left. Feels as if older sister is right next to me with younger somewhere off to her left.  Brother is across the room in the upper right corner with father somewhat parallel to him only on the opposite side.

My sister and I are folding laundry as the entire family watches television.  I am angry.  Really angry.  I don’t recall why but can guess it has to do with the chores my sister and I are once again performing as mother, father, brother and baby sister sit nearby.  We did a lot of housework as children.

Of course, I could also just be angry at my Dad.  He is most likely drunk, again.  When isn’t he?

The silent seemingly unprovoked rage builds inside me and I scream out.

“I FUCKING HATE YOU. I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU. SHUT UP… I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU.”

I push the laundry basket in front me across the room and throw a garment into it.

My fathers head spins in an unnatural way towards me.  Bad enough I raised my voice to my elder, but I also dropped and eff bomb.  

A painfully audible gasp is heard escaping from the mouths of my mother and siblings.  They are frozen in place. Fear of my father’s reaction has paralyzed them.

The next few minutes are a bit of  blur.  I am ordered to my room and as I run past my father to get there, he attempts to trip me.  I get past him, run to the stairs as he follows.

My flight up is more like a bumbling leaping crawling debacle than an energetic walk. As I try to climb to the first landing, my father grabs my ankles and pulls me back down towards him, ankles first. Chin hits stairs. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk.  I scramble up a few more. He pulls me back. Two steps up. Four steps down. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk.

Family still frozen in living room pretending nothing is happening. I turn towards the staircase and look through the thin vertical spindles expecting my mother to be there. Surely she will stop this nonsense?

I twist my right ankle oddly and kick him off.  My foot lands squarely on his right shoulder. He is shocked I made contact wit him.  His processing delay offers me enough time to scramble further up steps to safety.

My mother fails to utter a word.  As I treat my chin and ankle wounds in the upstairs bathroom, my older sister resumes the laundry folding and the family continues watching the television.

===============

“How do you feel about that now? How does she feel about it?” he asks.

I am annoyed that he talks about her like a separate person, a person that exists today.  Earlier discussions of splitting and dissociation come to mind. They also annoy me.

I am too choked up to respond immediately.

“We are both angry.  Where was my mother? Why didn’t she stop it? Why didn’t she say anything? Comfort me? Stop him? Really! Why!  I don’t understand it.”  I offer as I hold back tears.

He grins with understanding and appreciation at my response.   Rocking in his bentwood rocker, back and forth, back and forth, he launches into a theory that my children’s ages, events in their life today and in the future will reflect, mirror or provoke images from my own childhood. He suggests that as a mother I will work to do for my children the things that were not done for me.

Duh, I think to myself. Of course I will, don’t all mothers, I want to scream at him. I feel a gust of hot hair blow into my face.  My youngest son comes to my mind.

He sees my expression change and asks what just occurred. I tell him that I am currently in the midst of a bit of a battle on behalf of my youngest son.  Learning and behavior challenges in school, difficulty blending with the family that lives at his father’s home and more have been causing my youngest son to be a challenge to all who encounter him.

Except me, I share. I feel as though I am the only one standing in his corner. The only one demanding people stop, look and listen to this child and what he has been through. The only one who wants all the adults in the room to drop their command and control method of behavior modification to realize it will not work on this kid, my kid. I know this far better than they do as I was once THAT kid.  We need to listen, understand, and take a breather. Find a different approach. One size fits most not all.

I start to cry as I fully understand what he was suggesting earlier. No one stood up for me as a child. Well, no one but her, my own younger self.  I/she balked at the insanity around us while others walked dutifully into my fathers’ ovens of emotional and spiritual death with smiles on their face.

I get it.  She saved me; at the very least she helped me.  She, me, our lessons together, are helping me to help my son in a way I was never helped.

So, yeah.

Thank you.