Surreal

I have committed to being a part of National Blog Posting Month in November, which coincides with National Adoption Month or whatever it's called. So I will post daily during November. I am looking forward to that.

Last week I was perusing the writing and reference section in my local Books, Inc. store. Really, I was deciding whether to buy my son a Roget's Thesaurus because I am sick of helping him look up synonyms and antonyms for his spelling words online, and everyone should have a Roget's. Under Roget's, I saw a book of daily writing encouragements, and thought perhaps I could buy it for myself. But when I read it, it was $16.95 of feel-good platitudes I didn't need, except for the reminder that Strunck and White should always be out on my desk and that five minutes of daily writing is good for mental health. Now I have to see what Jenn over at Insert Bad Movie Title Here has cooked up for me in terms of prompts.

I have been meaning to write here for a while about serendipity again, and how odd strands of things keep reappearing in my life, tugging me back to certain topics. Several weekends ago, I went to see a fascinating exhibition of photography by Man Ray and Lee Miller at the Legion of Honor in San Francisco. It chronicled (mostly) their tempestuous collaborations in the years 1929-32, and I have always been drawn to Paris and Surrealism at that time. I had forgotten just quite how devastatingly beautiful Lee Miller was; I think I stared at some photographs of her face and body for half an hour. Her feminist view of herself, in contrast to Man Ray's view of her, was also thought provoking as the curators had set it up.

And the poignant pain of loss that Man Ray felt when Miller left him, and her eye on the metronome in the sculpture, "Object To Be Destroyed," meant for catharsis: just wow. He could never bring himself to crush it. When students in Paris actually did destroy it in Paris in 1957, Man Ray was furious. I understand why. Her eye, her eye!

Then on Monday, which happened to be my son's birthday, I was coincidentally in Berkeley. I stopped by a bookstore I sadly don't frequent anymore. I was meandering through the fiction and history, and then the small foreign section caught my eye. There was a used collection of essays by Gerard de Nerval, the 19th-century essayist and poet who had profoundly influenced the Surrealists. I hadn't read Nerval since college, and my recent rubbing of shoulders with Man Ray and Miller put me in the mood to revisit his world. Why not delve into the feverishness of someone who is said to have walked a pet lobster, Thibault, on a ribbon through a park in Paris? That's my kind of man!

The kind of man, moreover, who may have led Dali to create mad shit like his Lobster Phone. I would go visit the phone regularly in my 20's at the Tate when I lived in London. And when I learned he made this particular phone for a poet: even better!

To round out the darkness/tragedies of the week, I took my elder son to see Swan Lake performed with bravura by the Mariinsky Ballet (formerly the Kirov). I adore the twisted story of Swan Lake, as people who have read here before know. The score is dark and haunting, and the dancing of this version displayed a virtuosity I had not seen in years. Odette/Odile was horribly delicate and and poisonous. The dancers were clearly having fun, moreover, and my son was entranced. My only true complaint was that they changed the ending! The Russians, of all people, changed the ending! Odette didn't die; Rothbart was killed and everyone lived happily ever after. Seriously? What's the point? Bowdlerization is for shit. What's next? Anna Karenina where Anna and Vronsky run off into the sunset?

The Surrealists would be most disappointed in this turn of events. I had to sigh. I believe, most strongly, that people can handle the tough as well as the good. There is darkness in humanity, and it's all right to access it and recognize it. There is also wonderful light, and sometimes the light wins in the end. But not always. Life is messy. Acknowledge it. That's what makes things interesting; the difficulties may make us crazy, but if we pretend everything is nicey nice, we are denying reality.

I will see you here on the First of November, if not before. In the meantime, I will try to internalize some of E.B. White's thoughts on seriously good writing.

I leave you with one of Nerval's poems, translated by A.S. Kline.

Golden Lines

                              Well, then! All is sentient!

                                                            Pythagoras

Free-thinker, Man, do you think you alone

Think, while life explodes everywhere?

Your freedom employs the powers you own,

But world is absent from all your affairs.

Respect an active spirit in the creature:

Each flower is a soul open to Nature;

In metal a mystery of love is sleeping;

‘All is sentient!’ Has power over your being.

Fear the gaze in the blind wall that watches:

There is a verb attached to matter itself…

Do not let it serve some impious purpose!

Often a hidden god inhabits obscure being;

And like an eye, born, covered by its eyelids,

Pure spirit grows beneath the surface of stones!

The Other Life

I have been nonstop busy at work recently; we are understaffed with lots of pregnant women lining up in the waiting room at all hours. It seems like people were having lots of carnal fun in November and December last year that is coming to fruition. On the one hand, there is great job security in the current state of full house. On the other, it's been horrible having to work without any breaks or dinner. Sometimes I have not even had a chance to go to the bathroom for nine hours! I know that MDs work hard, as well, but they can at least duck in to take a pee between seeing patients. We can't leave the bedside when things are difficult or acute, or if we've got multiple patients on monitors if we've no one else to watch them.

Two days ago I was with a patient who pushed for six hours and then immediately went to the OR for a cesarean when the baby refused to budge through the pelvis. Pushing with a patient is exhausting (no, not as exhausting as the mom's work, but it's still physical and mental--you have to be "on" and charting every 5-15 minutes while managing the room). Some RNs don't want to take a patient having her first baby with an epidural because it can mean pushing for hours and charting out the wazoo. Six hours of pushing was longer than a woman usually gets, but the MD wanted to be certain that the mom got a fair shake before going to what we affectionately call "the birthday party room." After night shift took over at 11:20, I still had to chart for an hour. It was a brutal shift, and that's been typical this past six weeks. I hadn't eaten since noon, and hadn't peed since 2:45. I was glad I didn't drink a lot that morning, and that I am not prone to urinary tract infections. My convent life is good on that account.

I hope this weekend we won't be short staffed. Yeah, right.

In my time off, I've been doing off-the-wall things like meeting Molly Ringwald (who was signing her new novel, When It Happens to You) in SF; going to an exquisitely fun midnight birthday party for a private showing of 16 Candles from a 1984 print a brilliant friend finagled from a VP at Universal; going river rafting outside Yosemite; and trying to figure out where to get my hair cut, since emmett, my stylist, moved to Philadelphia a year ago. He would be disappointed in me for waiting so long, but I was mourning. I am going to a wedding in two weeks, though, and I would hate to look as dreadful then as I do today.

I have also been talking to Thomenon quite a bit, and looking through the NYT at all the art exhibitions planned in the US over the next year. I may go to DC to see the big Pre-Raphaelite exhibition traveling to the National Gallery from the Tate; as Thomenon said last night, "I love the Pre-Raphs; they're so kinky." It's been nearly 10 years since I was in England, and despite seeing some British art in SF at the Legion, I very much miss my crazy, laudanum-addled guys with funky obsessions. There is also a fascinating exhibition that is traveling and up Thomenon's street, about war photography in all its incarnations. It will be stopping in LA, at the Annenberg Space for Photography. I have always wanted to write something about World War I, and read widely about the Great War and life in the trenches and its cultural impact, especially in Britain. That can be my next nerd project.

The photograph below, by Dmitri Baltermants and taken in 1942 is from the War/Photography exhibition. It shows action on the Russian front in WWII, where my father-in-law was engaged in battle on the--ahem--wrong side. But I am very glad the Russians did not kill him, or I would not have my sons.

Returning to WWI for a moment: I just finished reading Caitlin Moran's scathingly wonderful How to Be a Woman, in which she compared giving birth to lying dead on the fields of Flanders and having Wilfred Owen write a poem about you, sort of. Not having lived in England in over a decade, I am out of the cultural loop, but Moran is one of my new loves. The cover of her book compared her to Tina Fey, but she's way, way darker, and I can appreciate that edge. I love both Fey and Moran--I am probably more like Fey myself, but wish I had a splash of Moran's chutzpah, as in her fashion rules, which include "Gold lame is a neutral." and "Red is a neutral."

I bought purple socks yesterday, as a promise to myself to spice up my black wardrobe. Thank you, Cate!

Oh, and my new name is Mirren.

Orwell

In some ways, adoption seems like a huge Orwellian scheme to mess with people, primarily adoptees. I should mention that Orwell was an AP who didn't want his son to know his natural family, and burned their names off his son's adoption papers. And for that, I am unimpressed.

I am a big fan of George Orwell the writer, however, and the way he thought. He was brilliant (although I don't always agree with him), and I have read with pleasure everything from his novels to his accounts of living with elephants in Burma to the "charms" of English food.

His diaries, edited by people I admire, have just been published in one volume, and I look forward to reading them in toto. A review published in the New York Times last Friday cited Orwell, with his usual wit and exactitude, summing up the way the world was heading:

"If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face--forever."

I would wish that we could change this stark, brutal image, but given the inability of many people to value education, to think, or to have compassion for those different from themselves, I don't have much hope.

You can read parts of Orwell's diaries, serialized in blog form, here.

Sea Change

I have decided to change my name, wholesale.

I was not given a name when I was born, just the throwaway "Baby Girl Newman."

The name my parents gave me, "Kara Jane Olsen," never really suited me, and I have blogged before about how people use "Kara" to abuse me by mispronouncing it. I. Am. Done. With. Abuse.

I don't like my married name, for a multitude of reasons, even though there is a funny etymological story attached to it. It's impossible (or seemingly impossible for rude Americans) to pronounce.

So I am starting over. Call it a midlife crisis, or what you will.

I call it taking control of my identity, and it feels great.

I told my adad that I am jettisoning his name, too. He was sad, but I think he understands why I am doing this.

I have a new last name picked out, and one of my sons wants to change his to it, as well. The first name is in flux. My amom suggested one that has mythological undertones that make sense, as well as a tie to a family member. I like it, but I really, really, really want a name that is JUST mine.

I will let you know when I figure it all out.

I am thankful that I don't live in Germany, where it is illegal to change one's name.

I love Irish mythology, and the story of the seal maiden, the Selkie, who comes ashore and lives life as a human although she has another life, another existence, under the sea and is always pulled back there. I feel that this is my pull back to something, my chance to be myself. Separate from anyone else's family or expectations.

I might as well be Athena, born fully grown from her father's head. Life is strange.

Balance

I am off balance again.

I had been feeling stable, more or less.

Work is going well; I have found my comfort zone after my three and bit years. I still have much to learn, but I am humble and know when to ask for help and advice. I know when things aren't right. I don't feel that I am a danger to anyone, and that's comforting. I love the people I work with, and I think that (most) of them trust me. I enjoy clocking in, getting my assignment, and taking report on my patient(s). I take pleasure in building relationships with my patients over my eight-hour shift. For the most part, I stay in the room with my patient, and I have taken to choosing surgical patients, when possible. I like the order of the operating room and surgical recovery. Everything is controlled.

I had the pleasure, yesterday, of one of my patients finding me in civilian clothes, running up to me and hugging me. She was with friends and told them that I was the "best L&D nurse" and made her experience wonderful. She made me smile. My job sometimes feels just like a job, and I don't know how much I have touched lives, although I do my best to make a difference for the better.

I try to center myself. I run, I read, I do things that make me happy. But there is still this huge hole in my heart, this sense of being let down by people who should know better. The ones who say they love me, but don't. I am not necessarily upset. I know their patterns. I should even know that they're using me, or have nothing to give, or utter hollow promises to get things from me that they want. Just sometimes I, in my hopes that they're better people than they are, am disappointed and reminded that I am truly all alone on my island.

I have spent most of my life expending my energy trying to make other people happy, turning myself into a pretzel to make their dreams come true. What did I get out of it? Sometimes good things, sometimes nothing. I have made great strides, positive strides, in ending this "good" behavior that has bad consequences for me.

I cannot stand the empty words anymore. Don't tell me you love me if you cannot back it up by actions. It's too, too triggering.

I have simply had several of those days when I can no longer deny that I am not getting what *I* need, on the most basic levels. And those days are excruciatingly difficult to get through, even on robot mode.

Not to mention that my body is letting me down again. It's all in a package, always. I am left with that sinking feeling that my entire existence on this planet has been to "bring sunshine" to others. I don't want to do it anymore! It's a cruel joke. If that's what it is, I am prepared to jettison about 85% of the people in my life and start over.

As my primary care MD said, I survived all the medical shit through some crazy odds, and it has to be for something better than this. I should have been dead at least five times over. Yes, I want to be a good mother to my children, and that's very important. But I deserve to be happy in my own right, and not just on happy pills.

I feel that there is something I need to do, and I am not quite sure what it is. It's significant, of that I am certain.

Belonging redux

I haven't written much about my adopted life recently, in part because I don't want to write about my nfamily. Now that they are in my life, the web of relationships is exponentially more complicated. I care very much about not hurting them. The other part is that the landscape is constantly shifting and is sometimes too difficult to describe effectively.

With that proviso, here is where I am right now.

I feel like I live on a ledge. On the one hand, separated by a gap, is my afamily. On the other hand, separated by an equal gap, is my nfamily. Sometimes I can touch them across the gap, but the gap is always there, and will always be there, I see now. It's how I handle living with the gap that is my concern.

I suppose my aparents are on the ledge with me, most of the time. They love me unconditionally, and are black sheep in their families, too. In all my large, extended afamily, there are a few cousins and aunts and uncles who reach out to me and who probably do care for me quite honestly, but I have never been able to reciprocate as well as I'd like, or I've messed up, or I sense that there is something missing. I know that I am very different from many people in my afamily, just as my parents are, and that's okay. But it does leave me feeling that I am standing alone.

When I visited my aparents last weekend (and the Klimt exhibition was glorious, despite scholarship that drove me around the bend), I felt as loved as I could be. They are home to me. They have loved me unreservedly and given above and beyond, since they brought me home in July of 1969. My dad asked me how my trip to Hawaii had gone, and said that he was so happy that I'd found my nfamily because he and my mom are in their 70's and won't be around forever. He wants to know that I will have people around to take care of me and love me when they are gone. He sees it as a growing of family, not a taking away of what's *his*, which is wonderful and kind. As it should be.

I also enjoyed the opportunity to spend five days with my nfamily last month and to get to know them better. It was enlightening to see how I am like and dissimilar to my blood relatives other than C and A. I loved hearing stories about my grandfather, and learning with whom he shared stories, and with whom he didn't. How he gave satirical nicknames to people, which is something I have always done, privately and otherwise. On the other hand, hearing these stories made me quite sad because I realized how much I missed in not knowing him, this man whose temperament and eyes and love of history I share. There's nothing to be done about it, but I grieve the loss profoundly. I also loved having my uncle tell me how much he sees of the family in me, and how proud he is of me and what I've done with the good bits, and how I handle the not-so-good bits. He was the one who said that he was committed to getting to know me, and he has kept his word. That means the world to me. I feel safe that he won't hurt me or leave me, which is saying volumes from a bruised, skittish adoptee.

But I am still on a ledge. Neither side understands all of me, nor accepts all of me. There are ruptures that cannot be mended. What I've realized, and I think this is the most important part, is that it's my job to take care of myself. The experiences I've had, and the opportunity to get to know C, has helped me become a whole person because there's no longer a part of me that feels rejected, or that *I* reject. I have had a chance to begin to integrate my story, such as it is, and see which parts of me are in my blood, so to speak, and which parts are socially constructed.

Thomenon and I had a long talk the other night, and he said that over the past 20 years he has watched me work hard to climb up the face of a cliff, leaving parts of myself behind, finding others, fighting battles all the while, internal and external. I have made it to the top now, lean and sinewy and strong, very different from the dewy-eyed, open-hearted creature who began the climb, willing to accept the cruel words and punishments of others as gospel, internalizing all of it. Time and experience and pain and many other circumstances thrown into the crucible have created the *me* that stands here now; I am so much better off than I was even two years ago because I am no longer struggling to control people and relationships that I truly have no control over, and I am no longer willing to engage with people who are full of shit.

The difference--the most important difference--is that while I might not belong to my family in ways that others take for granted, I have come to *like* the place that I've made for myself. My family is one I've created, which I define very broadly. I am doing the best I can with what was given to me, and I think I've done a great job, considering. If people want to be in my life, they are welcome, but I am not chasing specters anymore, or false promises. I know who loves me, and who doesn't. My adoptee-senses are exquisitely honed to detect bullshit, and I am too old to play games. To be honest, I feel better being alone than around others. Part of it is my rarified education and irritation level running at DEFCON 1, part of it's my hard shell, part of it is having difficulty trusting others and jettisoning the untrustworthy faster than I can hit speed dial. None of this is bad; it's just who I am. The best part? I feel comfortable in my own skin.

Frustrations

I have not had the time I've wished of late to think about intellectual issues. I had been meaning to write about an interesting essay I read a few months back in the New York Times Magazine about Roland Barthes, one my favorite figures in criticism.

Sam Anderson, the essayist, opined:

"'Mythologies' is often an angry book, and what angered Barthes more than anything was 'common sense,' which he identified as the philosophy of the bourgeoisie, a mode of thought that systematically pretends that complex things are simple, that puzzling things are obvious, that local things are universal — in short, that cultural fantasies shaped by all the dirty contingencies of power and money and history are in fact just the natural order of the universe. The critic’s job, in Barthes’s view, was not to revel in these common-sensical myths but to expose them as fraudulent. The critic had to side with history, not with culture. And history, Barthes insisted, 'is not a good bourgeois.'"

I appreciate Anderson's encapsulation of Barthes' project. I concur. Barthes always wanted to press beyond the obvious, to smash complacency and encourage questioning beyond the surface. "Natural orders" are nothing of the sort, generally, except when they are, and you know of what I speak. I love the idea of history being dressed not as a well padded bourgeois gentilhomme, but as a lean, hungry radical. Perhaps Chekhovian in appearance. There are plenty of myths, to be sure, and plenty of people willing to swallow them; but I also believe Barthes would have been equally disgusted by people who hewed only to facts, as though they were a religion. The Dryasdusts. The Casaubons. My friend Thomenon and I joke that empiricists, when asked what their sex is, say, "Hold on. I have to check the data."

There is always, always a place for facts, to be sure. I work in a field where facts and evidence-based practice are of huge importance for safety reasons. But at the same time, the best minds continue to question and push beyond the obvious. I was reading an article in a journal at work the other night that showed research revealing that infants born between 37 and 39 weeks gestation via elective cesarean section are demonstrating in childhood higher incidence of diabetes, asthma, and other chronic diseases. I need to do more research into the samples and the study, but this is curious. Why would this be? It could be that the the sample is skewed toward mothers who already have genetic tendencies/family history for diabetes and asthma; the populations most commonly associated with these diseases, however, are low-income women of color who do not (usually) have the opportunity to choose an elective cesarean. Why did the similar sample of women with vaginal deliveries of infants of the same gestation have children who did NOT have these problems? I know there are many, many variables to control for, but this is a curious problem. I was speaking about this article informally with some MDs and RNs, and several people speculated that there might be some unknown protective physiological processes that vaginal birth provides to an infant. We already know it's better for their lungs. There are just so many things we don't know about the human body and how the human brain works. How can we be so hubristic to say that we have the effects of infant adoption all figured out? Oh well, some people just need to feel important, I guess. 

Which brings me to back to Tim Clark. I went out to get the mail and found a fresh, lovely, unwrinkled copy of the LRB, complete with his review of an exhibition of Picasso prints at the British Museum. "What fun," I thought. I can be frustrated all afternoon and read and throw it across the room when I have had enough. 

I know Clark's new book is going to be about Picasso's classicism, which is potentially interesting, if he can get his classical facts straight. I hope his editors will assist him, because he had errors in his essay. Tim, dear, they are white-ground lekythoi, not white-figure. But good on you for looking at them! They are lovely, indeed. To say, however, that the lekythoi are not serious, are unserious, in fact, is rather misleading. You are denigrating again, as you do so very well! To call the subject of the vases the "thoughtlessness of life" is perhaps intelligent, as the small details make life/the loss of life poignant. Do we not all want to remember the tiniest details of our loved ones? But details are not always frippery! Alas, Sir, you call classical art a "decorative" idiom that might be able to turn the corner to pathos. WTF? Is it because it didn't exist for its own sake? Is it because this lekythos wasn't signed by a single male artist, splattering his semen paint all over the place? Puhleeze. 

Oh, and of course, speaking of the Greek vases in the British Museum's marvelous collection, where I have whiled away many an hour: "What view of death has ever equalled these for delicacy and regret?" Sigh. If Tim were in the Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, I am sure he would say the same of David's Death of Marat. He waxes lyrical about whatever collection he is inspired by, on the day, using generic language. Where is his editor? It is immensely rewarding to know one's enemies' habits. They repeat them so very predictably.

It is also wonderful to be middle-aged, see the Emperor with no clothes, and not to feel deferential anymore. Not at all! Such a relief! I have my own brain, my own credentials, my own opinions. He, like so many others, is bound and imprisoned by his prejudices to such a degree that it's pitiable. Almost pitiable. I cannot, and will not, forgive the abuse.

Which isn't to say that the Emperor (crowned by himself, no less) doesn't have some wonderful ideas. That's the frustrating part. As enjoyable as it is to watch him hang himself, he does reveal things that I don't see, or wouldn't see on my own. 

I will be going to see an exhibition of Gustav Klimt drawings at the Getty on Saturday, delight of delights. I am ready for a day of art history, at my own pace, just loving it, with no one complaining and whining. 

Confessions, or SSIHD

I hate being sick. I love pretending that I am not sick. To such a degree that I was very, very, very bad and took an enormous risk and became a noncompliant patient. I stopped taking my Lovenox about two months ago. Or was it three? Or four? I don't know. I stopped counting.

I got sick of people telling me that I look fine, I am fine. "You look beautiful! I wish I were that thin." Blah blah blah. My labs were great. I needed to have a low-molecular heparin level drawn before my next refill of Lovenox, and somehow I just didn't get around to it. After all, I survived two kids, a portal vein thrombus, and two pulmonary emboli. I am lucky. I won't die of a clot. Just. Won't. Happen.

I had coffee with my friend Greensunflower yesterday, who has her own medical struggles and periods of noncompliance. She is also a critical care RN, and works in the emergency room. I confessed to her.

She smiled at me. "Look, I get it. I know it gets tiring. I know you don't want to take your meds. I know that you look fine and no one gets it. I know it's a pain, literally and figuratively. But yesterday, on my last shift, I had a patient who came in, having coded with a PE. We called the code. He was 41. I don't want that to be you. You may never have another clot, but if you do, it could kill you. Let's work on this together. Let me help."

I cried. It was wonderful to have her understand. She also explained that it's possible to be depressed about one thing, not to be depressed globally. I think I was depressed about my health and tried to bury my head in the sand, probably not the smartest thing I've done in a while. It's just hard to balance this life of not knowing, of prophylaxis, of pain, of being told there's nothing to do but hope. It sucks.

I was at the MD this week for my three-month checkup. I have been spiking a fever on and off for the past few weeks, 100.1-100.4. I ignore it. What's to do? At the office, it was 100.4. She decided to do cultures, the whole workup because of my being asplenic. And...of course, the labs show that I am healthy as a horse. Do I have a rogue virus? WTF?

I told Greensunflower again, about the labs. She said, "You have no spleen. Don't play around. One time those labs won't be perfect. Don't be so hard on yourself."

You know what I am hating the most at the moment? That I am too tired and achy from the fevers to run. Running has been my saving grace, mentally and physically. Am I really back to one day at a time?

Sigh.

Oh, and it's Stupid Shit I Have Done.

NB: I took down the post my mother wrote because she said it left her feeling too exposed and vulnerable. She is appreciative of everyone's kind and generous support.

Depression

I had a conversation in the past couple of days with someone who really doesn't seem to understand my history of depression, or how it works. I was thrown aback by a couple of things said, such as, "If I had known you then, I would have told you to suck it up," or "I would give you a reality check." Hmm.

I didn't find this "help" particularly insightful or amusing--and perhaps it was intended to insult, not help. At the moment, I am not depressed, but as a person who has had a life-long struggle with this disease (which not simply an attitude problem, by the way), I was deeply offended. People who are depressed need support, not to be told to try harder. It's a psycho-social-emotional trifecta of hell.

I ran across this fabulous link of things not to say to someone who is depressed, and I thought I would share them as a public service. Enjoy!

Ways to Insult Someone with Depression 
(an exercise in sarcasm)

Posted: 26 May 2007

Nothing cuts deeper to someone with depression, than when their serious condition is trivialized by another who doesn’t understand it. In an effort to counter this, let’s trivialize the way that people trivialize depression.

–

There are lots of good ways to insult someone with depression. You need to give some unsolicited advice. Something simple, profound, and potentially life changing. Just snap out of it lacks imagination.

Here are some ideas:
“You don’t like feeling that way? So change it!”
“Life isn’t meant to be easy.”
“This is what life is like. Get used to it.”
“Pull yourself together.”
“Who said that life is fair?”
“You just have to get on with things.”
“At least it’s not that bad.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“You have so many things. What do you have to feel down about?”
“You just need to cheer up.”
“Quit trying to be a martyr.”
“Stop taking all those medicines.”
“I know how you feel. I’ve been depressed for whole days at a time.”

These are my favorites:
“What you need is a good kick up the backside.”
“Go out and buy yourself some clothes. That will pick you up.”
“Are you sure you don’t have a mental problem?”
“How about I cook you a good meal. That will make things better.”
“Have you tried acupuncture?”
“Get a job!”

And the all time best:
“Why don’t you try not being depressed.”

(N.B. Occasionally someone reads this post and misses its sarcasm. Just to be clear, it isn’t mocking people with depression; it is pointing out how insensitive people can be.)

An Unexpected Twist

As I have blogged about before, my birthdays of late have not been very happy occasions. I've been haunted by being off certain people's radar, and it hurts to feel that I am not remembered that day, of all days. I am not one of those types who always likes to be the center of attention--far from it. I hated having people's eyes on me at my own wedding, even. If I can fold into myself and escape notice, so much the better, except when I am hoping for the attention of people I love and whose love I crave.

This year looked to be shaping up much better than any birthdays of the last decade. My family had welcomed me back, and I'd told my brother that I hoped he'd remember. He said that he would. I was sure that C wouldn't forget, as she'd sent me a box of gifts weeks ago. I had plans to go to the Berkeley Rep to see Baryshnikov perform in a Russian play, adapted from a short story by Bunin, with two friends. Another friend said she'd take me to lunch. I figured it would be nearly foolproof, and it was unlikely I would spend all day crying in bed.

Mark told me that on Thursday night, he had an early birthday surprise for me. I was excited to see what it was, but figured that it was probably a vacuum cleaner, given that our Dyson is on its last legs and Mark is practical-minded. I spent Thursday afternoon in the city with Joy, walking and talking and shopping, and on the way home, called some people to say hello. C was busy; she said she would call me back in an hour and a half. I figured she was watching something on TV. I called my aparents, and they were entertaining. I knew this, and didn't want to disturb them, but hadn't heard back about my mother's checkup with her oncologist. When my mom picked up, she was strangely cheery. I guessed she was just happy to talk; she gave her update, made excuses, and then went back to her party.

Later on, after I had the kids ready for bed and we were watching a movie, Mark called to tell me not to come outside. He was wrapping my gift. He would let me know when to come out. "Whatever!" I thought. "I'm tired, and I just want to finish watching Frodo and Gollum have a slapdown." Finally, I received the all clear and went out to the garage.

There was a box, about vacuum-size. I tried to lift it, but it was heavy. Tobey helped me peel off the wrapping and...inside was C! She had traveled to spend my birthday with us.

Shockingly, I did not cry. It was such a unbelievably wonderful moment to have my mother want to fly across the country to be with me on the day she gave birth to me. Holy shit! Again, is this the same reality that I've inhabited for 43 years? Really? How does it come to pass that the pain is wiped away? How is it that all that stiff heaviness can be thrown aside? How is it that I am valued for who I am, which is all I ever wanted to be? I would never have dared imagined myself in this place a year ago.

I suppose it all happened one little step at a time. I have spent the past eight years doing a great deal of self-evaluation and trying to remove detritus from my life, in the form of people who are cruel, pursuits that don't bring me pleasure, and bullshit that weighs me down. It's been an achingly hard road; I've wanted to give up more than once. I do have a tendency to be addicted to sadness, although perhaps I need to allow myself more compassion on that count. I was learning who I was, at the very least!

Friday, on my birthday, more than ever I wished that I could go and speak to myself as I had been on April 27th in certain years, offering advice and encouragement. Being 43 and in a place of security really does have some things to recommend it, although the wrinkles perhaps aren't so welcome.

On Monday Joy and I and C met for lunch and talked about how debilitating shame can be. I know that I was wracked by shame for different things in my life, and certainly being adopted was no picnic, despite my wonderful afamily. As Joy has said quite sagely, we need to get rid of the barriers between ourselves and our OBCs to begin to throw off some of that shame that is so deadening, wearying, difficult, and dangerous. When we are treated like lesser than, as secrets that society wants to ever-so-discreetly sweep under the rug, it cannot help but affect how some of us see ourselves and our place in the world. Some are affected more profoundly than others: some are paralyzed completely, some of us become criminals, some of us battle depression worse than any dragon could ever be.

Now I watch C with pride, and see how happy and loving and fabulous she is, freed from her burden of shame. She has been shocked by the response of many people in her life, and how warm and open they've been to finding out about the story of my conception, birth, and relinquishment. I can only imagine that carrying that burden of shame for over 43 years must have been exhausting and painful and intense for her, even if she tried hard to put up barriers and pretend that it never happened. My uncle and aunt have told her that she is a different woman, so much, much happier than they remember her being for decades. I thrilled to have been able to help her over the hurdle, although I know at the time she didn't thank me much for it. (Now she does, and she's thankful that I didn't give up and stay in the closet. It's not my job!)

It's a gift to be able to build our relationship now, and to see myself in her, and to hear Mark say, "Oh, THAT'S where Kara and Tobey get it from." C and I are not alike in many ways, but in some ways we're amazingly similar. It's like bathing in warm sunlight to have these revelations and to love each other for everything we are. I love having a mother and a friend, unburdened by the pains and memories of adolescent power struggles. Yes, we lost a great deal in the past, but we have so much to gain as we move ahead.

Today, I went on strike with my fellow RNs at the hospital where I work. We are in a contract negotiation with management that is frankly insulting to us. I don't want to bore you with the details, but C spent the day with me on the picket line, met nearly all of my coworkers, and and had fun introducing herself to people, saying, "Hi, I am C, Kara's mother. Have you heard our story?" She's a gutsy one! As my uncle said, C and I were both stubborn, and neither she nor I was going to win. So we both won. I can live with that, quite contentedly.

Scapegoating

In blogland, and in life, I have been used as a scapegoat more times than I wish. I am different, as I wrote about earlier today. I celebrate my differences, but other people--not always so much. Depends on the environment.

It is easy for groups of people, rattled and nervous, to find an individual, or groups of individuals, to blame for their collective discomfort. To label them, mock them, and send them out into the wilderness. Especially when not sending them would mean shaking or rebuilding the entire foundation of one's belief systems.

I read a very, very smart blog post on scapegoating today that resonated deeply with me, especially in the aftermath of the Circle of Moms disaster and the ensuing blaming and entitlement. Not that the wise critique and analysis couldn't apply equally well to other "discussions" I've had with people who like to tell me that my life, as I've experienced it, just couldn't have been experienced that way. There's no data! I made it up! I am hysterical! Newborn babies cannot tell who their mothers are! (Sorry, I had to throw that last one in there.) I appreciated the reminder, how in the end of the Biblical story, wandering in the wilderness, the goat was able to shake off all the burdens and walk free. It turned out well, after all the suffering. At least it didn't get its throat slit. Good on you, Goat.

I am linking to the smart post, over at What a Shrink Thinks. Have a read, and let me know what you think. Sheep need not apply. Just kidding! Sort of. I don't mean to hurt sheep feelings, but...

And in honor of Tim Clark's new appreciation of the Pre-Raphaelites, here's William Holman Hunt's odd and creepy 1854 painting, "The Scapegoat."It being a Pre-Raphaelite painting and all, an the way those men were obsessed with painting from life, I am certain that goat was spoiled!

Embrace the marginal

When I started my blog years ago, I had no idea how deeply the concept of living on the margins would weave itself through my life. I loved marginalia; I felt marginalized within the Midwestern community in which I grew up; I was an American living in England; I studied a field in art history that couldn't garner much respect on a good day; I was adopted. I was scrappy about all of it, and always felt that no matter what, the margins were beautiful--even when my existence was difficult. I don't feel uncomfortable where I am anymore, and I forget that others feel intensely uncomfortable when they are reminded that they are anywhere near my bad 'hood. They denigrate the margins so concertedly that they can't bear to think that they, or anyone they love (read: adoptees), have anything to do with such a place.

The other day I was reading a series of essays by Carlos Fuentes, The Buried Mirror: Reflections on Spain and the New World. I am enjoying exploring being half Spanish. I have felt an odd pull towards Catholicism since forever (must be the Inquisition in my blood). I have been to Santiago de Compostela on my pilgrimage and want to return, more than anything. I love the idea of Iberian history, the mix of Arabs and Celts and Greeks and Romans and indigenous cultures. Then languages and ideas. I want to know if, and how, I fit into all this. I don't have a real answer, and may never. But I felt a moment of recognition when I read this: "a constant of Spanish culture, as revealed in the artistic sensibility, is the capacity to make the invisible visible by embracing the marginal, the perverse, the excluded." 

Okay, you say. This platitude could be applied to Hogarth's paintings of street urchins, or medieval marginalia, or many other examples from European art. It's not dissimilar from Tim Clark's "Never...more..." goings on. But yet Fuentes's focus on the margins isn't without merit. Knowing Spain's geographical placement on the margins of Europe, and how Spain's contributions to larger European conversations about art and politics have, by and large, been denigrated for one reason or another since the 16th century, what he says makes sense, even if it is written too broadly. 

Why do you think, for God's sake, that Franco was such an asshole? LOL Fuentes's comment draws me to the brilliance of Del Toro's gorgeous film, Pan's Labyrinth. Yes, Del Toro is Mexican, but the film is all about Spain and its past and its odd sense of the perverse and the mythological and the marginal. It's a brutal story about a little girl lost, thrust to the margins, who negotiates a path around the dangerous shadow of her stepfather, who would rather have her dead. She must discover her own beauty in living her story. 

Which brings me to why I believe certain APs and first parents have problems with some of us. When we are told that there's an appropriate "time and place" to speak out, it's because they don't want to deal with our message, or it has to be on their terms, in the light of whatever narrative they have constructed for us. Problem is, our stories cannot be neatly boxed up. Adoption colors our lives. Why are our lives considered appropriate topics only for a certain place and time? When they say, "adoption isn't controversial," "adoptive families aren't a sensitive topic," well, perhaps, except that the APs make them that way through their protestations. Adoption becomes controversial when they deny that there are trajectories, voices, experiences other than the ones they like to hear: the light, bright, sunny ones that fit their idea of what is "appropriate." Suppression of those on the margins is terrible, unconscionable. 

When APs say, "I feel marginalized," and that such feelings makes them uncomfortable, but then they put me down at the same time, I don't have a lot of sympathy. 

As an AP, you wonder and moan, how are you bearing the put downs? You can brush them off; they aren't (usually) meant for you. Your children cannot do so quite as easily.

The margins can be dark, can be scary. Especially if you've never had to live there. Why would anyone want to live there, you think? Let's just say there are no margins, you decide, and be done with them! Let's say adoption is not controversial, and make it so! 

It doesn't work that way. I am not you. I don't have the privilege of being born and raised by the same family. Even if I had been, I might still live on the margins (remember, I am told by every second person how hard it was being raised by "biological" parents who didn't love them, whom they didn't resemble, whom they never felt at home with, ad nauseam). I don't know. I can't know about a path not taken. I still like to think that I'd be compassionate about the experiences of others instead of being against them, simply because listening to different viewpoints makes me uncomfortable.

People are mean. They will always parse words, judge, be less than supportive. You know what? Love what you do, who you are, and pick your cause. If your cause is adoptees, then don't tell adoptees that their voices aren't worth listening to because they're "negative" and "marginal"! There will always be a spectrum of opinions. 

Adoption, as an institution, is broken. It truly is. We can work together to look at it critically and reform it. But to deflect from the real issues, and try to say that the attitude problems lie with "adult adoptees," or "anti-adoption adult adoptees" is to throw out red herrings and direct attention away from where it belongs: reform! 

Can you face your own fears? See that it's not about worrying about how you feel, but about how your children feel? Understand that maintaining the status quo of adoption reinforces terrible abuses of people and power?

Voices

There have been many uncomfortable happenings of late. While everything continues happily apace with my families, I have been struck by different bouts of oddness and misfortune that have left me strangely mute over the past month.

A few weeks back I wanted to write a post about my choice not to pursue my career in art history, having read a review of an exhibition by one of the aged luminaries who used to grace my department in graduate school. I felt, and read, in his words some of the malevolence that used to seep through and poison my professional life. He and I would disagree, vehemently, about British art being acknowledged as a field worth studying. He would dismiss it out of hand as "nothing of note, perhaps tolerable from Hogarth to Turner, and excepting Turner." I could psychoanalyze T.J. Clark's self-hatred to death, and have done, but it's not that interesting. He definitely wishes he were French, which he isn't, and loves being snide about Americans, which pisses me off no end. 

I remember a terrible dinner conversation he and I had, after a wonderful trip I took to India. I was fortunate enough to be in a department that had grant money to allow graduate students to study abroad, sometimes far abroad. One of my graduate advisers took eight students to do fieldwork amongst the "medieval" temples of Bhubaneswar, in Orissa. Professor W assigned us each a temple to research and write about, and then upon our return from India, we presented our work to the department and everyone went out to celebrate the tamasha at a fancy dinner. I cannot remember where, but I do remember I had the grave misfortune to be seated with Tim Clark and another professor whose name I will not speak for fear of conjuring the devil, she is so foul (she is one of his would-be clones, very bombastic, and much like a Rottweiler in behavior and appearance). 

In any case, I was young and naive in 1996. I was honestly puzzled about why Tim would be so anti-British art. I asked him why he told his students there was nothing worth looking at in the UK that wasn't by a Continental artist or imported from 1940's New York (mind you, I was writing my dissertation at the time on 19th century British design and Empire and intellectual history). I was also one of his Graduate Student Instructors for the survey course, Renaissance to Modern, that semester, and he was trying out a new way of teaching (i.e., he was bored with the teleology--Piero della Francesca to Michelangelo to Velasquez to Poussin to David to Delacroix to the Impressionists to Cezanne to Picasso to Pollock--but not really bored enough to reconsider it altogether) that involved starting with the Impressionists and looking at the history of art as a means of explaining *their* achievements. Again, I have nothing against French art, just against the way the department in Berkeley lionizes France to the exclusion of most other histories. (As in the person they hired to teach the Baroque specializes in a French painter living in Italy, fuck the Dutch and the Flemish and the Germans and the Italians, and who also happened to be married to another professor--the incestuous thing is another sordid conversation, entirely; the department at one time had about three involved couples. And don't EVEN ask about Latin American, African, or African-American art. Just forget it.) Anyway, Tim, the would-be-demigod, basically spent half an hour telling me why my work and my project was shit. How lovely and supportive! The answer, as I see it now, is that Tim Clark is a narcissist who loves art history--no, who loves the canon. He purses his lips for the canon's bright Boucher ass and always will. He is smart but can also be a very lazy thinker. Every lecture of his would have a "Never has X been more X like..." statement in it, which tend to be bland and often hilarious. One of my favorites, about Manet's Olympia: "Never has a cat looked more cat-like." Whatever that means. I learned to be on the lookout for Tim's "Never...more.." moments each Tuesday and Thursday, and I would invariably share them with Thomenon, my fellow outcast, so we could giggle about them in our otherwise painful existence.

Anyway, this is a long way of saying that Tim retired (sans his wish to be feted and given the MacArthur Fellowship--boo hoo!) and moved back to England, where his wife (another retired professor) is now a curator at the Tate Modern. Tim occasionally writes reviews or florid self-referential things about Poussin for the London Review of Books, and I read them amusedly. In general. But in an issue from March, I found my ire resurrected by a review of an exhibition detailing Picasso's influence on English artists of the 20th century. 

I smiled to find the "Never...more..." sentence: "Never has a picture's literalness, its mere and proud materiality, been staged more eloquently." If you have no idea which painting he could possibly be referring, that's because it could be pretty much any fecking picture that Tim likes. Las Meninas? Sure. Olympia? Why not? Death of Marat? Definitely. 

But the shit that truly resurrected my blood pressure problems and PTSD involved shit about ludicrously stupid American students and how 19th-century English art is not great, but not all that bad. I refuse to believe that the old ass has changed his mind about ANYTHING. No, he just knows he cannot slam the Brits to an audience of British readers and get away with it. "I do not think, to go back a century, that anyone in Britain was capable of responding to the achievement of Turner [Wait! So now Turner's worthwhile? Since when?--Ms. M]. This no doubt set limits on the painting that followed (the fact that Monet and others in France were capable is one clue to their painting culture's strength), but it did not mean that the Pre-Raphaelites, to name his main inheritors, were in any sense an evasive or secondary movement."[WHAT?!? Are you on drugs, Tim Clark?--Ms. M] 

I suppose, in one sense, I get the last laugh. He's a sellout for money, silly old "Marxist." I considered sending him an e-mail to congratulate him on how much he's evolved, even deigning to write about things British. But he's not worth it. I wouldn't want him to think that I actually cared.

It took me a few days to sort out my tangled web of frustration, exaltation, anger, and disgust, resulting from this reopening of my youthful wounds, but a fabulous venting session with Thomenon helped. I had watched my career sink because Tim Clark refused to spend money or support people writing on such frivolous subjects as "non-art" in Britain. Oh well. I don't regret leaving art history, and his self-perjuring review just strikes home how much happier I am now.

My tender, sandpapered soul was further irritated in a drive-by Berkeley moment of aggressive misogyny. I was at lunch with a friend of mine from nursing school, who works in an intensive care unit. She and I see terrible things, including mistakes, and deal with asshole doctors, and generally have very high-pressure jobs. She and I understand each other's work milieux and can vent. It's great to have supportive friends. Apparently, however, a 60-something man eavesdropped on us and was disturbed by something (everything?) we said. As I mentioned above, we see some awful shit. And as in adoption, many people don't like to think that the medical field has a soft underbelly that can literally be rotten. Or that the doctors or nurses don't do their jobs properly, or don't necessarily have their loved ones' best interests at heart because they're having a bad day, are lazy, have low blood-sugar, or what-have-you. The man got up from his table, made to leave the restaurant, and then came to our table to spit at us: "You should stop gossiping and do something to change sub-optimal care." He then ran away, without giving us a chance to respond. 

What an odious person! First, we were talking about work, not gossiping. I suppose he never sits around with friends from work, or within his industry, and talks about how things could be better. He clearly said what he did because my friend and I are women, not because we were gossiping. Second, how does he know that K and I didn't file incident reports about some of the situations we described? He doesn't. (And I did.) He felt uncomfortable about something we'd said (our frustration with patient care, or doctors--I cannot venture to guess because he didn't stay to talk) and scapegoated us for his discomfort. If he were truly interested in bringing about change in the healthcare arena, he could have engaged in dialogue. But no, he was afraid and judgmental and ran away, like a little boy throwing a stone or calling a name. His behavior triggered the hell out of me because of the bullying I was at the butt-end of as a child, and because of his desire to trivialize me, but then I realized that he was unreasonable. His behavior speaks only about HIM, not me, especially because he was such a chicken shit and was going by only what he overheard, which was incomplete information. Third, why the hell would anyone consider it appropriate to offer editorial comment on a conversation to which he wasn't privy? Asshole. Wow, the world is full of assholes, isn't it?

Which brings me to the Circle of Moms debacle; see Linda's brilliant post, "Circle of Morons" that spells it out. I won't bother blogging about the fracas in detail, but suffice it to say that the dominant group once again sought to have adoptee voices and first mother voices shut out of conversation. What does it mean when a first mom is sent an e-mail disqualifying her from competition because her blog was deemed not "supportive" or "positive" enough? Who gets to define what those words mean, and to whom? Rhetorical question, of course. I think we know quite well who gets to define terms, and who are the scapegoats when the dominant powers are challenged, as Daniel wrote very eloquently, here, about the dominant voice co-opting the resistant voice and screaming, "I am the victim here!" Then the competition was shut down after more complaints and APs' false brayings of hardship related to those "anti-adoption" blogs that aren't anti-adoption so much as pro-reform (although reform is scary to some APs; it could mean fewer children available for adoption. Is that necessarily a bad thing? Discuss for 10 extra credit points--LOL). Maybe that's how we should cast ourselves--pro-reform--to avoid the negativity they attempt to cast upon us. I, for one, am sick of being labeled as "angry" and "bitter." Let's slip out from underneath their paper-cut-out portrayals of us! 

The great thing that came out of the COM debacle was that so many people stood behind Cassi, the mom who had been disqualified, and that when the contest was cancelled, my dear friend Amanda over at The Declassified Adoptee won! 

I am also saddened by APs who refuse to see/admit/understand that adoptees will be called "bastards" by some people, even if the APs don't like it. I was speaking with Joy today about our experiences related to having people tell us their unvarnished opinions of adoptees when they don't know we are adoptees (and even sometimes when they do), and it's not pretty. I have been told that people wouldn't adopt because it's like getting a mutt at a shelter with no history, and who would do that? Plus, you cannot just return a "bad" child. Or "I could never love a child I didn't bear as my own," or "Bastards need to be grateful for what they get; their parents are all trash." Yes, real quotes from people I have met at different places of employment, one from my MIL, and one from a classmate. Yikes! To pretend that everyone loves adoptees is naive, especially when you're not an adoptee, and you're not the one being hissed at when no adults (or other adults) are present. I am sure that some adoptees have never had experiences like these, and they are fortunate, if so. But to say it can't/won't happen is beyond irresponsible. 

It is also sad to read the ravings of willfully ignorant people who say that they've never heard of "anti-adoption" bloggers or activists before, or worse, THIS: "OK so I'm not the only one who didn't realize anti-adoption was a thing. I guess I'm glad most people don't know that! We have adoption stories on my and my husband's side of our family and I will cut a bitch who tries to say something bad about it. Or about any adoptive families." How very civil of you to threaten violence, Crazy Lady! If you haven't heard of something before, perhaps you ought not be congratulating yourself, but doing some soul-searching and thinking, instead. How about considering why pro-reform activists might hold those opinions, rather than blindly accepting the status quo? Oh yes, I know. No one wants to think or read or step outside their comfort zone. Oh, *eye roll* and being deleted from someone's blog roll is hardly the same as a contest being cancelled. The former is a personal choice--maybe not linking to you is because you don't agree about most things. I take it that you, poor Wounded One, wield the same power to cherry pick your blog roll? I am not crying a river that I am not on yours, although by your argument I could call that "censorship." No, it isn't. LAME. Blogs and businesses (COM, for instance) are different entities. The latter arena, COM, is supposed to be an open, free group, the contest with no predetermined outcome. It's pitiful that the whining of some bruised AP egos shut the whole thing down, just as it's terrible that they disqualified Cassi's blog without defining the terms "positive" and "supportive" in the contest rules before it all began. It stinks to high heaven of insecurity and bullshit on the part of APs who don't like the pro-reform message, as witnessed in the screen shots on Linda's blog.

If I hear, moreover, one more time that "most adoptees are happy," I will scream. Maybe they are, maybe they aren't. There's no study that gives us precise numbers or is able to quantify happiness. Yes, yes, I know all about the Likert Scale, and yet many of the studies out there are designed in ways that reinforce the status quo; the questions are all about certain views of happiness; and the adoptee samples are small and suspect. I would have to hear from at least a million adoptees and have more than a simple majority tell me that they're happy before I would buy the "MOST" adoptees are happy propaganda being reamed down my throat by the Rainbow Police.

Yes, we all have unique experiences. Yes, some people are happy. I am quite sure of it. But to say that only the "happy" voices should be valued or counted? That's bias. And no more speaking for cousins, brothers, sisters, in-laws, hairdressers, or other acquaintances. I don't care what *you* say adoptees say. I care what adoptees say. 

To add to the blistering frustrations, my cat died. She had disappeared for two weeks, and I thought she'd passed away. It turned out, however, that a neighbor had decided that my home wasn't the right home for an 18-year-old cat, and she was being kept hostage an indoor cat. By them. They just took her. WTF? Sounds like certain APs, to me, with savior complexes. My family was mourning and doing our best to cope, and my husband told our German neighbor about our loss. He said, "Selkie? No, she's very much alive and at number 105." So Mark went over there and asked them to bring her to us when she came by their house. Because we didn't think they'd just keep her. Two days passed, then on Easter evening, the woman brought her over and lectured me on geriatric cat care and how my house, with two small boys and a dog, wasn't as good for my cat as *her* house. Huh? I asked why she hadn't called me when there was a number on my cat's ID tag, if she was so concerned, and, as she said, if she had "no idea" to whom Selkie belonged. [I don't buy her "innocence" for a moment: we moved into our home five years ago, and I know for a FACT that our neighbor knew she was ours. She used to watch me carry Selkie into my house as I would get ready to leave for work in the afternoons.] The neighbor looked down her nose at me, in my own home, and said, "I couldn't read it." I was perplexed, as the tag was newish, but figured that it could have been made dull by Selkie's outdoor exploits (it wasn't). The neighbor asked if I still wanted my cat. Again, WTF? I answered that of course I did, but that my indoor-outdoor cat had a mind of her own and it was her choice to roam where she liked. I knew I couldn't keep her away from the neighbors' home, so if Selkie liked it there, okay. It was just the blatant judgment, lying, and intense ownership ideas that drove me crazy. 

I took my cat from her, she left with a hard glint in her eye, and I cried. Selkie and I spent three glorious days together, and she came and went as usual. Then Selkie disappeared for three more days, and I worried that I'd have to go ask this couple for her back again. I was anxious and sick about the confrontation. What made them think they could just keep her? How was I going to (could I?) keep my cat inside for the rest of her life? She was miserable and howled and scratched if confined longer than 12 hours. She was a free spirit.

Mark and I strategized, and then I saw the couple outside before I went to work on the fourth day. I explained that I hadn't seen her and asked if they had. They said that they had, the day before. I asked them to call me if they saw her, and the said that they would. I wondered. Then another neighbor, someone I trust and in whose garden Selkie loved to play, called and said that she had found Selkie's body. She had apparently laid down to sleep and passed away, under her favorite rose bush, surrounded by violets. I was heartbroken, but I knew that day would come. Now confronted with her actual death, we are coping well, but I cannot help but wonder why these neighbors felt it appropriate to take my cat and then lecture me and question me about my ownership and even LOVING her, after 16 years. They may well love her, but their love of a month or two doesn't trump my lifetime of devotion to her. Entitlement, much?

What is up with crazy people who feel that it's okay to insert themselves into situations, take things, mock, and be assholes? Why do they give such weight to their voices and desires and needs that they allow no one else the room to speak? Why must they win every battle? Why do they put their own comfort ahead of their children (as in APs who tell their adopted children that they came from the cabbage patch, to avoid talking about sex and childbirth)? 

One little word: insecurity. It will ruin your life and drive you mad and cause you to do harmful things to others until you can put it aside. 

Sometimes life is uncomfortable. Sometimes things are hard. Sometimes we don't get what we want. That's okay, and part of learning to be a grownup. It's how we handle ourselves that speaks for who we are, most deep in our souls. I try every day to live ethically. Some days I am better at this than others, but it is terrible, painfully terrible, to have the anxious sandpaper of these insecure people rubbing me (and people I love) raw in interactions. 

Yes, we all have voices, but please stop denigrating the voices of others and saying, "I understand you, and you are nothing." You really don't understand if you say anything of the sort. 

In my recent time of great change and sadness, I contacted two of the people whom I have loved most fiercely to give them news. One after three years, one after twelve years to say that Selkie had died. I put myself out there, trying hard not to expect much in return, and feeling that even if I got no reply, I would be all right. I have many people who do love me, and that's okay. I was surprised and felt very warm inside to have both of these people express happiness and concern, and respond right away. I think I always felt that once I am gone from someone's everyday life, I am gone from his heart and memories, as well. This isn't true, of course, but that's the legacy of erasure I deal with. It felt lovely to have someone tell me, apropros of reuniting with my family, "Best news I have heard in a long time. Glad you have found happiness." And from the man with whom I was so good on paper, and with whom I had adopted Selkie all those years ago: "Thanks for this. You must have taken incredibly good care of Selkie. She must have been about 18, right? She was a magnificent cat. If you have any pictures you'd be willing to share, I'd love to see them." 

I matter--my voice matters--the little things and the people make all the difference. I remember when W, the long-ago boyfriend, held me as I wept, trying to digest those 12 pages of non-identifying information about my first family. W and I had broken up, but I had no one else to whom I was willing to bare my soul in such a gut-wrenching way. He didn't fail me then, and didn't now. 

It is humbling to be loved. I am fortunate to have so many people who are worthy of my trust and love, as well, and everyone else--pffft. I will always stand up for adoptees, though! Adoptees and our families are strong together, if we are respectful of one another's messages and voices.