Aftermath

I made it through yesterday. There were some lovely parts, as in having many friends and family members take the time to wish me well.

I went to Chris' beautiful apartment overlooking the Pacific, close to the old Sutro Baths at Seal Rock. He can boast spectacular views, fresh salty air, clear and warm breezes, and shaded paths through Land's End under a carpet of green leaves. We caught up on news, having not seen each other for several months, and then made our way to the Legion of Honor. The company was wonderful, as was the art. The scholarship of the exhibitions, by contrast, was execrable. Cases of Roman coins, identified by ruler, but grouped together only by the fact that they have animals on them? Animals signifying things that I as an expert understood, but that wouldn't be clear to someone wandering through the gallery. Mosaics of animals from Syria identified only as mosaics from Syria with animals. Roman glass jars in cases with no further explanation. The main mosaic from Lod described as being from a public room in a Roman villa in Lod. How about a floor plan of the villa, curator? How about contrasting different types of mosaics? Ugh. The low level of thinking was hugely annoying. Poor Chris got an earful as I shredded the wall labels and lamented the paucity of creative thoughts. I am lucky that Chris says I am quite entertaining when I am snobby.

The Pulp Fashion exhibition was interesting and quite lovely; I mooned over the paper version of a dress by Paul Poiret. I would love to have worn a dress in that style back in the early 1900's.

But again, the conflation of costume history (which can be complex, but often is treated superficially) and contemporary art ended up being pretty thoughtless. "Here are a bunch of copies of dresses of 16th century Medici women! Here is a dress inspired by a painting by Fragonard/David/Ingres!" And your point is...? For example, there were a few works devoted to 16th/17th century English costume, including a dress modeled after one worn by Queen Elizabeth I in a miniature by Nicholas Hilliard, along with long discussion about whether the mythological features on dress in the painting were painted or embroidered in the original dress. My first thought was that there's no proof that the actual dress had anything painted or embroidered on it! Paintings aren't windows into reality, especially paintings of monarchs. Could not the mythological symbols have been added in the painting to add to the symbolic power of the queen? Argh. Why do art historians people have no common sense?

The day wore on, and we shared a delicious lunch at a tiny pizzeria close to the museum. In the late afternoon I returned home and waited. Still no word from A or C. The doubt started to eat at me. I could believe that C was still in Paris, but A? What was happening?

At seven I went to Callum's Tiger Cub meeting with Mark and Tobey, sitting and fidgeting while watching the boys perform skits and sing songs. I finally gave in to my anxiety and texted A. "I am little sad that you forgot my birthday." Shortly thereafter, I received a reply: "This is T. You will have to forgive him (again). He has been on call and it has been a horrible week. Be mad at me as I should have remembered."

The fact is, I am not mad. I am sad. Nothing can be done to fix it. I am not in their consciousness, as this proves. It doesn't mean that they don't like me, but I am not important enough to be remembered.

I wrote back: "Being on call sucks."

T responded: "Yes. We haven't seen him all week and W has been driving me crazy. I am sorry we forgot. Happy Birthday."

"Thanks," I texted.

Half an hour passed, and T texted again. "Please don't be mad. We will make it up to you, I promise."

Thing is, forgetting a birthday isn't something that can be made up. It will take a year to see if they remember next time, and by then they'll probably have forgotten again, with the horrid little waiting game starting fresh.

It has taken so much for me to try to trust them after last year; I *want* to trust them. I can tell myself that I don't care about their forgetting, that it doesn't matter. I have plenty of other friends who regularly forget my birthday, and I forgive them. But this is my FAMILY. At least *I* think of them as family and *want* them to be my family. From their point of view, though, not so much.

I thought carefully, and wrote back: "I am not mad, just sad. I wish it didn't matter to me. I know I am a stranger to you, but I really like you guys."

She jumped back in: "It's not like that...we want you in our lives."

We will see. C warned me that it's hard, horrifically hard, to make it onto A's radar. That's just who he is. But he doesn't forget other family members' birthdays, from what I understand. Again, I am not family, I suppose. It sucks.

I have since been plagued by a cloud of disappointment. It's not completely debilitating, and I haven't cried. But I feel like I am walking through treacle again and that my equilibrium is upset. I am grouchy and short tempered, probably because all this presses heavily on the part of me that feels lost and abandoned by my nfamily. They've left me more than once; they can do it again. Why does it all have to be so difficult?

Boxes

There are people who can compartmentalize their feelings and store them neatly away in little boxes. Some of the boxes seem to have labels, and some are put in dark corners without labels. In some ways I am envious of the people who can dissociate themselves from experiences and forget them. That is not one of my gifts.

I have been reading lots of short stories recently, and the best short stories, in my opinion, are those that open up windows into the ambiguities of life. As I have mentioned before, I love India and history, and one of my favorite colonial writers is Kipling. Yes, he was a racist, yes, his politics were suspect, and yet his perceptiveness about human nature is powerful. I recently bought a compilation of his stories of the supernatural--he wrote fabulous ghost stories--and was struck by something Neil Gaiman said in the introduction about "The Gardener": "It was a tour de force. It's a story about loss, and lies, and what it means to be human and to have secrets, and it can and does and should break your heart." Yep, it's about adoption and a natural mother keeping her secret until after her son's death. Of course it is. Only adoption can pack the punch of all those secrets and lies and heartbreak. It was published in 1925. Plus ça change.

On this day before my birthday anniversary of the day I made my debut in the world (borrowing from my friend Krista), I am wondering what tomorrow will bring. Will C and A remember? Will they not? How will I feel? I am glad to have made plans with my friend Chris to go to a museum to see exhibitions that will take my mind off things: one with a beautiful Roman mosaic excavated in Israel, and one of elaborate clothes made of paper, called "Pulp Fashion." One of the dresses that Isabelle de Borchgrave, the artist, has recreated is that of Eleonora of Toledo, from Bronzino's portrait of her with her son.

I am a sucker for 16th century portraits, and particularly for those by Bronzino. The smooth surfaces and veneer of artificiality and exquisite masks speak directly to the adoptee in me who is so adept at wearing them and seeing behind those of others. At the very least I think tomorrow should be about having fun and escaping into the art historian side of myself, where I am at my most cool and collected. A stiff drink might also help.

It really is sad that my birthdays were, or could be, happy occasions for me until last year. Being confronted with the realities of my role as the problematic infant makes it difficult to return to those days of sunny ignorance. Again, not that I'd trade knowing for not knowing, but knowledge sometimes brings pain, and pain can be a rather annoying companion at times.

Memory

I spoke with C again today, to wish her fun on her trip to Paris. We had another one of those enjoyable, easy conversations, and she asked me about my religious upbringing, about the kids, and...

"What day is your birthday?"

Ouch.

I understand that she put incredible amounts of energy into forgetting what happened. I understand that for her, my birth was not a happy event. She did not agonize about placing me. She didn't have a choice, but her coping mechanism was to block it all off and bury it. Deep. She was excellent at that, although she would admit that it came a very high price.

So when I read about natural moms remembering, crying, celebrating with cake on their placed children's birthdays, marking all those lost years, it stings. There was no remembering in my case. She still didn't remember, and had to ask me! I am not angry or upset; I am a little sad, certainly, but I have to take the uncomfortable with the good. What happened before won't change, but what comes ahead is within my control (at least in part).

A while ago, I asked C about my birth story, whether she saw and held me, etc. She said that she couldn't remember. Any of it. At first that didn't make sense, but I told some of the senior nurses at work about this, and they said that C probably received conscious sedation while in labor.

The pieces fell into place. She was anesthetized and given a drug to prevent her from forming memories, something from the benzodiazepine family.

The RNs at work told me that in the 50s and 60s and even the early 70s, some women would get this "twilight sleep" cocktail and be strapped to gurneys (imagine being in terrible pain, out of your mind, and unable to fully understand what was happening and where you were--AWFUL). The mothers would follow the RNs' and MDs' directions for pushing, and then would wake up from the sedation with a clean, wrapped infant in their arms. The experience of birth was not in their control. It doesn't sound pleasant at all. I am glad that the L&D unit where I work bears no resemblance to such a place of fear and forgetting.

When C woke up late in the morning on April 27, 1969, her ordeal of secrecy was over (or just beginning, in reality), she was clean and resting, and I was GONE. It was as though I had never existed, and she had her "clean slate," as far as my grandparents were concerned. Since she wasn't supposed to remember me, why would she remember my birthday each year, or at all?

I get it. But my birthday--and my connection to C--has always loomed large in my mind. It was the last day that I was with her, and until now, the only time. Each birthday, I would ask myself, and friends, and family, "Do you think she is thinking about me today?" Apparently not. For C, it was the day that she was told to forget, and the dutiful daughter she is, she says she managed very well.

She will remember my birthday now, I have little doubt. She is slowly investing in our relationship. Reunion complicates things, to be sure. I had always been able to approach my birthday with relative positivity, but last year, having my nfamily forget (or ignore it entirely) was brutal. It was as though half of me was quite literally in the dark. I am hoping this year will be different, but I also remember that it's best to have low expectations and be surprised.

A friend of mine is going to take me to the Legion of Honor in San Francisco that day, to celebrate both his birthday (the 29th) and mine. I won't be alone and in bed, crying and worried that my nfamily would throw me to the winds. They might. But I am stronger now, and I have a will to live that I didn't have a year ago.

Memories are odd things, how deeply an event will touch one person and leave the other cold.

Nerves

I must have hit another nerve!

A psychologist who is not truly open to dialogue, and who will not allow me to comment on her blog, has linked to my earlier post about lost subtleties. I am not going to get into another non-discussion with her about what infants go through when they are separated from their mothers. She believes that the evidence we have today is all the evidence we need that infants do not miss their mothers if they are separated from them before six months of age. I can see intellectually how this argument is fortified, but I think, as I said in my post, that it can be valid (attachment to a caregiver is not scientifically observable on the infant's side before six months of age) without negating infants having a emotional life and experiencing stress at separation from their mothers.

There is ongoing research to understand how infant development is shaped during the six months before attachment and stranger anxiety is observable through reproducible infant behaviors. It is disingenuous to say that scientists fully understand neonatal infants and their relationships to stress (e.g., separating infants from their natural mothers before six months of age is a non-issue), and it's also unkind to label adoptees who talk about this separation as unthinking, Gnostic, mystical witchdoctors (and I am not even arguing for the existence of "the primal wound" here). To shred and critique research is admirable and thoughtful; research must stand up to close scrutiny. But to say that adopted people's experiences and questions about early infant development should be written off (when clearly there is much research going on, by scientists, including medical doctors at major research institutions such as Johns Hopkins) is misguided at best, and clearly as ideologically driven as this woman claims my own interests to be. You can wear a scientist's hat and say that you are objective and above all the fray, but no one, absolutely no one, is a machine. We are driven to study and think what we do by our interests. There is no such thing as pure human objectivity. Some self-reflection is warranted.

And yes, scientists have long conducted research on rodents and non-human primates to extrapolate, where possible to human physiology. To say, "Oh, research conducted on rats means nothing to humans" is truly disingenuous. Are we ready to stress out human infants and then decapitate them to study their brain structures and chemistries after the stressful event? No. So no, we don't have research on human infants, but we do the best we can to figure out ways to study things that might give us insight. Note that much of this research is carried out on mammals, and specific types of mammals. If the research done was only applicable to rats/monkeys/etc., then it would only be of interest to veterinarians and ethologists. This is not the case.

I have plenty of non-adopted friends who readily admit that there are other possible variables at work in an infant's life before six months of age when they demonstrate attachment to a primary caregiver. I know that something other than correcting misguided adoptees drives people to be so adamant about the status quo of infant development. Someone who was not invested would not feel the need to be so condescending, handing dictates down from on high. And no, protecting potentially poor, beleaguered APs who might be depressed by their infant's stress is not a good answer or reason to tell adult adoptees to shut up about their experiences for fear of "scaring" APs. Nor is it "scientific" to say that the lack of evidence for harm to practice babies means that there was no harm. All it means is that there is no evidence, either way.

I am not going to waste more of my personal time or emotional energy on this. I know who I am, I know my credentials and my brain, and I feel secure about my beliefs and my ability to critique research, as well. I have been called hysterical. I don't believe any of this language, or my arguments, are hysterical. And there it rests.

What does "family" mean?

In theory, "family" would mean an extended group of people, open and welcoming and loving to the adoptee that includes both the natural and adoptive families.

My maternal nfamily, now that we've turned a corner, is proving itself pretty wonderful. At least as far as C, A, and T go. We're still in a space where we sometimes dance around each other, sizing each other up, making occasional attempts at sharing information that we keep close to our chests. Only time can make things more comfortable, I think.

I am not dissatisfied, exactly, but on the phone today T told me that the entire extended family is getting together to celebrate C's mother's (Mimi's) 90th birthday. I am, of course, not invited to this event for a plethora of reasons, the top two of which are Mimi's not knowing that I've "returned" and C's husband not being happy about me being in the picture. It's not a direct insult to be left out, and rationally I understand why I cannot be there. It's not about me, it's about Mimi. And yet it hurts. I am glad to know about the party, and I am certainly relieved that it's not been kept a secret from me.

It's a razor's edge, this negotiation within myself about what I feel. It requires careful balance and relying strongly knowing this is just the way it has to be, for now. The cries of the child who deserves to be known and the adult that knows it's a long road ahead to that goal. For now, the adult is winning.

It's sad that I probably will never meet or know Mimi. She was the one who was so adamant about my having to go, 42 years ago. It's sad that it will probably take her death, and J's, before I can be part of C's family in a more real way. I keep telling myself that what matters is that C is expressing interest in a relationship with me; that is definitely important on many levels. And yet it is more than a little knock to know that I will be the ghost at that party in June, even though I am no longer a secret among most people who will be there. It's sad that I cannot wish my grandmother "Happy Birthday" in person. Or by card. I just cannot entertain going head to head with Mimi, especially since C has asked me not to.

I wish I could be welcomed completely into the family I lost so long ago. Then again, they don't consider me family at all. Sigh.

Forever a child in Missouri

I am not considered a fully functioning adult under Missouri law. As it stands, I need to have my aparents send notified consent, and both my natural parents send notified consent, before I am allowed to have any information about who my natural parents are. This information is brokered by a Confidential Intermediary, appointed by the court and whom the adoptee must pay. It's not cheap, either. Three years ago I paid $450 plus additional expenses for searching to a woman who was extremely rude to me and told me "it's time to give up all attempts at finding your birth mother." Seriously. She said that, when she wasn't bright enough to see that C's name was misspelled. Yes, C had moved. Big deal! If you're a searcher, isn't that your job? Oh yeah, and let's not forget that this same idiot told me that C moved from one state to another in an attempt to hide from me. Yep, she did. And she was LYING to me. Moreover, this same CI told me she prided herself on how caring she is towards adoptees. Well, if that's caring, she is one f'd up psycho cookie.

Rather than proposing bills that would allow unfettered adult adoptee access to original birth certificates, current lawmakers in the Do Not Show Me State are trying to make things "easier" for adult adoptees to search by saying that consent of the aparents is no longer necessary, and that once the natural parents are dead, the adoptee can know who they are. Wow, what a gift. I allowed to know my family once they're dead. Nice.

People: it's not about SEARCHING. You know what, Missouri Senators, Representatives, and CIs? I found my mother WITHOUT YOU. I want my original birth certificate, the same as everyone else gets. It shouldn't be a state secret. It shouldn't be in lockdown. It's an official document about ME, with my name on it and information about me. Yes, I have an amended birth certificate, but it is in addition, not instead of. You do NOT have the right to keep my OBC from me. NO RIGHT AT ALL. Nor is it okay to give my natural parents the right to veto my access to MY record. I am a grown adult, not an infant.

Read a summary of the pathetic excuses for Adoptee Denied Rights bills in Missouri here and here.

Ugh. Makes me sick and angry.

Oh, the lost subtleties

Irritation. It's one of those annoying, chafing, totally distracting things. It's hard to put off, although I wish to heaven I could.

Why do people persist in being so willfully tone deaf? I have seen my friend Joy go through the emotional wringer this past week, and we've had conversations about how the opinions of some adoptees, no matter how they're couched, get swatted away like flies. And other people just don't get it when we speak out in defense of ourselves. They don't. I wonder if they don't care (probably), if they get thrills from being nasty (probably), or if they're just plain unable to understand what we say in plain English (probably).

First, there was a post on another blog. A young first mother is dealing with having placed her son. I feel for her. It must be devastating. I am glad that she wants dialogue with all kinds of adoptees, even the ones who aren't happy-go-lucky and prosaic about it all. I applaud her for taking a broad view. And yet there are commenters who are quick to tell her not to listen to "angsty" female adoptees, who skew the narrative and aren't as well adjusted as the males. Whatever that means.

Joy pointed out to me the different between Angst, a Germanic word that translates into English as "fear" among other things, and "angsty," which is an English derivative word that has the following, more insidious meaning in slang:

"What a lot of teenagers tend to be at times. Generally it involves the feeling of not being understood by anyone and that the person is alone in the world. When in reality about a million other people are feeling the same thing." (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=angsty)


There is clearly a huge difference between straight up "fear" and the immature, self-involved navel-gazing suggested by "angsty." The former suggests an acknowedged emotion, the other is a put-down. The person who wrote "angsty" in relation to female adult adoptees, given the benefit of the doubt, probably didn't mean it as a put-down. I feel, however, that it merits mentioning because there are so many throwaway things said that do hurt. I, for one, like to be told when I hurt someone. I don't see why it's wrong to point out when I, or others, are hurt. 


There is, moreover, the strange component of being told that male adoptees just don't have the same issues as females (Gott Sei Dank, I suppose, for that blogger with the placed male infant). I think this is a simplistic statement based largely in gender stereotypes and the way that males are raised. I am sure that there are many men who are just fine with being adopted. Really, I believe it. But to say that most men have no issues is to pathologize those men who do have issues, and not to look closely at our culture which largely does not encourage men to speak out about their emotional experiences. In another place I spoke with adult male adoptees about this, who said that they are labled "gay" or "weak" when they do express anger, sadness, or what-have-you in relationship to being adopted. It's awful for them. See this. 


Another thing: I am sick of the adoption police saying that adoption is a one-time event. They want me to say that I "was" adopted, not that I "am" adopted. No. I was, and continue to be adopted. It's a legal process. Just like on June 26, 1999, I was married, but I am still married today. What hokum to say that such a transformative process has no lasting influence. Adoption is not a party that you go home from. It's something that is lived. And some people may not give it a second thought, but some of us do, and to tell us that we shouldn't--well, you don't have that right. Live your own life, and don't insist that your adoptee say anything except what she or he wants to about her/his experiences.


Finally, what is it with the knickers in a twist about adult adoptees wanting to be called adults, when we are? I am no longer the 10 week old that my aparents took home from the agency. I reached my majority a long ass time ago. I am not a child, and I don't want to be called a child or treated like a child. No infantilizing, no head patting, no speaking for me. Just stop. 


I shouldn't fall down this particular rabbit hole AGAIN, but I find the magnetic pull too hard. I cannot believe when people say, definitively, that separation from a caregiver is meaningless to infants who were adopted before six months of age. I argue that yes, there isn't any scientific evidence to prove that a child can communicate distress at separation before six months of age because they're not developmentally able to do so. It isn't observable, although anecdotally from my job, I would argue otherwise. I have to take infants away from their mother's breasts to get their baths, take vitals, and get their vaccinations. I am fairly universally shrieked at by the neonates when this happens. Maybe it's the cold, you say. Maybe it's the smell in the room. Maybe it's this, that, or the other: but no, it could NEVER be that the infant is put into a stressful position by being taken from his or her mother. Nope, just not possible. This seems stubbornly blind. Then do studies of neonates and find a way to eliminate variables to your pleasure! But don't say that babies don't feel anything until six months of age. They don't COMMUNICATE stress at separation in a scientifically observable way until they're six months, but it doesn't mean they don't FEEL anything. Find a more subtle way of measuring things. At least some scientists are looking at markers such as cortisol, a stress hormone, to be able to study younger infants. Why throw the baby, for real, out with the bathwater and say that such studies are meaningless? Oh yeah, behaviorists only care about behavior, not feelings. Argh. 


I agree that there is a ton of pseudoscience out there, but that doesn't mean that the way things stand, TODAY, in developmental psychology, is the way things will be forever. There is no Bible for neonatal experience, and to sit there and judge people for voicing their pain and their hypotheses is just plain cruel. What people say about neonatal separation isn't even anti-establishment. The party line states that  babies are developmentally mature enough to communicate, with words and behavior, that they are stressed about caregiver absence, at about six months of age. I know that I bonded to my aparents and did express stranger anxiety, per the protocol, at six months of age. That doesn't mean, however, that I didn't have a completely different emotional experience when I was alone in the hospital for 10 weeks without a primary caregiver. It's apples and oranges. We need to find a way to study neonatal stress in a way that even the most left-brained can buy into. Maybe this is my new calling, so that I can say BOOYAH to all the non-adopted people invested in telling me I am full of shit because science says so, or because their placed or adopted kids are JUST FINE. Please stop pathologizing me and treating me like I belong in the Salem Witch Trials or in a cave in the Negev. I am neither an infant nor an idiot.


And if these subtleties, which really aren't all that subtle, don't compute for you, then maybe YOU aren't thinking hard enough about being respectful of adoptees. And yes, we deserve respect just as much as real kids do. And I mean real kids both in terms of kept kids and in terms of us not being fairy children or changelings. Or aliens. 


Edited to Add: I was looking at research papers available online that discuss neonatal stress and its measurement. Of course the most thorough studies were conducted on rats and nonhuman primates because we can't (or shouldn't) use humans for experimentation that might lead to pathology. Most of the articles included maternal separation as a variable for stress, which is interesting, given that (supposedly) the Powers That Be don't believe in maternal separation as a neonatal stressor. Why study it if we absolutely know it cannot be problematic? Hmmm. 


This particular article dicusses how maternal separation caused chemical pathology in the brains of rats and nonhuman primates that mirrors that of depression and anxiety in human adults. Worth a read. http://www.psychology.emory.edu/clinical/goodman/grahamheim1999.pdf

I speak to you with silence

I am horribly slow--as in months behind--at reading my Sunday NYT, but last week I finally got around to the edition from February 6. In the Book Review, one author opened her critique by quoting from "Dedication," a poem by Czeslaw Milosz:

You whom I could not save
Listen to me. 
Try to understand this simple speech
     as I would be ashamed of
     another.
I swear, there is in me no wizardry of
     words.
I speak to you with silence like a 
     cloud or a tree. 


I was introduced to Milosz's work some 18 years ago, as a newish grad student at Berkeley, where Milosz would spend part of the year as an emeritus. I went to his readings in the small Maud Fife Room in Doe Library, and sat transfixed by the eloquence of his words and the soft cadence of his voice as he read aloud. His poems often speak to damaged part of me, the part I try to keep locked up and safe.

I was unfamiliar with this particular poem, but it has resonated through me these past few days. His sense of speaking with silence is intensely meaningful to me. There are so many silences in adoption: about birth, about relationships, about what adoptees and aparents and nparents feel or don't feel. Adoption is deeply rooted in painful emotions that are buried, things that are difficult to put into words and that cause pain and controversy when voiced. It is hard for me to accept this silence. My post from last week attests to that. Trust is difficult when there aren't words of support and affirmation from those I love. I have also thought of C's silence as saying the same kinds of things that Milosz touches on in these few lines. She saved me by sacrificing me; was I really saved? She would like to think so. She doesn't mince words, and she doesn't speak unless she has something to relate. She doesn't lure or adorn with false praise. I admire her for that. And she does beg me to forgive her for the long, bitterly cold silence during which I suffered such excruciating pain from her rejection. I do, of course, forgive her.

She called me today, on her birthday, out of the blue. For the first time I was able to wish her "Happy Birthday" and have her hear me say it. She thanked me with a laugh and told me she needs eight margaritas to deal with being 64. She wanted to tell me about her trip to San Diego. For the first time she said that she feels she wants to meet me (and my children) in the not-too-distant future. She told me how happy A is that he has a sibling, at last. She told me how much A likes Mark, and how she hopes to meet him, too. She apologized for being locked in the 1960's view of herself for so long. She told me that she appreciates how I am letting her direct the course of the reunion, and that she feels safe that I am not judging her. I don't, or I try very hard not to. I love her, although I cannot tell her this yet; it suggests that the stakes are higher than she wants them to be. It is still too much, she says, to think of me as her daughter. She said she felt terrible for not being able to see me as a human being until last fall. The defensive wall has come down, she said, and she is happy for it. She cannot be happier than I am. She laughed as she told me that A told her that he, she, and I are all from the same mold: stubborn, fixated, and up to a thousand things at once. Noses buried in books, curious about everything, loyal.

She also told me that A told her that I am "scary smart" and use vocabulary words he's never heard of. I will take the compliment, but the conversation then led to A's and my discussion about the contingency of our relationship and how much I feared that contingency. I didn't want to get into the grittier parts of this equation, but she immediately said that she supported me 100% in setting boundaries and asking him to choose either to be in or to be out. As she put it, I "deserve so much more than to be kicked around by someone indecisive." I can get behind that, and I love that she gets it.

While her 11-year stony silence was brutal, she is not going faster than she feels comfortable. She is clear about what she can do and what she cannot offer. Since she committed to talking to me last December, she has kept her word. She has reached out to me at least as much as I've reached out to her. She has been more reliable than A, when I look at the big picture. I think I am really less afraid of her leaving me than of A cutting ties. I feel that she respects me, which is a very big deal. She isn't the one keeping secrets and not telling me where she is.

It is unnerving to want to trust her. It is safer to keep people at arm's length, but it is also seductive to have her draw me in closer and make herself vulnerable to me. It is wonderful to hear that I might meet her before too long, but I am of course terrified that I will break down in front of her and become a quivering mush of emotions. It's one thing to talk to her on the phone and keep myself detached, but in person? To stand in front of the woman I most look like--and from whom I was born--and be nonchalant, just like I am meeting a pen pal? I don't think my adult armor is quite strong enough to protect and mask the lost little girl inside of me who is still her daughter.

Little Things

I have been feeling tender of late, partially because it breaks my heart to hear of adoptees being frozen out by their natural families, and partially because I am back to the dangerous job of hunting my own doubts about my nfamily, the ones that hide in the shadows like wolves. Are they shadows? Are they real?

I called C last week, but she didn't return my call. It may be that she was out of town and didn't see that I'd called. It could be that she chose to ignore me. I don't know. Then on Monday I was shopping for a present for A, whose birthday is Friday. He had asked me to buy him a particular pair of sweatpants with the UC logo on them, but they were out of stock. I called his phone to see if he could give me guidelines for another pair. T answered. It seems that A leaves his phone at home while he's at the hospital because he doesn't get good reception. I spoke with her, got the information I needed, and then asked about their plans for the week. She said that they're planning a simple celebration on Friday, and that they're going to spend the weekend, sans W, in a town north of San Diego (coincidentally, very close to where my aparents live). I knew that C was flying out to babysit, but T said nothing of it. I said, "C told me that she's going to help you out by babysitting." T confirmed, but changed the subject summarily.

Why is there enforced silence? Did T not want to hurt my feelings that I am not invited? Is there some intrafamilial agreement about communication that I am not to be told about? Is C planning to exile me again? I wish I could ask her, but she's in San Diego now. I don't want to overstep boundaries by calling her there, especially given the silence stuff, and yet it pisses me off that I have to bury my questions and needs to protect those crumbs that I have (or think I have).

I also grew paranoid because usually when I call A and he's not there, he will call me back or text me. He hasn't yet. If last year hadn't happened, I would not be so freakishly concerned about it. But he threw me away before, and I am more than aware that they can do it again. Sucks. I hope I am not about to lose my new hard-won balance. I haven't quite figured out what my gut is telling me is going on. It is suspiciously silent, but perhaps that's a good thing. We will see what happens, but the waiting is also painful. Insecurity is like very slow-acting poison, although I think I have very good reason to feel insecure.

I was recently reading a memoir in which the author wrote thus about the eulogy at her father's funeral: "It seemed more likely that the vicar, a man who had known my father for thirty years, was thinking of his aching need for a love greater than any one person had been able to provide." Sometimes I wonder about myself similarly. Is what I want too much? Am I unhappy because I expect or need more than I can ever have? Can one person, or any person, give me the love I need to thrive?

Then I remember that all I am asking for is to be treated with consideration, like a human being with value who belongs and who deserves the truth. Little things that end up feeling extremely consequential when they're absent or denied.

"I love you, but..."

I read quite a few blogs that consider open adoption from the point of view of the natural parent. I find the dynamics of open adoptions interesting because my own adoption, dating from the Dark Ages of sealed records in lockdown, is so very different.

As a social worker wrote recently on a blog,

"No one should ever be denied this knowledge [of where she comes from]. I heard a quote recently (and posted it on Facebook) that closed adoption is institutionalized denial. It's so true. You can never deny a child's heritage. That's why I love open adoption so much, because I see a child with two families, two heritages, and a whole lot of love."


A whole lot of love? More self-knowledge? What ever could be wrong with that?

And yet, I have been struggling with some of what I read. An adoptee of my era commented thus about open adoption,

"This is just my personal opinion, but as an adult adoptee I have never been totally enamored with the idea of open adoption. I did not want my first parent(s) to take me to the zoo, I wanted to live with them and have them raise me. What if they would move out of town and start a new family and not see me as much or ever? Open adoption seems to me that it could potentially set the stage for repeated rejections. Just speaking for myself, I suspect I would rather have only been a part of my afamily until the age of 18 when I could decide for myself. The only advantage I can see is knowing who my natural parents were would have been better than having imaginary figures in my head. It seems that children have an innate need to be loved and valued by their natural parents. I'm not sure that open adoption would get rid of the pain of being given away in the first place."


I have thought very much the same thing, and have spent much time recently discussing this topic with other adoptee friends. 


While I think it would have been wonderful to know before I was 40 where I came from, who my nparents were, whom I resembled, etc., the pain of having nparents around, but perhaps not emotionally present, or only partially emotionally present, would have been very difficult for me. I try to imagine being taken out for ice cream, or to the zoo. Knowing that I belonged with these people, but that I wouldn't go home with them. That my kept brothers and sisters would have what I couldn't--the unconditional love of my nparents, as well as their time. It seems like each drop off would involve repeated, painful levels of rejection and sadness; at least I expect that's how my child brain and emotions would have processed it. 


I know that there are some open adoptions that "work," although they are not without their own pain and problems. Then there are those "open" adoptions that seem paradoxical. For example, when an nmom has another child she keeps after the placed child. The placed child wants one-on-one time with the nmom, but the nmom cannot imagine leaving her kept child at home because that child would feel "abandoned." Yes! I didn't make this up. The kept child's sense of abandonment matters; the adopted child's doesn't. Why is that?


Or the nmom who doesn't want to tell her kept child that this other child he meets and plays with is his brother. It's too difficult because the father of the kept child isn't quite open accepting the placed child into the family. Never mind that the placed child is told by his APs that this other child is his brother. Seems to me that the lying by omission is going to cause serious fallout, and most likely for the adoptee. What happens when the adopted child tells the kept child that they're brothers, and the kept child says, "You're lying." Who will be blamed? Who will be distanced and ostracized? I know what my guess is.


Another nmom safe havened her infant but then managed to find out who the adoptive mother was, and has worked on building an "open" adoption. Problem is, no one in the nmom's family even knows she had a child, and the nmom's fiance doesn't know, either. When will the truth be told? Will the adoptee be denied once the nmom has her own kept children? I know if I married someone who didn't tell me that he'd had a child who was adopted, I would be FURIOUS. I would have very serious trust issues with this person, and I am not altogether sure the relationship would survive. Will the child be denied when she shows up as a teen-ager, because no one in the nmom's family knows? After all, it's an "open" adoption and the child *should* feel free to contact her mom. The adoptive mother knows the nmom's name. The child *will* be able to track her nmom down. I am just imagining the pain at being told, "I love you, but not enough to tell the truth about you to anyone else who matters to me in my life."


There is another case in which the nmom is ambivalent about having the placed child in her life. Okay, fine. All parents are ambivalent from time to time. But the contrast between the gooey, expressed love for the kept child versus the coldness and emotional distance from the placed child is remarkable. I know as a child I was very much able to tell who liked me and who didn't. Perhaps her placed child is standoffish because the nmom is standoffish; interpreting the sources of adult emotions is difficult for a child. Is it a two-year-old child's job to be warm and bubbly and open so that the nmom feels good about herself, and thus open to him? Or is it his nparents' job at that point to work on building trust and love, and welcoming him into their lives? Here again is the problem of not telling the truth about this child's existence at church because right now the truth "doesn't matter." But if you have a place in a church and community, what is the likelihood that you will change your mind and tell the truth down the road? It becomes more and more difficult over time, I think. Once down that rocky road, the lies multiply. It's easy to justify not telling the truth, because *does* it really matter? Oh, the child won't know. It's about preserving one's sense of self, and one's place in society--but at the cost of the adopted child who makes the story morally complicated. 


I am not judging these people, or saying that open adoption has to be done a certain way. I can't know what it's like to live with giving a child away and having to explain that to the world around me and living with that decision, for good or for bad. I just honestly don't understand how the decision is made to lie, and then justified. Especially by people who profess devout Christianity.


I have been the denied child, the one lied about. The one whose existence made things complicated. I had the wrath of my nmom on my head for daring expose her lies. I am wondering how it will be for these children in open adoptions. Their existence is supposedly known, but not really, or only in circumscribed ways to certain people. My fear is that when they get older, they, like I, will have to pay the price for the lies. The guilt and shame for the lies might be visited on them. I hope not, I really hope not, but it seems as though some of these adults aren't thinking about the consequences that their lying by omission will have on their children.


I am very uncomfortable when people say, "I love you, but I have to keep you a secret." It is harmful and puts the adoptee in a horrible place.


I am glad, in some ways, that I only found my family as an adult. I have been able to process things with an adult's emotional toolbox, and I don't feel that I am competing with my brother for C's love. First, she doesn't love me. Second, I don't need or want her to "mother" me. That time has passed. We can interact as peers, which gives me a huge advantage. This isn't to say that her rejection was easy, just that if I had been around her as a child, and she'd been as cold and distant as she is now, there would have been grave emotional fallout for the child I was. I know myself. 


From my admittedly biased standpoint, these not-so-open "open" adoptions put a great deal of pressure on the adoptee not to ask for too much, not to say the wrong thing, and not to want too much love. Sad. Very sad. Outside of adoption, when is it okay to tell someone, "I love you, but not enough to admit who you are to the rest of the family?"

Acceptance

So much has happened in the past few months that it is taking time for the consequences to sink in. I can talk to C whenever I like, but it is fairly clear from her that it shouldn't be *too* often, unless I really need her. Same for my contact with A. He was very excited after his visit, but now we are both back into the dreary trudge of life. He is busy, I am busy. I could call him, and I have called T, but it's all very superficial. Weather, gardening, what the boys are up to. Work.

I don't know exactly what I expected from all this, but I think the hardest part is realizing that I have to live. Just live. Follow the path I am on and find some satisfaction in it.

From the outside, all is well. I have time and financial stability to do as I like. I have wonderful friends. And yet I can never quite ignore the irritation from the splinter in my soul, the one that has caused me so much pain over the years.

I feel mildly annoyed all the time. I don't think I am depressed--or at least not to the degree that I had been. And yet sometimes there is a flash of the darkness that signals to me that I am not sure what I am living for. What is it that I want to do? How do I do it?

My friend Z has been compiling a detailed family tree for me as he takes particular pleasure in researching. He found ancestors of mine from North Carolina who fought in the Revolutionary War, other relatives who fought in the Civil War. An ancestor who sat on the Supreme Court. I have a rich family history, although I still feel uneasy about claiming it. I am not on any of the family trees, nor will I be. The history is mine, and yet I am not of it. I reread my grandfather's obituary on Wednesday, and I felt a stab to the heart where it said that he is survived by three grandsons. He is. True. But I am also his granddaughter, the one who was too embarrassing to admit. The one who was taken far away to avoid sullying the family name in the small town. The one who paid the price then, and who continues to pay for all the familial ambivalence and nervousness.

A few days ago I went with my friend Joy to the LDS Temple in Oakland. We visited the Family History Center and did some genealogical research in a brightly lit basement, well appointed with books and computers. I discovered that C's brother's birthday is New Year's Day. He was 18 when I was born, not 17, as my non-identifying information stated. Because God forbid that anyone tell the truth. I feel such anger about my family's and the agency's prevarications: "Neuman" not "Newman"; C age was "around" 22, instead of exactly 22; my uncle was not 17, but 18. And then the lies continued.

I have been thinking a little bit about contacting my uncle. C and A have both told me that he wants to talk to me. I put the ball in his court last September, but for whatever reason, he hasn't acted on it. I am not the most patient person in the world. I could probably wait forever and hear nothing; maybe it would be good for me to wait. I understand how difficult it is to reach out to an unknown person. I have made the first step, over and over. I asked Joy what she advised, and she encouraged me, as ever, to do what my gut tells me. She said that I have absolutely done enough, but if I want to do more, she supports me. It certainly would be nice to have someone take the reins; but will they?

I suppose what I am struggling with is the path to finding acceptance in all this mess. There is so much about these relationships that I cannot change. I know that. And yet my feelings of powerlessness are immense and difficult. I am here right now because of what I have done in my life, but also for what I *didn't* do. Such as choose to be born to a woman who was unmarried, and whose family couldn't stand the shame of an out-of-wedlock child.

I wonder if C will ever be able to face her demons and tell me how she really felt at the time of my birth. I wonder if she says nothing to protect me from the sad truth that she wishes I'd never been conceived. In some ways, it would be easier to hear that. In the meantime, I nurse the hope that she might have acted differently if she were coerced. Maybe she was coerced. It seems likely. I just don't know, and the PTSD prevents her from talking. I get that, even accept it, but it's not easy for me.

Then I think about how much my afamily has given to me, all the experiences and unconditional love. I have been so blessed in many ways. Why is it so difficult to reconcile this with the pain and all those years of self-loathing? Why do I always have to be the strong one?

Adjustments

This has been a week of adjustments.

I went back to work on Wednesday for the first time since my pneumonia and pulmonary emboli. I was excited and nervous, of course: what had I forgotten anew?

My colleagues were wonderfully kind, and I had a great shift. Annie, one of the senior RNs, was my guardian angel and helped me stay on track with my admission and then helped me get my second patient settled. I felt pretty good about all of it.

I picked up my second patient around 7:30, just over halfway through my shift. She was pretty sick and needed a blood transfusion because her hemoglobin was very, very low. Her story was extremely complicated. She was pregnant for the sixth time, but had gone to the ER that afternoon because she had had unprotected sex the day before; she didn't know that she was already 30 weeks into a pregnancy. She had a history of cocaine use but had been clean for eight years; she had, however, fallen off the wagon three days previously. Her main complaint was tremendous vaginal discomfort and pelvic pressure. It turned out that she had three sexually transmitted infections and a urinary tract infection. Although she felt awful because of her severe anemia, she was more bothered by the fire below. The ER had started her on a bunch of meds for the infections, and I gave her a few more to help. She was so worried that I would judge her, but I reassured her that I wasn't there to judge, but to help.

The show stopper was that once she found out she was pregnant, she said she planned to walk away and leave the baby in the hospital when he or she was born. Triggering for me, to say the least. I sat down with her and talked about adoption and what it has meant for me. I didn't try to dissuade her from it; it sounds like adoption is the best option for her. She has no family around, and her surviving four children take all of her resources. I wish things were different for her, but they're not. A social worker would come by the next day to talk about adoption and other things, and I encouraged her to think about an open adoption so that her child wouldn't feel cut off from his or her roots. She won't be delivering (hopefully) for another seven to ten weeks, so she has time to mull over her choices. She and I cried together. Working with her was a difficult but positive experience for me. I usually avoid the adoption cases like the plague because it's just too emotionally excruciating for me to process while remaining professional.

Then yesterday I went to see The Adjustment Bureau, a new science fiction film based on a short story by Philip K. Dick. In sum, it tells the story of a young man who meets an amazing woman--once--and it's only meant to be once. There are higher powers keeping people and their destinies on track. The main character (John Norris) meets his love again, and all hell breaks loose; he finds out that free will is very limited.

When John gets to work unexpectedly early one day, he sees the Adjustment Bureau workers changing the thoughts in a coworker's mind--all the people are frozen. He is understandably shaken and runs away. Eventually he is caught and taken to a room while the powers-that-be discuss what to do with him. They say things like, "He will be haunted by questions for the rest of his life," and "He was never meant to see behind the curtain." Sound familiar? John has strong feelings for the woman he is supposed to stay away from (Elise), and he asks, "If I am not supposed to be with her, why do I have these feelings?" Hmmmm. Later on, when John refuses to give Elise up, he is told that if he doesn't leave her and break her heart, her life will never be what it could have been; he will have ruined her chances for professional success forever. That if he really loves her, he must let go. Yep.

The men from the Adjustment Bureau carry books that show the potential life paths of each person, and it is the job of some of the men to keep the people they're watching on track. It is important not to deviate from the script. Again, very much like adoption! Adoptees are given new lives and aren't supposed to question them, think about what might have been, or look for our natural families--think of all the people we will hurt if we do so!

The other strange thing was that Adjustment Bureau workers could appear dressed as normal humans and throw spanners in the works: tie up traffic, keep someone talking, interrupt phone calls, or say things to nudge a person back on the path their lives were meant to follow. It reminded me of the "happy" and "joyful" adoptees and Bee Mommies who cannot accept that their experiences are their own; they must belittle and attack and derail the ideas and thoughts of others who have different, less comfortable experiences. Don't question, don't think, just praise! Be grateful for the opportunities! Love the people who raised you, and only them! Ugh.

Some adoptee friends of mine have said that they will not watch the film because it suggests that there is no escaping the Fates. I don't think it was quite as grim as all that, and the end (which is most certainly not the end of Dick's story) rewards the protagonist's questioning of the life mapped out for him. He would rather choose potential madness than giving up on who he knows he his and what he wants: this is something I have done. There were moments in which I felt rage and great sorrow as I watched, but it was helpful, in many ways, to see my story mirrored in the plot of the film. It might make a good talking point with people who haven't thought too much about what it means to be born, adopted, sealed, and denied.

I had an interesting chat with C on Wednesday. She was busy, but I had told her I'd call and let her know how the visit went. She told me that she wouldn't hear anything of it from A because her husband doesn't want them talking about me. It broke my heart to hear that, even though I understand the position that they are both in. I will work with what I have, but I wish so much that this contingency weren't there. She has three trips planned in the near future: one to visit her mother in Indiana, one to visit A, T and W in San Diego, and then a trip to Paris in mid-April. I told her I was very jealous of the Paris trip, and asked her if she enjoyed museums. She said that she does but her husband does not, so she doesn't get to go all that often. Apparently he despises the "fat, nude women" in paintings in the Louvre. I told her that it's easy to steer away from the Renaissance and Baroque galleries to avoid Titian, Rubens, etc. We laughed. It made me hope that one day C and I could be in Paris together. Not likely, but maybe. I don't know when I will speak to her next, and that makes me sad. 

All my friends remind me that C could turn on a dime and change her mind about me. I know that and protect myself, while loving her all the same. It is too tiring to live with the burdens of suspicion and fear at the front of my mind. It's just not who I am.

Connections

It's Tuesday (well, Wednesday) and the weekend already seems so long ago. I can't believe the remarkable change in my life over the past few months, and especially over the past few weeks. It has to do with things largely out of my control, but I am fortunate that the changes mean positive things for me.

I was horribly nervous as I drove to the airport on Saturday morning. Would A be stiff and guarded? Should I hug him? Could the rift be repaired? As he came out of the terminal to meet me promptly at 9:32 a.m., he immediately smiled and hugged me. I had good feelings. I drove him tto Berkeley for brunch at a small restaurant serving French country breakfasts. We only had a 10-minute wait, which is extremely rare for that place. We chatted about our respective trips to Tahoe, drank our coffee and ate our food leisurely. Afterwards, he asked to go to a store near UC Berkeley to buy some gear. We did, and then I took him on a tour of campus, showing him where the art history department is and where I used to teach. He thought the campus was beautiful (it is, even if it isn't his home turf of Ole Miss), and marveled at how green everything is. It certainly provides stark contrast to the dry, desert landscape of San Diego, where he lives. I gingerly ventured toward the topic of adoption a few times in the morning but was rebuffed gently. 

In the afternoon we met up with Mark and the boys and took our regular family trip to Crissy Field so that A could enjoy the spectacular views of the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz. Finn ran around gleefully and the boys were pretty well behaved. Mark and I are quite shockingly bad at not keeping exacting tabs on Callum and Tobey, and more than once A would ask where Tobey was and I wouldn't know. I think it's because A has a three-year-old and has to be more vigilant about parental monitoring of child locations. Nevertheless, I am sure A raised an inner eyebrow about my parenting skills. But A is a very genial man and easy to get along with. He and Mark hit it off immediately, and when M drove our minivan up the steep acclivity of Lombard so that A could travel down one of the U.S.'s crookedest streets, both Mark and A were white knuckled in the stop-and-go traffic. They bonded. 

At home later on, we fed the boys and got them prepared for a late-night pajama birthday party. We then let them watch a little TV while we drank beer and ate snacks. A was telling us more about his deployment in Afghanistan, which sounded brutal on all counts. And A does autopsies and works with tissue samples and foreign objects in a lab. So he's used to some disgusting stuff.

The boys went off to the party, and A and I drove to dinner. Once in the car, A said "Let's get it all out on the table. I know you hate me, but this is what I did, and this is why I did it." Apparently he was very depressed while in Afghanistan and the stress of being away and feeling in the middle of C and me was too much. Cutting me out was a way to simplify. We talked about how he felt his religious obligations to his parents meant their desires came before mine. I pointed out that when parents ask their adult children to do unethical things, the adult children are not breaking a commandment by refusing to follow the unethical direction. A countered that ideally parents don't ask such things, and I replied that parents are humans, and humans are fallible, so of course they do. I think it struck a nerve.

A told me that when he got back from Afghanistan, T told him that she was horrified about what they'd done to me. She said that they'd never done it to anyone before in all their years together and that they shouldn't do it to me. He sat on this dilemma until I sent him that impassioned text last November, telling him that I knew they all wished I were dead and that they were horrible people for thinking that. I spurred him and C into action, which is a good thing, I suppose. He also told me that he had a long discussion about me with my uncle, C's brother. My uncle apparently wants to meet me and was very curious about my trip to Posey County last summer. B (my uncle) asked A if B would have recognized me in the grocery store. A told him, "Yes, absolutely." It's so weird to hear him say that because in all the pictures I have seen of C, I don't think I look all that much like her. Maybe it's the gestures or body language that intensifies things. Maybe it's wishful thinking on my part. Maybe one day I will find out.

I was of course crying by this point of the evening. A asked if I knew that he loved me. I said that I knew he did before, but that I wasn't so sure anymore. I told him that if I love you, I love you forever. Even if loving you isn't good for me. He said that of course he loves me, and that he always did. I said that I couldn't live with contingent love, and he said that the time of "the horrible ridiculousness" is over. Everyone knows, and there's no secret to be kept. That's a relief. At one point A said, "K, you have such a big heart. It's bigger than your chest." Other people have told me this, but it was something altogether different coming from my brother, someone I love with all I have. I want him to feel that, and it seems that he does.

I continue to see so much of myself in A, including my insecurities. I know that he's taken the walls down. He's asked me if I would edit his personal statement for applications to fellowships [in a heartbeat!]. It is amazing to feel loved and included. On the other hand, A is suffering from an immense load of guilt. I have told him over and over that I have forgiven him; he needs to forgive himself now. He said that it's hard to do. Definitely. And yet he has to absolve himself. I have been where he is, worried that a person you love doesn't love you back to quite the same degree. I find it ironic that my brother is worried that I don't love and respect him. 

When thinking back over the weekend, it just felt so right. So easy. I can't describe it properly, but there's an intense feeling of connection that is absent from any other relationship I've had. He smells right, even. I could tell he was my brother without input from my rational brain. We know our tribes. Really, we do.

The Furies

I have had a terrible time letting go of the anger that has built up this past week. The non-dialogue related to the primal wound and my personal experience has finally led me to fury. Today there was yet another exchange in which someone told me that I cannot possibly feel what I feel because he or she doesn't feel the same way, and a psychologist backed that person up, telling me I was rude for saying that this person's opinion cannot measure my experience.

Nasty Person: Ms Margalina[sic]: you were seperated [sic] from your biological mother, and you have these problems. That doesn't mean the seperation [sic] caused those problems. I only mentioned myself because I have quite a few of the issues some Primal Wound believing adoptees say they do, and I was not adopted.

Me: Thanks for sharing your opinion, but it is no more than that. Your opinion.


Nasty Ph.D.: Ms. M., I'm not sure why I posted your reply to [Nasty Person], except that I have been posting what you've had to say.
[Nasty Person] did give her reasons for her comment, and it appears to me that it is actually an opinion, derived logically from observation of other people's lives as well as her own-- if "no more", it's also "no less". Real opinions are a different matter from the unexamined prejudices that commonly pass for opinion. 

Me: So [Nasty Person] knows more about me than I do myself? Point taken.

Which led me to think about my old friends, the Furies.

While the power of the Furies is considerable, it is consuming and difficult. The three, Tisiphone ("blood avenger"), Alecto ("unceasing anger"), and Magaera ("the jealous one") can do good work, for sure. I am especially fond of Tisiphone, who avenges crime against family. As an adoptee, I have had my share of crime against family.

The rational side of me, on the other hand, recognizes that the anger I feel is what my enemies want me to feel. If I am furious, they have won. They have no interest in learning about what I feel, or why. Their self-proclaimed job is to reeducate me and point out what they see as my "foolishness."

I have asked myself why this studied deafness to the story of my pain is so anger inducing. Why are they invested in telling me, over and over, that I am wrong about what I feel? Why can't I recognize they are abusive and just walk away?

The answer? It taps straight into the life I have led, for nearly forty-two years, as a second-class citizen  an adoptee. Of being told that everything that happened was all for my own good. That any pain I felt was invented, unless it follows the trajectory that "child development" has staked out for me. That my story is not as important or worthy as those of people who follow the "rules."

When people don't hear me, when they don't at least make an attempt to listen, I become furious. I used to blame myself, but now I blame them. It is time to let go and not to engage, even when I want to help fellow adoptees. There will always be people who cannot accept that people have their own experiences that are not quantifiable. As my father always likes to say, the social sciences are soft. They like to think they're peers of the hard sciences, but humans aren't chemical compounds. You can never control for all the variables where humans are involved, unless you keep them in cages. And even then, you have the rogue variables of genes, even if you remove environment and human contact. Good fucking luck with that, Dr. Moreau. Yes, I mean you.

I told someone recently that I felt vivisection of adoptees was the only means to prove to empiricists that some adoptees feel what we do. Dr. Moreau expressed disbelief: "Why did Ms. Marginalia say that?" This was, in my opinion, disingenuous. It's all about the data, and the data can only be gathered by what is seen. Dissection of a living organism provides data. Personal accounts don't hold water because they are exactly that: personal and tainted. And this person is a psychologist.

But I digress. I was talking to my friend Joy today about this, and I decided that these non-adopted people are befuddled by the depth of our feelings of loss because it's a complete non-issue for them. Anyone who has grown up with their natural family immediately starts out with a sense of groundedness that adoptees don't have. Abusive natural family or not. You look like people around you and can see yourself in others. It's so subtle that it's unremarked. And because it's subtle, it cannot even be seen to exist. Except for those of us who don't have it, have missed it, and want it. If you don't care or don't want it, fine. Hooray, you! But that's not the case for many of us. And to be told, over and over and over, despite telling our stories, that we are wrong and misguided and slaves to "fuzzy" or nonexistent science? Well, fuck you. Again.

So next time I get furious, remind me that these so-called people don't have my best interests at heart. Not at all. They don't want to help, they want to belittle and badger. They aren't worthy of my time or attention, no matter how many degrees they have (or don't).

I remember back to sessions with Dr. Brodzinsky, whose opinions matter to me a hell of a lot more because he has worked with adoptees for his ENTIRE career. Although he doesn't embrace the primal wound, he doesn't tell adoptees that they make shit up, either. When I told him about these dismissive harpies bitches people back in October, he told me to turn as deaf an ear to their entreaties to "understand" as they do to my accounts of what I feel.

I'll save my next call to the Furies for something more worthy.

Peace out.

Trust

I am, in general, a trusting person because the alternative is hard to live with. I would usually rather believe the best in people and be proved wrong than be continually suspicious. That said, there is pain associated with living this way. Not that I have a choice, really. My temperament isn't such that I can readily close myself off. 

Although I have suffered greatly from the way members of my natural family have treated me, and I cannot  trust them completely, there has been progress. I was thinking about a few weeks back when my sister-in-law T said that she wished our relationship could go back to the way it was last spring. I would like that, very much so. Being nervous and hypervigilant is exhausting, but I think there's a way for me to protect myself by being cautious about how much I give and how much I expect back. The key is to expect little and be surprised.

A and I exchanged a volley of texts this past weekend while we were both up at Tahoe. We checked in with each other, and I told him about a snowball fight I had with two of the kids. I mentioned to him that I owe him about 1,000 snowballs. He agreed. We definitely missed out on kid play together. Then yesterday I texted with T about their weekend, what the kids had fun doing, the cabins we each stayed in, and so on. Then about half an hour later, I had a call on my phone from T. I picked up and said "Hi, T," but it was actually A on T's phone. He wanted to call to chat and tell me that he's excited about coming to visit my family this weekend. This was unexpected, as I felt I had to twist his arm to come. He said that he thinks we'll have great fun. 

I've noticed that whenever I cautiously begin to mention things related to our family relationship, he begins to change the subject and get nervous. I don't know if that's because it's too painful, if he doesn't want to think about it at all, or if his guilt about what happened is a roadblock. I need to ask him, but I would rather do it in person. A year ago, he would gladly call me his sister and tell me he loves me. It's a different game right now. Maybe he regrets jumping in head first when he found out about me. I know it was a lot for him to digest.

I also had a wonderful conversation with C yesterday. She wanted to hear about the procedure to insert the filter, how I am feeling, how the kids are, whether we were able to meet with A at Tahoe. She was very kind and solicitous. She asked more about my aparents and asked me to give her best to my father, who had surgery yesterday. We spoke about how my amom is a redhead with not enough hair on her legs to be worth shaving, whereas C and I have great quantities of dark, thick hair. I told her that it was hard on me as a teen-ager not to have someone around to teach me about plucking and waxing. She laughed and said she wished she could have helped. We spoke about my maternal agrandmother and how she had a half-sister herself, placed for adoption before 1900. And how my grandmother never denied this sister. C thought that was wonderful. She also told me that she hopes A will be in a good mood this weekend; she said it was impressive that he is coming because he doesn't like to make plans with many people. Finally, we talked about how we both like our friendship. The only sour note for me was when she said she had to go because it was getting toward the time when her husband comes home. I understand that he doesn't want me back in the picture, but it makes me sad that it has to be this way. I don't want to make C's life difficult, by any means, but I feel angry that her husband continues to pile shame on her after 41 years of marriage. 

I really didn't see any of this coming a few months ago when I woke up each day and wished I were dead. It is how it should be, but that in itself is scary because it is rare that anything in my life is as it should be. I feel my heart opening up to them because they deserve it, and I feel that my love is being returned. I feel immensely joyful. 

Wounds and investments

I have been involved in several discussions over the past week about whether infant adoptees are capable of knowing that they have lost their mothers after birth. These discussions pop up on a regular basis, usually because the naysayers get their knickers in a twist when we "woundies" [aka people who have found value in Nancy Verrier's book, "The Primal Wound"] say we believe in something that is devoid of scientific evidence (per the naysayers).

What I don't understand is why people are so invested in telling other people that what they feel is wrong. The naysayers allow us our feelings, supposedly, but they tell us we have misattributed those same feelings, as if we are completely unable to understand ourselves. Someone said in one of the arguments that she thinks "woundies" feel sad because we realized over time that we were adopted and lost our natural families, but that we erroneously attribute our sadness to the original loss. I would argue that for me, at least, there is a combination of both: an original loss, and experience over time.

I lost C on the day I was born. She never saw me or held me. There is a great deal of research that shows newborns are able to recognize the voices and smells of their mothers (and working in Labor and Delivery, as I do, we have protocols that take this information as a basis for keeping mothers and babies together, as much as possible). The naysayers believe that while neonates may recognize their mothers, it doesn't mean that the newborn actually prefers the mother. That recognizing smell and sound is instinctual, not emotional. I agree that there is not scientific research that proves an indelible tie between mother and infant, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist. I am also unwilling to say that the keeping mothers and infants together is important for everyone except adoptees.

I have been an highly anxious person as long as I can remember, and before I could put words to it. This is my lived experience. In the recent debates, someone not adopted came along and told me that he or she has been anxious as long as he/she can remember, but wasn't separated from his/her mother, so what I am saying is hogwash. My response was that he or she feels something similar to what I feel, but there is nothing to say that everyone who is anxious has the same root cause for the anxiety.

Or in another case, a psychologist said that the primal wound theory is detrimental to potential adoptive parents, who might feel inadequate or paralyzed when they realize that their adopted infant/child has felt a profound loss. That reading Nancy Verrier's book, "The Primal Wound," could cause post-adoption depression in adoptive parents, so adult adoptees need to stop talking about these false, unscientific wounds to protect future infant adoptees from depressed parents. WTF?

After so many days and months of this, I don't understand why so many people who are not adopted have such investment in telling adult adoptees that we're WRONG when we talk about what we feel, or how we feel it. It is just so odd. It's like they think we choose to feel sad. There is no choice. For some of us, it just is. I know what I feel and what I have felt my entire life, and to have someone suggest that they know better than I do is highly presumptuous.

I was talking to my friend Thomenon today about this, and how it has some parallels with the way queer people are treated by reactionary factions in the United States. That being gay is a "choice" and that if gay people would reexamine their lives, they would see their faulty thinking. He said that the "choice" issue is bogus: he would never have chosen to be gay, given the obstacles that society puts in the way of queer citizens. He feels that there is a biological component to being gay: he always knew he was gay. And that his life as a gay man has been shaped by his place in society at large and his position in queer culture. His experience as a gay man is thus both biological and cultural in its foundation.

It is a fact that adoptees belong to families other than those we grow up with. Our feelings about being adopted are not a "choice." Seriously, if it were, I would choose to be one of the joyous, cheerful, very happy adoptees who see nothing but goodness from here to the grave. That would be a much easier path, but it's never been who I am. Cultural expectations of adoptees to be grateful and happy, adoring of adoptive families and vilfiying of natural families are also problematic to me. There is a middle road in which I love my adoptive family, love my natural family, and have felt lifelong sadness about the loss of my mother and who I might have been. Sadness that cultural expectations led me to hide and subvert until it turned into crippling self-loathing and self-doubt. NOT an inability to form lasting, meaningful adult relationships, as the naysayers have written.

Now I speak out about how I feel, and I am told that I am "allowed" to be sad, but only within the parameters that others delineate. Boundaries that "science" has set up. I love science. It's great. But not when others use it as a bludgeon to push me back into compliant adoptee mode. "Science doesn't uphold what you say, so your feelings are 'probably' invalid unless you agree with us that you started to feel sad when you were three and realized that you were adopted and what that means."

Sorry, not playing. I am too old.

Vive la resistance!

Serendipity

So the strange goodness of my day continues. I took Callum to his Cub Scout meeting, and when I left, I noticed that A had called me. "Great," I said to myself. "He's calling to cancel his trip."

I put the kids to bed and called him back, expecting the worst. As many well trained adoptees do.

I was pleasantly surprised. He was calling because T had told him that my family and I are going to Tahoe this weekend. Turns out A is going to be up at Tahoe, as well, and he wanted to see if there was any possibility of our meeting up.

I was thrilled that he thought to tell me and even considered getting together. He and T will be there with another family, his best friend and wife and daughter. Which means he doesn't mind introducing his Yankee sister to his friend! Even if it doesn't pan out for us to meet, he wanted to. Wow. I feel loved, really loved.

He also told a really cute story about being in a "Build-a-Bear" store with W, my nephew, and his friend J (the one who will be up at Tahoe). Apparently W was sitting with his legs spread wide apart, making his bear, and ended up with a hand down his pants. He was having a good time, clearly. A was horrified and said, "Boy! What are you doing?" in his loud Southern drawl. J roared with laughter and said it was like the Clampetts [the Beverly Hillbillies] in "Build-a-Bear." So A's new thing is to call his family the Clampetts. How narrowly I missed being a Clampett--although A is very well educated for a Clampett.

Maybe things are looking up for real. But then I remember to ask: Is this my life? What cruel joke lies ahead?

My love is as fair as any mother's child

I took Callum to see Giselle performed by the San Francisco Ballet on Sunday. Innocent love, betrayal, death, and love beyond the grave: how I adore the impossible passions of the Romantics. If today hadn't happened, I probably would have written a long, dolorous discourse about the pains of love. But the gods smiled on me.

Callum was gorgeous in a suit and looks so grown up. I was proud to have him as my date, and I caught many of the little girls checking him out. I have quite a future ahead of me, I fear.

Normal

I believe that normal is relative. I'm not going to jump all over you because your normal is different than mine. Unless, that is, you are a scientist who tells me that babies don't care if they are taken from their mothers, or that adopted babies are appropriate test subjects because they're malleable little creatures.

That said, what's normal for me over the past 41 years has been feeling pain. When the accounting is done, I am emotionally in the red. There is that pesky problem of not feeling human, or only feeling human as of late, and then not human in other ways. Of being unlovable, or only lovable for my brain. I am disposable. In my mind, everyone I know is running (or planning to run) to the door to get away from me. I know rationally that when people run away, it's their crap, not mine (usually), but the fallout is the same. I have to deal with their absence, and it's not fun.

And yet today I had a surprising, grounding experience that made me feel normal again. For the first time in a long time. I can't say more than that, only that I feel hopeful, at least for now, about really being human.

I am trying to feel normal about my brother's upcoming visit. He arrives a week from Saturday and leaves pretty early on Sunday. I know he's petrified. After all, we adoptees are scary beasts. He still carries around a bunch of guilt for his abandoning me in May and worries my family and I haven't forgiven him. I have forgiven him, but of course he can't move on until he forgives himself. And I can't do anything about that.

Our day together was neatly planned a month ago, although you know it never ends up quite so. First, he and I will go with my friend N to brunch at my favorite Provencal restaurant in Berkeley. We'll spend the afternoon at Crissy Field or Fort Funston in the city with Mark, the kids, and Finn, and we will end the day with a tete-a-tete dinner at a wonderful tapas bar in Berkeley, just the two of us.

We've never actually had sober alone time. What will that be like? I want to ask him all about Afghanistan, but I fear he won't want to talk about it. I know he's planning to apply for fellowships for specialist training in pathology: GI diseases or something like that. I know we can nerd out together and talk about science and BBC television shows, but I hope he'll also be willing to talk about some difficult things. I realize that I know him too poorly to trust him with a whole lot of my hearts of darkness (not to mention he's smashed me to pieces before), but I want to be able to confide in him and build something beyond the superficial relationship we have now. We will see. I have to remember there isn't a rush. We cannot make up for the time we have lost; we can only move ahead. And I can only control myself and what I do.

It is so fucked up to have met my brother in middle age. To love him and be afraid of him. My job is to find some version of normal in this whole tangled mess? Wish me luck!