The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly


I realize that most of my posts lately seem like whining. I don’t know how to tell my story without telling the bad. Because the bad parts are bad. The parts about meeting and getting to know my birth mother are good, yet overwhelming. I had to get over that; that I had actually done this, and am still am getting over it. The residual conflicted feelings I have about myself are the ugly. The pain killers for my disease do not override that ugly pain. Nor does the Valium for the anxiety and muscle spasming. None of it. I tried Prozac but it made me so nauseous I could not function sufficiently to brush my teeth. I had to weigh possibly squashing my demons against treating my physical condition. But they do affect each other. My spine perhaps cannot bear the weight of the demons on my back. Before I got so sick, I tried to wash away my demons with alcohol but grew tired of that. There is no perfect medication.

I read other blogs about people meeting their birth family and having a nice relationship for years and then it falls apart and away. That scares me.

ist2_6493772-adolescent-in-problemsI called my birth mother yesterday and she was upset that I hadn’t called the day before when I said I might come over. I tried to explain that I was so physically wrecked that I spent the day in bed and was in a place of dizzy, swirling pain and could not even make a phone call. How it felt like I was in a pool of molasses and was desperately trying to swim to the surface and just could not. She was still somewhat less cordial than usual, so it seemed to me. I realize that I am still shaky from my life and that I will always be over-sensitive and will still resort to gifts and backflips to win approval. I will always be on guest manners perhaps. I called this morning and she did not answer.

But I know from her – from yesterday’s phone call –  that she is home. I called my stepfather at work to ask an unrelated question but the receptionist said he did not answer his page. This is coincidental and circumstantial but it does not alleviate the paranoia. I fear I will be banished again.

ist2_2986655-fairy-godmotherI am glad I have therapy today. I know intellectually that there is probably a logical reason for her not answering but still, these things throw me into a tizzy as if I am a child at the carnival and have lost my parents and cannot find them. I am always waiting for a stranger to notice that I am lost and take my hand and help me find my conceptual adoring parents who will take care of me and let me borrow a few cans of soup and some toilet paper if I need. But because of the underlying constant paranoia, I think maybe they do not actually exist, because concepts are just that. I cannot help but wonder. I am glad to have this anonymous place to dump these thoughts.

Growing up we were told repeatedly that our parents had gone before a judge in state X who denied them adoption rights because my mother’s health was so very bad. So they packed up and moved to state Y where another judge gave them the green light. They impressed upon us that they went to such lengths to get us and it mainly served to reinforce to us that our family and shelter was almost not available to us but for their sacrifices and this made us insecure. I could not show enough required gratitude; I could not possibly afford the gratitude fee on my 25 cent weekly allowance. And when I’d play rambunctiously or loudly I was told to be quite, in a tone of voice as if I had done something horribly bad, and it was always accompanied by, “Your mother is really sick…”. Well, telling kids that makes them constantly fearful of death and guilty for innocently making noise. We were too young to make conscious decisions about playing quietly. We were the 3-gabled house of Sympathy, Guilt and Gratitude. We were hanging precariously by a few threads.

After my brother, the nice one; the one I call here BeautifulConflictedPoet, killed himself at 22, I drove the nearly 3 hours with the other brother – the one who would appropriate my inheritance years later – to clean out BCP’s apartment. I found a journal in which he wrote that he wished he had parents who could have given him some small measure of confidence and self-esteem. About me wrote that I was beautiful inside and out. About the other sibling, the once and future thief (for he would always tell us he was the favorite and should have been an only child so I suppose he meant to ‘steal’ their finite amount of love, and was a horrible cheat at Monopoly) he merely wrote that he tried to always set a good example and would show him by his actions that it is important to never lie, steal, or cheat. Funny, that.

ist2_7005323-war-peaceBCP did not kill himself near his apartment hours away. No. He waited till he was in town with friends. He did not call or visit our parents or the thieving brother; they had no idea that he was in town. He merely contacted me to tell me he was in town and then came to see me. I fed him his last meal, not knowing I was doing so. I gave him pesto pizza. I wrapped up the leftovers for him. They were discovered months later in the trunk of his car.

And he bid his farewell here, where we could see the stains in the street and where his death would appear on the front page of the local papers. I always wondered at his choice of venue. I guess I don’t wonder about his demons. When the police said one of us needed to make an identification my father said he would. I offered, and he said No, I should do it. The me that always begged for approval and wanted to protect them and was so devoid of self-esteem said, “I am the black sheep in this family. If anyone is going to be forever scarred by what they are about to see, it should be me. ” He did not protest this. I was not bad. I was just not the desired mold-able daughter from the bins. I was just me. And a lot of people think that’s beautiful. They could never see that.

BCP’s self-medications were extreme and likely had a great impact on his decision and ability to do what he did. I continued to write letters to him for years after his death and just found that box the other day. I cannot read them all.

NOTE-As we were walking out the door the phone rang; it was the family dentist who had answered the call and agreed to get out of bed and go to his office and get the dental records necessary and bring them to the hospital miles away so no identification would be needed. It was nice of him to do that. I wonder if he did it because he was my former boss. Maybe he liked me. So I was spared the identification.

Explore posts in the same categories: A shaky family support system, adopted family relations, Fitting into your adopted family, I don't know shit, The Disney version of events is not real

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One Comment on “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly”

  1. caramelgalore Says:

    HOROSCOPE: “My deepest emotional wound has also been
    the source of inexhaustible blessings.” I’m not going to tell you why that
    statement is true for me — it’s way too personal — but I assure you that
    it’s one of the fundamental facts about my destiny. Could you make a
    similar assertion, Virgo? Is it possible to interpret your life in such a way
    that you could see how a painful experience you suffered in the past has
    also given you tremendous insight, inspiration, and vitality? Two thousand
    nine will be an excellent year to make that leap of understanding. And the
    time around the solstice — right now! — is a perfect moment to get

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