Archive for the ‘Adoptee control Issues’ category

A Convoluted Badge of Something

January 8, 2009

A Greek Tragedy for a Convolute?

ist2_1085349-snow-globeThe psychic looks at my left palm; the one which depicts where I have been, which bears little resemblance to my right palm, which is where I am, and am going.  He says, “Can I be frank?” I nod in an of course manner and consciously decline to utilize the obvious, “I thought your name was Henry?” joke, because I do not much ROFL over recycled humor. Cerebral humor is more my style; a mind-chuckle being more enjoyable than the mind [rhymes-with-part-of-the-word-chuck(le)] that was my childhood.

He says, “Your childhood was really convoluted.” Finally! The most succinct poetic ode to my childhood. A tidy one word summary. It is such the perfect word. I still have it. And it works. And, as long as we are being succint, if I had to sum myself up in one word I’d say I was an italic. And that my life has been in constant pursuit of the appropriate life-saving em dash. Maybe I am a Convolute.

I sometimes hesitantly suspect that I might be a dangling particle. But in reality, I am not entirely positive just what a dangling participle is and cannot immediately identify one. I mean I know, but I am not 100% certain, therefor I am one, because that would explain my confusion about who I am, in a metaphorically grammatical way.

ist2_5290011-who-s-that-manI think about such things all the time because I am very confused. I was raised by one family; I have another family now and I am getting to know them. But I wonder how much they are getting to know me. I don’t think either family really knows me. I think both families have tried to shape me. Why are we not all merely seen for who we are and not for what me might be? My bmom does not listen. I can hear her thinking of what she is going to say next rather than simply listening. Mostly in our conversations I just listen. I hear. I don’t really think much that she hears what I am saying but rather, hears what she wants. Hence The Guilt Trip.

I keep thinking of the whole journey as akin to the myth of Pandora’s Box, which was really a jar and only became known as a box due to a mistranslation of the Greek Pithos for “jar”, which became “box” when translated into Latin.  Pithos sounds like pathos, and is one of the three modes of persuasion, in Aristotle’s philosophies in rhetoric so it’s all Greek to me, and all tied together and convoluted.

ist2_3223613-entrance-hall-of-brussels-courthouseEvents of Pathos, or, Pathetic events, in a plot “are also not to be confused with tragic events. In a tragedy, the character brings about his or her own demise, whereas those invoking pathos often occur to innocent characters, invoking unmerited grief.” – wikipedia

Interesting, that jar/box thing – a mistranslation or mis-communication that changes the meaning of a thing forever. Pandora opened that jar out of curiosity and when she saw what was in it (more…)

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Guilt trips always get me down

December 28, 2008

Rainy days and Mondays are, however, fine.

IT’S A PARKING LOT WITHOUT LINES

ist2_4356889-coal-for-youOh, the holidays. What loaded fun. What complicated, charged, bloated, booby-trapped, commercial, expensive, meaningful, non-meaningful, joy! Good thing the big one is only once a year. This is not to say that I am against holidays or don’t like them but rather an acknowledgment of the emotional brew bubbling beneath the surface. No matter how I might try, if I do what I want – what is comfortable and meaningful, and peaceful and happy for me – I get in trouble. I am starting to resent that. And I refuse to continue to always put myself second to others, which is be a huge shift from the last few decades of subservient merry-making and everyday life.

Since beginning my search I have spent a lot of time thinking. Thinking and thinking all day long. Some times in all capital letters, sometimes in italics, often cluttered with colons and semi colons, brackets, asterisks and pound signs. Especially asterisks. I am an Asterisk. Actually, I am a Spasterisk. To illustrate that I am making the quotation mark sign in spastically rapid motions as I say “Spasterisk” as if I am paraphrasing myself. I should have named this blog My Life as a Spasterisk. Shit, always the best ideas are a day late, a dollar short, and then freely offered up for the next person to use. If I see a blog named that I am going to scream. today is a very rare anger day for me. It’s been brewing.

ist2_6547957-country-highwayI had thought and thought about the impact my search might have on my birth mother and for years was unwilling to take that risk, to possibly disrupt her life in a painful or negative way. Since meeting her I have tried to use what my friends determine is my immense capacity for empathy to weigh her feelings and possible perspective into my decisions and quite often made decisions to do things that I’d not wanted to do; to spend more time together than I was as of yet comfortable with. I have always tried to meet in the middle give or take a few miles, but the middle can start to shift farther and farther away till I need binoculars to see from whence I came.

So, for Christmas I had made plans to go visit friends, childhood friends, a few hours away. (more…)

Little Miss No Name

December 14, 2008
Little Miss No name. I can relate.

Little Miss No name. I can relate.

The story of Little Miss No Name

Every Christmas my mother insisted on reading the story of The Little Matchbook Girl to me. No matter that I cried and begged her not to, and had nightmares for weeks. No matter that it made me even more insecure. As many adopted people will tell you, gratitude is the key to control; we are often meant to feel forever grateful for being saved from a life in a burlap bag, lived on the street, in which we would die of exposure. Well, yes. I was always grateful but I could never be grateful enough. I did not choose to be born. I am a human being and as much as a biological child, I was prone to that nature part of the Nature vs. Nurture theory of how people are the way they are, according to Psychology 101.

I tried hard. I spewed the rhetoric. I told my friends I was so lucky and my parents were Saints! Did my little girl brain dream that up? Or perhaps was I made to always feel so grateful, and to always feel so guilty for being not how their conceptual Biological Daughter might have been?

Therein lies a big part of Adoptee Guilt.

This link about LMNN from www.whitless.com sums it up fairly well, and I quote:

“The “Little Miss No Name” doll was launched by Hasbro in 1965 and discontinued soon after.  You will notice that her native garb is a brown burlap dress with two patches.  A large plastic removable tear streams from her left eye.  Her right hand stretches out plaintively, begging for — what?  A coin?  A sandwich?  Begging for the Mom who went away after saying, “Stay right here in the candy aisle, honey, Mommy’s getting into this big black van and will be right back”?

That is the mystery of Little Miss No Name.

I can’t feel sorry for them. (more…)

Yak Trainer/Stock Photographyical Artist/Basket Case

December 9, 2008

When my life is not tragic and excruciatingly painful it is hilarious. My therapist and I have a code word that I have promised to use if I ever have those thoughts and at that point we will send me away. I have already picked 0ut the place, it’s a little farther away than the nearby place. I don’t want to run into anyone I know. I have not packed for this trip. I am not one of those people who agonizes over packing for trips. I bring 2 pairs of jeans, 2 t-shirts, 2 long-sleeved shirts and a sweater. Oh, and clean underwear and socks. And cleanser and moisturizer. I always use the toothpaste in my host’s bathroom and I always need to buy a toothbrush.
mybookaboutme
But then sometimes my life is really great and most times it’s downright hilarious. But I don’t think I am bipolar; I think my life is. Whatever works to smooth over the lingerings of childhood. I missed not having a womb with a view to start this life journey and the experts say this is important so that explains a lot.

I have this thing for stock photography… (more…)

What’s in a name? (sounds like “tissues”)

December 5, 2008

ist2_5845368-sherlock-holmes-seriesToday I found out my birth father’s full name. His name is Kilgore Trout so if you see him… Kidding!

But really, immediately I sold my car and hired a private investigator.

Kidding again! I held off doing my search for years once I had the initial inclination because I was so afraid of disrupting someone’s life. But I do want to see a picture of him. he lives nearby but I’d never go find him. I am only interested in what he looks like.

It wasn’t the sort of name I had expected I guess, or perhaps it’s not what I had in mind. For we all have something in mind when we go looking; it’s the adoptee way so it seems. So it seems – like so many ‘seems’ – from all of the blogs I read. Maybe it’s simply a ‘human’ way, her we are all human first. People envision potential ideal partners so why would we not envision potential ideal families? And in both cases can we say with absolute certainty that we are not perhaps looking to be saved somehow?

ist2_4250579-street-urchinSo today I realized that somehow this angst and anxiety and scorched and fallen souffle of a mind  (mine, I mean. I will not judge you) that is the whole adoption mess might actually have a beneficial aspect in a twistedly way; I am sure my sense of humor and capacity for empathy must have come from some sort of desperate survival thing or defense mechanism. Or super overeager need to please; a desperate need to be accepted for who I am and not what I should have been or might have been molded into. Maybe I am defensively defending me from myself.

“Funny, but I find the disinspiring totems (?) to be more uplifting, because… Why? They’re true, and therefore liberating… Released from being suppressed… Laughter inducing…”

And then I started collecting random quotes from the day’s emails from friends, from conversations and ponderings, and simultaneously together and out of context they assured me that maybe the mess and the pain and the all that is just a different sort of mess than I’d have if I hadn’t gone through all this.

“To some degree it’s probably everybody’s purpose in life to serve as a warning to others.”Maybe I’d be the cliche I so adamantly rebelled against and have a house with vinyl siding and a leased luxury edition Jeep just to drive to the mall and the supermarket; maybe I’d only wear clothes with labels and tell people that I only wear such labels. Maybe I’d have a middle-management job that I hate, and a mean boss voodoo doll, and an accessorized life with essence of superficiality. Or maybe I am just making myself feel better for this raggedy alternative life I envisioned having since I first saw Flashdance in the 80s, but really beginning at age 5. Maybe I’d exhibit consistent understanding and use of punctuation. But at least I realized my dream. I am just a different cliche. ;-) (more…)