Archive for the ‘Emotional Abuse’ category

HELP ME…. I’M MELTING….

January 18, 2009

There is a talk coming; it is necessary and thus, imminent. I find myself resenting that there even needs to be a talk. If people would all take a minute from their own view to consider another, such talks would not be necessary. It is January 18 and I find that I am still steaming from the unwanted gift of an imposed Christmas guilt trip and, since this trip I have been sent on (for it’s a gift you can refuse but one which resonates for its unwantedness and unmerited origin) my feelings toward others have changed.

What I want to ask is, “Have I done that thing?

Have I ever made you feel guilty for dropping me at the orphanage?

No.

It seems that not only have I not done that, I have bent over backwards to ensure that you will not, for a minute, feel any guilt, for I do not want you to feel anything negative, ever. that is my way in this world. Empathy and respect and only positive output.

That’s how people treat others if they love them. Actually I am grateful for the upbringing that I have had, sometimes perhaps more so, given this game. So, if I have not ever made you feel that oh-s0-common guilt, I do not expect, and actually resent, attempts to make me feel guilty.

ist2_4034991-savages-let-looseI told you several times that I had made other plans for Christmas. I was exceedingly clear. I chose how to spend my holiday. I have that right. But for you to demand, when we first spoke after the holidays, “Where were YOU? We waited ALL DAY for you, and FINALLY decided to go ahead and have dinner”, was so wrong.

I call bullshit.

It’s not fair to make it seem like I kept people waiting and ruined any holiday spirit for not showing up where I was NEVER expected.

I have never done that to anyone and never will. Do you ever try to see things from my point of view? Do you ever wonder how it feels in this situation in which it is all of you and me? Maybe can you see how it is perhaps difficult and uncomfortable to join an entire family as the sole outsider? The Secret? Have I imposed any expectations on you, or tried to get you to do life my way or join in my habitual plans? I think not. Then why, oh why, would you do this to me?

Do you not see how some members of your family do not entirely accept me?

ist2_6450448-xxl-being-green

I do. Have I ever complained about this or even mentioned it? Do you not see how your husband has acted out in small passive-aggressive ways to force you to choose, “situationally”, between me and him? Remember that time he “accidentally” sabotaged that party for me? I do not blame him, for I don’t expect others to be any more human than I am. But that this sabotage even happened – and you did notice, even if you are in denial over it – was hurtful. I still care for him. I do not condemn. But it made me feel uncomfortable and embarrassed to have this action taken against me. And I know it’s me personally but that I represent a relationship with another man; one about which you have said he was always jealous, though they never overlapped. That the same event was sabotaged two more times by both of your other children (of whom he is the biological father) was again hurtful. It’s beyong coincidence and thus obvious. I expect no more or less than that, for I expect noting from you all, and do not know how I would react had my mother suddenly turned up with another child, a secret, that was not my father’s. But I am no fool and could not help but notice this, this thing which you’d have to be clueless to not notice yourself, and it does make me uncomfortable for I am also human. I give myself the same credit that I extend to others. Fair is fair.

ist2_381585-illustration-lieI am a grown up.

I have had a whole life before meeting you. I choose to retain that life and my own family. I am most comfortable with that family and that life. If I choose to spend my holidays with those with whom I feel most comfortable and joyful; if I choose to put myself and my own well-being first, then how dare you not only scold me for that but go so far as to twist that into a lie, and into one in which I have behaved badly and insensitively. For it is a huge and blatant lie to pretend that you waited all day for me at Christmas when I could not have been clearer that I had other plans and would be out of town and NEVER said I would be there.

I heard from another family member that no waiting occurred. I was never expected. No dinner was delayed. Not for a single honest minute. That other person got my message without confusion – the same message I sent to you repeatedly.

I do not respect lying. I do not respect disregard for others’ feelings.

I do not respect fake martyrdom. I will not be a false martyr and happily do what is asked of me over what I want to do, over what is enjoyable to me, in order to do what you want me to do. Martyrs are not selfless, they are foolish sufferers. It is enough that I am there a lot, and do a lot for you and give you things that are precious to me and would actually rather keep. I do not have to give up the holidays that I so cherish. I can understand disappointment. I do not understand demands, deceit and condemnation. And then, rather than discuss this painful scolding you had just unloaded on me, you suddenly had to go, “bye!, you said, and hung up. You knew you’d stepped over a pretty important line. You had to control the conversation and would not allow any further discussion. undiscussed things like this fester and get infected. It’s not an admirable tactic.

You actually refused me the right to discuss this.

That’s also not fair. AT ALL.

ist2_1621082-crown-of-thornsI cannot have this. I cannot be expected to put my life aside. I can share it, but I cannot put it aside or deny myself any of what I have built for myself in favor of your wishes. I will put myself first. You gave up the right to dictate terms to me when you dropped me off at the orphanage. I have no issues with that decision and understand it and know it must have been painful and have sympathy for what you must have gone through. But I expect some consideration as well. It cannot be undone, but I am happy to make it easy to move past that. I will not go through a second childhood with you. i will not be molded into something new and form-fitting; I will not be made into a compliant, controlled half-being.

I am respectful, considerate, kind, thoughtful and empathetic.

That is a fact. It is why the people who love me do so with such abandon. It is how I treat you. Show me some of that in return.

We can have a relationship and we can be friends and I can even love you, unless you refuse to even try to learn to see things from any view other than your own, your desired outcome. That’s not fair or reciprocal. It is one-way thinking. I adhere to the Do Unto Others edict and will never allow you to feel guilty and will go to great ends to see to that. I don’t want you to feel pain or guilt.

So why are you trying to do this to me?

Is it more important to you that people think I have dropped everything and everyone I know to spend holidays with you simple because you want it? Or do you really care about my happiness? Why can’t I be happy and comfortable? Why do I have to be the ONLY one to acknowledge how the rest of your family feels about me? Denial is a band-aid and not a cure. I am big enough to understand that I am an outsdier and that my presence is not much apprecaited by all, and am not much bothered by it. You can deny it all you like, but you’d do better to try for a minute to see how it might be uncomfortable for me. I do not complain of it and I do not let it stop me from coming around. I cheerfully ignore it and am polite and considerate of your entire family, regardless. I make no mention of it to you. But I want some iota of that same empathetic consideration for myself. I do not condemn them for not accepting me and will still visit with them from time to time.

But have any of you ever considered how it must feel from my point of view, to be the perpetual outsider?

ist2_2789202-traveling-with-luggageI think not. Keep it up, and we’ll inevitably become like those other reunion stories in which the people ultimately drift apart. Because, I’ll not continue to put up with this. I will not give up my peace and happiness to play out a pipe dream. If it does not change – this expecting me to walk all the way over the line and into your expectations and demands – it will not last. I have bent, beyond nice, and empathetic, and understanding, and have met you FAR more than halfway. Don’t take advantage of that. Think of me for a minute. Stop making demands.

I have feelings. If they hurt too much, I will protect them at any cost.

I will flee. I have to live with them. I am sensitive. You are not being sensitive of the feelings in this situation which are not your own. Try to be sensitive of all feelings in this situation.

Take a cue from me.

Rants and Fancypants

December 30, 2008

ist2_1407030-blooming-dandelionI realize than ranting about relations with my bmom will possibly not endear me to bmoms out there wishing for a relationship of any sort at all with their bkids. But maybe it is useful information. Maybe it is helpful to know how it can feel as a middle-aged (btw, since we don’t know how long we are going to live, how can we know when we hit the middle of it?) person trying to delicately navigate a relationship with a stranger.

But I have no delusions of grandeur or perfection and I approach life and its inhabitants with the utmost of respect, humility and empathy, carefully examining situations from all sides of things; inside-out, outside-in, vertically and horizontally, upside down and rightside up, and perhaps I just wish for some of that from the other side. I just want to be who I am and never allow myself to be affected by the wants of another for that is not being true.

Truth is the most precious gift, to be handled with care and packed in bubble wrap at all times.  And my rant below is truthfully about the unnecessary cancer of a guilt that was imposed on me for a crime I had never, and would never, commit. No one among us should ever distort the facts as a means of alleviating other, perhaps hardly related or deeply rooted guilts, for doing so is to risk irrevocably damaging a precious relationship. I am not Ms. Righteous FancyPants. I do not judge. I merely react. I try too hard and offer too much respect to be slapped with guilt.

All that you have is your soul.

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…)

The Twenty Dollars

December 14, 2008
Cinder-fucking-rella

Cinder-fucking-rella

I have always wondered if my adoptive father would have been nicer if we were his biological children. Maybe he was just plain mean, or maybe it was that aggression men can feel toward children they did not make. Sometimes his mean behavior was inexplicably tied to nothing; most times it was tied to money. He got really angry if we ever asked for money, even as children.

My older brother, who got the same treatment as I did, asked him for money once, as he was in need and away at college (on his own dime, and not at my father’s expense) and came up short. My father said no. After that brother killed himself we got a letter from his roommate saying he had died owing him $400. My father sent the asshole a check. This made me furious. That he would find his checkbook for the asshole drug dealer to pay a supposed debt for my brother – who he would not even loan $20 to for food. My brother died at 22. My father was not in any way responsible to that asshole for the supposed debts of a legal adult. I wish I’d kept the letter from that capitalist drug dealer (my brother self-medicated his demons with drugs, I knew this; and that roommate was the dealer, he had told me as much, and more). I think I remember his name. Something like NaXX-abedian.

Knowing this weird money thing, I never asked. I had gotten my first babysitting job and worked 16 hours plus a week – every Wednesday and Friday from 3-11 and then some weekend hours. From that moment on I had to buy my own clothes, shampoo, toothpaste etc. My mother would separate my laundry out from the rest of the family and refuse to do it; I was scolded for using “their” toothpaste. That really hurt because it seemed symbolic. I would do whatever was in the laundry basket rather than separate theirs out but, no matter – she’d do a load that was only partially full, rather than throw my stuff in. I was secretly mad about this but could not express that without getting in trouble. Anger was an offense punished by anger-fueled tactics. The irony was rife.

I was 11 years old. I felt like Cinder-fucking-rella. (more…)