A Letter to my adoptive mother

Dear Mom,

You called me the other day and left a message that your friend had died. I am not sure what you wanted from me. YOUR friend was NOT my friend. I did not respect him because he did not respect me. In fact Mom, your friend, George Beele was disgusting. He spent an inordinate amount of time consumed by his desire of young women’s breasts and would talk incessantly about the size of the racks that he had seen and was fascinated by men around him who procured women with large tits and small waists. He horded pornography and left it lying around where Reese and I could find it. He tried to watch me shower and dress. Reese and I were subject to his filth at the tender ages of 12 and 10. What he did is called “covert sexual abuse”. He trained Dad to do the same to me.

After spending much time with the Beeles, Dad would make comments about my body and appearance. He would walk in on me while I was dressing and make sure that I would walk in on him when he was completely naked. It got so bad I started having nightmares about it.

I can’t talk to you about these things because your eyes go blank and you change the subject. I never understood what you were doing until I became a psychotherapist and saw it in traumatized clients that I worked with. You dissociate Mom. The context of conversations that we have causes your head to go blank and you lose your train of thought. It is a trauma response.

Dr. Serra was a psychologist who worked with me at Rutgers when I was finishing my Nursing degree. She is convinced that you were a victim of incest. Now, through finally understanding the reaction I see in your expression, I can appreciate that as well.

My question is this Mom, when do I get a chance to be free of this nightmare? You and Dad defined me as defective almost from the beginning: when I didn’t tell time as fast as Reese, when I had trouble with Math and was being beaten up at school. I wasn’t defective Mom, I was adopted. My genes were and are different, and so were my needs. Did you know that there is evidence that our bodies hold familial memories within the DNA itself? Think of it Mom! That means that I couldn’t “just get over” myself. It was hard wired so in judging me defective, you not only erroneously judged me, you also created a lifetime breaking free of that designation.

That perspective enabled you and Dad to do all kinds of unspeakable things to me. Dad could pardon the covert incestuous way that he treated me and you would forever compete with me for Dad’s attention as if I was a sexual rival. What you didn’t understand was that the more that you treated me as something other than your daughter, the more right you gave Dad to engage in covert sexual activities with me, because you intensified the lack of fatherly concern that he had for me. You and Dad were able to bond through my physical and sexual subjugation while faulting me for the confusion and anger that resulted.

 

I don’t know how to go on from here Mom…. how can I continue a relationship with you when you have never been interested in me and who I am? When you have sacrificed me over and over to hold on to the delusional way that you continue to live your life? When your biological daughter, Reese, has chosen to follow in your footsteps and is herself becoming quite mentally ill choosing to avoid the truths of her own existence?

I was the family scapegoat and for that I have to thank you. I was NEVER given the chance to avoid taboo issues but instead was made responsible for others misbehavior and mistreatment of me. I am free of those burdens because I am now able to disentangle myself from the mind fuck that constituted my development. Because I figured it out essentially by myself, I am stronger than most people and am brilliant in my line of work. I now do not have to face the emotional hardships you and Reese choose to endure. I am money poor, but find my life enriched with people who deserve me as much as I deserve them. We live as we choose and have disentangled ourselves from the poisons that “loved ones” have spewed in our direction. I hold far less fear than you do and will never be immobilized by fear again.  As a result of accepting myself,  I am NOW ready to part with ALL the things that do not serve me. Goodbye Mom!

 

 

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Phase II: School Bullying… Becoming an Outcast

I don’t mean to be a problem… but it seemed that I was. My existence, begun in such a starkly different way than other kids, in a place where “difference” breeds contempt, and tolerance is given to ONLY those who comply with being a carbon copy of the kid sitting next to them. Where was there a place for me?

The story of my adoption failed to yield comfort so my adoptive parents invested in a book, “The Chosen Baby”. The idea that I was “selected” placed a significant burden on me that I was much too young to appreciate. I had to be perfect…. That was how people became “chosen”. It was a tall order whose very words created expectations in my new family as well as it did with me. I was genetically different. My needs would be different. My adoptive family EXPECTED me to fit in as if the adoption never happened. That was a set up. One that neither my adoptive family nor I could foresee.  Differences between me and the biological daughter they birthed a year and a half after my adoption just accentuated my difference.

 

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ACT I:

It was 3rd grade when my secret got out.  The anxiety that had been created in me about my adoption spilled over and I looked for solace in ANYONE who would feign understanding. 

“Your mother never wanted you,” a blond haired classmate of mine screamed at me from across the lunchroom table, “she threw you out with the trash.”

I held back the tears.

ACT II:

“Time to line up” our teacher yelled at my classmates.

“Ewww,” several of them shouted, pushing each other away from the place behind me, “she has cooties!”

I stood silently, numbed by the insult.

ACT III:

As I approached the school grounds, a male classmate of mine walked up to me…  “We don’t want anyone like you in our school,” he told me sternly as he punched me in the stomach.

I slumped over, the breath leaving me, with tears streaming down my face.

ACT IV:

A neighbor watched as the antics took place on the playground (and did nothing to stop it). She went to my adoptive parents and let them know of the amount of bullying I was enduring…  I was sent to a psychiatrist.

“What would you do, “ I asked him as I sipped the tea he brought me, nibbled on the crackers and  commenced to draw on the blackboard in front of me, “if a little girl walked from door to door…” I drew a door and linked it with a chalk path, to another and another. “And she came to your door and asked you to take care of her because no one wanted her, would you?”

PHASE I: The Imposed Taboo of Illegitimacy… Selling babies to the Highest Bidder

I don’t mean to be a problem but….

I always felt it is interesting that our culture insists on imposing restraints on human behavior and function that seem to put us at odds  with our bodies. Our children are reaching sexual maturity earlier and earlier, yet, our society has become more and more complex, placing artificial value with currency as the means to acquire goods and services for everyday needs. Inflation and the devaluation of the dollar, along with the hording of wealth by the upper 1% has meant that it takes longer and longer to acquire the monetary stability to ensure the proper care of the next generation….

So, young girls go on the pill to limit their fertility so that they remain available for male sexual appetites without consequence. When they are caught pregnant before establishing legitimacy through marriage, both mothers and children are punished through poverty, their extended families often feeling the economic hardship and stigma along with them.

For some families, those with more assets and financial reserves, the hardship of “unwanted pregnancies” is forced squarely on the shoulders of the women who choose to carry their children to term. In my day, before the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision, that meant being sent away to birth alone in a “home for unwed mothers”. That is where my life began…

In December of 1960, my mother became pregnant.  My father was in his junior at West Point and my mother was a pre-med student at Albright College in Reading, Pennsylvania. My maternal grandfather was Superintendent of Reading schools and had been appointed by the Kennedy administration to help in the implementation of Special Education services across the country. My mother’s condition was not welcomed. She was sent away in shame, as many young women were at that time, to give birth in secret at the Florence Crittenton home for unwed mothers in Wilmington, Delaware. There she was kept on a strict diet, her belly swelling with a white baby that ultimately would receive top dollar for the Lutheran Children’s Services.

Shortly after reuniting with her at the age of 20, my biological mother relayed to me this story… “The girls would often sneak out to the local convenience store to buy candy and treats.” She took a breath as if the very utterance sucked the air out of her lungs. “One day I was coming out of the store when two little boys glanced my way, laughed and then spit on me,” the tears began welling up in her eyes. As she continued her voice broke with the effort to hold back the rage of emotion trying to release from the back of her throat, “There I was, a pre-med student with a 150 IQ.” Again there was a long inhalation, as if breathing itself had become painful. “They spit on me… because I was pregnant.” The tears began to flow freely.

My birthmother breast fed me the first three days of my life and then handed me over to a social worker who placed me in my adoptive parents’ home two days later.

The panic attacks started when I was about a year and a half and were triggered by the story of my adoption. Somewhere in my body I knew I had suffered a significant loss; her voice, her smell, and the taste of breast milk. All of that knowledge had been imprinted on my body. There were no words at that time because the information was received in a pre-verbal state…. The violent temper tantrums I began having, writhing in agony, were met with beatings. The foundation needed to misunderstand and misjudge who I was and who I could be had already begun!!!