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!

 

 

Phase III: The Maturation of Girls: The Cultural Grooming of Sex Objects

ACT I:

It was the worst time of my visit with my adoptive grandparents; the time to say “good-bye”. My grandfather would “catch” my sister and myself in his legs and then draw us to him demanding a hug and a kiss. It felt creepy to me. The more creped out I was the more glee appeared on his face.

“What is wrong with you” I would hear from the numerous family onlookers, “kiss your grandfather goodbye. We are not leaving until you do.”

Horrified, I relented and he would draw me to his body pressing it against his. I could smell his body odor, and quickened breath as he pulled my head towards his mouth.  Then he would lick my face…

“No boyfriend will ever kiss you as good as that,” he would coo in my ear.

Despite the fact I was mortified and confused; the family would laugh it off…

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ACT II

I remember running downstairs… “The boys across the street are watching me dress,” I frantically told my adoptive mother.

“Boys will be boys” she responded.

ACT III

There was one “family friend” who sickened me the way my grandfather did. He would often leave pornographic magazines around for my sister and I to find. He made sexual comments about women’s bodies in our presence in a manner that suggested his vivid sexual fantasies of women other than his wife.

“You know,” he told my father one day in my presence, “that making love to your wife is like taking a walk in your own backyard?” A very repulsed look took shape on his face.

One day when we were visiting his shore home, I began being aware of his interest in attempting to watch me shower outside from the upstairs balcony.

I began being afraid to go to my parents when they called me and he and his wife were visiting. They  often would come to get together for dinner and drinks. I would be in my nightgown and robe.

“Amy…. Can you please come and say goodnight?”

“Not tonight Mom,” I would plead.

“Get down here and be civil to our friends,” she would call back up at me.

I would walk downstairs holding the nightgown close to my legs.

“Give me a kiss.”

I would lean over and inevitably the nightgown would bellow out just enough to give glimpse to my developing chest. My face would get beet red as I watched HIM strain to look down my nightgown.

ACT IV: Covert Incest

My adoptive father began keeping a stash of his own pornography. He started watching starlets who used their sexuality to titillate men. One night, he, my mother and I sat as Raquel Welch jiggled around the stage.

“Why can’t you be built like that?” he asked my mother.

I became indignant. “Why would you let him talk to you like that,” I asked her.

“He chose me didn’t he?”

“But he is fantasizing about someone else?! How can you feel good when clearly you are just not good enough?”

She said nothing.

My father enjoyed my discomfort and began making more and more sexual comments about me… “You will have plenty of boyfriends, you are pretty enough. You just don’t have much of a body.”

He started walking in on me while I was dressing and would not respond when I knocked on his door and he was undressed. It got so bad; I started having nightmares about it.

THE EPILOGUE: Understanding GROOMING 101

I was made to feel ashamed of my desire to say “NO” and was very clearly forced to titillate the fantasies of men!!!

Only one professional made the connection many years after the fact…“I don’t understand,” I told her, “WHY didn’t anyone protect me?”

“I think your adoptive mother was a victim of incest,” she told me matter-of-factly.