Life is a snowglobe

Posted December 21, 2008 by caramelgalore
Categories: Being adopted, Life is a Kilgore Trout 'novel', Who am I?

Tags:

whitelightsSo it has been a whiteout for days. I am trapped in with a toothache from an emergency root canal without Novocaine. Did you know that if you have an infection they don’t give you Novocaine because it is rendered ineffectual from the infection? It was excruciating and I lived through it and so I am proud of myself. And, having written that, my childhood parallelemeter is ringing off the hook.

I mostly got through my childhood by pretending a lot and inventing things. Sometimes I would invent words, while sitting in my foamy bathtub office, and I’d call up the President of Words and tell him that I had a new one for him. I am reminded of this because last night I had a dream that I was working for the government – which wasn’t much like any existing government, but was a Utopian ideal – and my job was to explain things, in words. My first assignment was to explain how this one, single, 12 foot leap that had recently been made by a Ballerina on a stage, had catapulted her from relative obscurity to world fame and adoration and had thus caused a positive shift in world collective thought, much in keeping with the Butterfly Effect which theorizes, “If a butterfly flaps its wings in Thailand, it causes a Tsunami on the other side of the planet.”

And so I was really struggling to get this into words, to really explain so that everyone would get it, how this leap had made the planet a slightly better place, as the result of this Butterfly Effect. I toiled away but then the phone rang and they had a quick emergency assignment for me which was to explain something traumatic that had happened and the President needed to explain it to the people. So I put on some sort of mask to tackle this job and managed to finish it without getting any bacteria or infection from it and then could take off my mask and go back to the other assignment. And the words that came were like little packages with bows. And when I finished I knew I had accomplished my mission.

I think this is because I struggled so much as a child, and well into adulthood, to get my adopted family to understand me, to hear me, and to realize that, though I was not what they wanted and was not inclined to jump the societal hurdles to earn them the only sort of bragging rights they craved (marriage, children, big house, important job), that I was actually very special in my own way. And I have earned them some bragging rights in high profile ways that make other sorts of people very proud of me. But they could never see that.

And before I woke up from my dream, the President called me into a meeting and said, “I think you should examine why you connect all of your sentences by beginning them with the word “and”. It is ok to let one sentence end and another begin. You do not need that grammatical crutch, or, bridge perhaps. You can take that leap, if you will just try. And perhaps you do not need to always say perhaps. You know the truth and it is a certainty; it is not a perhaps. People will believe you. We have faith in you. Let go of the past.”

And in that space between sleeping and waking I had this feeling of my world being shaken up and all the emotional and psychological ephemera flying loose, as so much fake snow in a snow globe.

Advertisements

Polling, unsuccessful. Life, not yet determined.

Posted December 18, 2008 by caramelgalore
Categories: Polls, WTF

I would like to take a minute to thank me for participating in my poll. Eleven times. I have won a small Buddha figurine and a special letter of commemoration signed by Me.

For my next trick I am going to make a secret post and see if anyone can figure it out.

Do you have time for a poll?

Posted December 17, 2008 by caramelgalore
Categories: Polls

mask01Today with my therapist we talked about poll-taking. It’s a long and roundabout story but I’ll cut to the chase, which is so not like me. WordPress has this poll app which will let me do one question polls. Your answers do not need a name and will record no identifying data such as an IP address. And hell, who am I to spill anyone’s beans? Am I not laying bare my deepest darkest pains and neuroses here?  ;-)

If it works, and I get a few responses, I might make other polls. I am just curious about emographics (just made up that word and it’s the first invented word all day so I am awfully proud of it) of adoptees. If any of you birth moms have questions and send them to me, I’ll make that poll too. As soon as you finish the poll it will display the findings to date. Won’t this be fun? It’ll be like we are interacting with each other! If you want you can hold my imaginary hand and I will hum Kumbaya with you. Or I will not, as you wish.

This all came about because earlier a friend brought me this insanely delicious mint chocolate cheesecake with a present inside (the container, not the confection) which is a little Buddha. And, I bought a winning lottery ticket today and am going to bring all my friends to someplace exotic for the rest of winter, and can now afford all the italics I need. If it turns out to be true.

Here goes, (takes deep breath, thus realizing the need to brush teeth) Click to go to the Pollbooth: Read the rest of this post »

The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly

Posted December 16, 2008 by caramelgalore
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

Tags: , , , ,

ist2_5417047-in-the-shadowWARNING: THIS GETS REALLY UGLY AS IT GOES ON. PROCEED WITH THIS IN MIND.

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. Read the rest of this post »

Little Miss No Name

Posted December 14, 2008 by caramelgalore
Categories: adopted family relations, Adoptee control Issues, Aggression toward adopted children, Emotional Abuse, Punishment for being adopted, The Unpayable Gratitude Fee for being adopted, Who am I?

Tags: , ,
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. Read the rest of this post »

The Twenty Dollars

Posted December 14, 2008 by caramelgalore
Categories: A shaky family support system, adopted family relations, Aggression toward adopted children, Being adopted, Emotional Abuse, Punishment for being adopted, The Unpayable Gratitude Fee for being adopted, What did I do wrong?

Tags: , , , ,
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. Read the rest of this post »

You Are Different and That’s Bad

Posted December 12, 2008 by caramelgalore
Categories: adopted family relations, conflicted feelings, Laughter is a better self-medication than drinking, Sometimes humor works

Tags: , ,
How to make Daddy Care

How to make Daddy Care

Sick humor for bad kids:

Bad, Bad Children’s Books

“Kathy Was So Bad Her Mom Stopped Loving Her.”

WHO: Unknown to me
WHAT: A list of Kid’s Books That Didn’t Make It
ARE THERE MORE? YES:

hey kids! Adoption is hilarious and you’re it! Helpful kids’ book titles to understand  why you are different and how to get attention anyway.

  1. You Are Different and That’s Bad
  2. The Boy Who Died From Eating All His Vegetables
  3. Dad’s New Wife Robert
  4. Fun Four-Letter Words to Know and Share
  5. Hammers, Screwdrivers and Scissors: An I-Can-Do-It Book
  6. The Kids’ Guide to Hitchhiking
  7. Curious George and the High-Voltage Fence
  8. All Cats Go to Hell
  9. The Little Sissy Who Snitched
  10. Some Puppies Can Fly
  11. That’s it, I’m Putting You Up for Adoption
  12. Grandpa Gets a Casket
  13. The Magic World Inside the Abandoned Refrigerator
  14. Garfield Gets Feline Leukemia
  15. The Pop-Up Book of Human Anatomy
  16. Strangers Have the Best Candy
  17. Whining, Kicking and Crying to Get Your Way
  18. You Were an Accident
  19. Things Rich Kids Have, But You Never Will
  20. Pop! Goes The Hamster…And Other Great Microwave Games
  21. The Man in the Moon Is Actually Satan
  22. Your Nightmares Are Real
  23. Where Would You Like to Be Buried?
  24. Eggs, Toilet Paper, and Your School
  25. Why Can’t Mr. Fork and Ms. Electrical Outlet Be Friends?
  26. Places Where Mommy and Daddy Hide Neat Things
  27. Daddy Drinks Because You Cry