mother

All posts tagged mother

Another Dead Mother

Published May 17, 2017 by maryleesdream

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAMy co worker’s mother died a few days ago.  Some of us from work went to the wake.  Jill’s mother looked beautiful, laid out in the casket, in a smart red suit.  Her beloved Jelly beans and a deck of cards were tucked in beside her.

Jill’s mother was 95 when she died, in Jill’s house, where they had been living together for years.  Jill was by her side when she passed.  Jill’s daughter was there too.  It was a “good death”, if such a thing can be good.

Of course, seeing Jill and her mother brought back a lot of feelings about my own mother’s death.

I was there near the end, with Mom, but not at the end.  Mom was in hospice.  I was not really a welcome visitor in my mother’s room.  I did not go to Mom’s memorial service.  I did not view her body.  She was cremated immediately.  I longed for one last look, but it was not to be.

I had no choices regarding Mom’s care, her service or her remains.  I am her firstborn, and natural next of kin, but adoption erased all that.  I was merely an unwelcome stranger.

Someday I may bury my adoptive mother.  I’ll be the next of kin.  As an only child, I’ll make all the decisions.  But, she is not my mother.  My mother is dead.

The Shunning

Published January 2, 2017 by maryleesdream

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I had some trouble sleeping tonight, so I decided to come downstairs and write a little.  It always happens at night.  The thoughts get to be too much.  I still don’t know how to quiet them.

I think of my mother’s death.  The way it happened.  The way I was treated.  My mother died, and I had to mourn alone.  I did not attend my mother’s memorial service.  She has not been buried, to my knowledge, so I have nowhere to go and pay my respects.

My eldest daughter read something that said Christians must be buried, so that other Christians can visit the graves.  This is something else that’s been taken from me, against my will.

My Mother Has Died

grave

I also think about the Shunning.  My father’s family has shunned me.  I found out a few months ago, from a younger cousin.  I had always hoped that my cousins would not hold the same views regarding infant adoption as the older generation.  I had hoped that they would not be ruled by shame, as much as their parents were.  I was wrong.  This young woman told me that I deserved the shunning, for reasons she was not sure of, but she was sure that they were justified.

It’s interesting how each side of my family reacts differently to me.  My mother’s family was not traditional.  There are many half siblings, and non-traditional family structures.  This side has been more accepting of me.  My father’s family is very traditional, considered a model family by some, and they shun completely.  Not one family member will break the ban.

I did some research into the psychology of shunning.

Shunning

It’s a cruel form of psychological torture.

My fathers family is a cruel family.  They support and approve of my abandonment as a helpless infant, and have shunned me.

Social rejection occurs when a person or group deliberately avoids association with, and habitually keeps away from an individual or group. This can be a formal decision by a group, or a less formal group action which will spread to all members of the group as a form of solidarity. It is a sanction against association, often associated with religious groups and other tightly knit organizations and communities. Targets of shunning can include persons who have been labeled as apostates, whistleblowers, dissidents, strikebreakers, or anyone the group perceives as a threat or source of conflict. Social rejection has been established to cause psychological damage and has been categorized as torture[1] or punishment.[2] Mental rejection is a more individual action, where a person subconsciously or willfully ignores an idea, or a set of information related to a particular viewpoint. Some groups are made up of people who shun the same ideas.[3

Shunning causes pain to the shunned, as it is supposed to:

Shunning is often used as a pejorative term to describe any organizationally mandated disassociation, and has acquired a connotation of abuse and relational aggression. This is due to the sometimes extreme damage caused by its disruption to normal relationships between individuals, such as friendships and family relations. Disruption of established relationships certainly causes pain, which is at least an unintended consequence of the practices described here, though it may also in many cases be an intended, coercive consequence. This pain, especially when seen as unjustly inflicted, can have secondary general psychological effects on self-worth and self-confidence, trust and trustworthiness, and can, as with other types of trauma, impair psychological function.

Why so much pain and injustice in my life?  Sometimes I joke that I must have done something awful in a previous life, but it’s really not very funny.

I wake at night, and all this runs through my mind, and I can’t stop it.  I think about my mother, how much I loved her, how she betrayed me.  I have not seen nor spoken to my brother since he kicked me out of hospice.

At my job, when someone’s parent dies, they post an obituary on the company website.  When my mother died, they did not, because in society’s eyes, she was not my mother.  She was not my mother.  She was not my mother.  That makes no sense.  Why is it only in adoption that the woman who gives birth to you is not your mother?

victum

Shunning and victim blaming happen a lot in Adoptionland.  How did something that’s supposed to be for the good of a child, turn into the hell that I’m living in?

The Trouble With Christmas

Published December 8, 2016 by maryleesdream

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It’s almost here, again.  Christmas.  The most dreaded time of the year.

Another year of nothing from my natural family.  Another year of dealing with Ramona.  I shouldn’t complain.  I’ve been told by many people that my mother is the one who raised me.  I wonder why I just can’t go along with the script and believe it.

I can’t stand Ramona.  I never could.  The worst part is, she lives with me, and I don’t know how to get away.

Some background:  My adoptive father died in 1990. I am an only adopted child. Ramona was much too sickly to ever adopt again.   Ramona owned an apartment, and lived alone.  She never drove a car and was dependent on A dad for all her transportation.  In 1997, I gave birth to my 4th child.  My dear husband did not have a high paying job, and we were struggling.  Our house was in desperate need of repairs, the taxes were overdue, you get the picture.

Ramona sold her place and moved in with us.  I was reluctant, but my husband said, “keep your eye on the prize”.  I wanted my children to grow up in a nice house, so I gave in.  Ramona invested the money in the house, and we added an apartment for her,  more bedrooms and a bigger kitchen.  The house is great.

Cut to 20 years later.  My kids are grown, but three of them still live at home.  Ramona is still here.  In fact she’s hovering over me right now.  I took the day off from work, and promised to take her to the store, so she’s checking to see what time I’m going.  Once she starts a conversation, it’s very hard to stop her.  She asks question after question, until you want to tear your hair out.

She is 87 now, and in good health.  I wish for her death everyday.  My heart sinks when I hear the noises she makes when she gets up in the morning, because I know she lived through the night.  Once she did not answers her phone, and I hoped for the worst, but she was alive.  I feel like a monster.

She drives my daughters and husband crazy too.  This morning I had to lead her out of the kitchen where my 29 year old daughter was making herself breakfast before heading out for the day.  She just hovered, asking question after question, about Christmas gifts for her sister.  I felt bad for DD, so I stepped in and took Ramona out.

Giving Christmas gifts is very important to Ramona.  It’s one of the ways she earns her place.  She pays rent, and buys some groceries also.  We could live without her rent, but I can’t kick her out.  She has no place else to go.  We could sell the house, and move, but it would be expensive to find a place big enough for me and my family.  If my girls ever move out, I would love to get a smaller place with just me and my husband.  I wish Ramona would die already!

I left home at 19, because I could not stand Ramona, but I ended up back with her.  Between this,  my natural mother’s death, and my father’s family shunning me, my heart is in tatters.

I  shouldn’t complain……

Trying to Understand

Published October 15, 2016 by maryleesdream

family-blessing

 

 

Ever since I found my family, I’ve been trying to get back into the family.

 

I have failed.  I’m not actively trying right now, but I think about it everyday.  I try and figure out how to do it.  How to make their minds and hearts open, and allow me inside.

It has happened with a few kinsmen.  Three have welcomed me with open arms, flaws and all.  They understand the pain and anger, sympathize and know they are not responsible for causing or fixing  it. They know it’s part of me, and are willing to take me on anyway.  It’s a wonderful blessing.

I don’t use blessing in the religious sense, as I do not believe in a god who rules the world.  A blessing, a mitzvah, a good thing in the universe.

 

They are on my mothers side, only.  The wild side. My fathers family says Mom’s family was terrible.  Things too horrible to even talk about. It’s all true.

 

But somehow, my good, good father, from his good, good family managed to get together with this bad, bad family, and create me.

 

I think if I could only get them to understand, that I’m just normal, not a sick person who is out to get them.  But the more you try, the more like a sick psycho you appear, so its better to back off.

They say that I show, by my actions, that I don’t want to be part of the family.  I guess I do, but it’s really a defense mechanism.  I want to be loved so bad, but I have to seem cold and hard, so they can’t see how their rejection hurts.  It comes off looking cold.

My family actually had some sort of sit down, or at least phone chain or something, where they all decided to cut all contact with me.  This is my father’s family, the good guys.  Pillars of the community, grand marshals in the town parade, all around good, nay, great citizans.  This is what they have decided is best, for dealing with me.  Best for them, mostly.  Best for me, definitely not.

I send baby gifts to my cousins, when they have children.  I want them to know that babies are wonderful things, and to think about me, and love me despite what happened to me.  But I never know if the gifts are received, and they probably think I’m crazy for sending them.

Imagine being shunned by your kin! And for what?

If there’s anyone out there who reads this, what do you think I should do?  I love sending baby gifts.  I’m so happy to know who my family is, even from afar.  I can’t forget about them and go on with my life.  I do go on with  my life, all the time.  How does one not? I get up everyday, just like everyone else.  I have a job, and live in a big house with 5 other people.  I cook dinner and pay the bills and run a busy house,and work full time.  I do a decent job at both.  I’ve seen a few therapists, but they haven’t been able to help me.  I think it’s because there is nothing wrong with me, I just feel a certain way about things, and that’s it.  There is no evidence of mental illness.

Should I  just disappear, completely and leave these good people in peace, or continue to send gifts, and leave flowers on my grandparents graves from time to time, to let them know I’m still out here, trying to connect?

I think I know the answer, disappear.  Stop beating a dead horse.  They will never, ever accept you, no matter who you are.  They cannot admit that they may have been wrong.  It’s against family law.  I am outside of family law.  It does not matter how I feel about it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Thing About Blogs

Published September 14, 2016 by maryleesdream

 

BLOG on speech bubble price labels

 

Well, I made a big boo boo.  I showed my blog to a bio family member.  It did not go well.  All they saw was anger and hatred, on my part.  Nothing at all of the pain that I’ve gone through.  They told me, repeatedly that I was harboring hatred, and that I hated my entire bio family.  I do not.  I don’t even know my entire bio family! ( that’s a joke)  I do know that they haven’t lived up to my expectations, but then again, I haven’t lived up to theirs either.

ISA, Infant Stranger Adoption changes everything about a family.  It removes a child, like surgery, and the wound that removal causes heals.  Scar tissue forms.  Life goes on.  When that person finds their family, no one knows what to do. There is fear, a lot of fear, on both sides.  Here are my mother, father, brothers sisters, aunts Uncles and cousins. but they are all strangers.  And I’m a stranger to them.

I wanted them to treat me as if I had been kidnapped, and finally found alive.  I wanted them to fuss over me, show me off, invite me over.

But, with ISA, there is also shame.  A kidnap is not voluntary, ISA is.  My parents made a decision to give me to strangers.  It was not random.  I was not taken.  There is guilt involved.

When I blog, there is usually a reason, a trigger.  I don’t do it that often.  The trigger is usually negative, something that made me feel hurt, and I use my blog as a way to get over it, to get it out of my system.  So, most of my blog posts are angry, or hurt, or mostly both.

That does not mean that I am angry all the time.  I’m just not.  I actually have a real life, full of good things.  I guess if you read my blog, that may not show.  My blog was written over years, but reading it all at once may be overwhelming, especially to someone who has lived a happy life.

Letting my family read it was a very bad idea.  They think I’m bad enough already.

 

 

 

Good vs Evil

Published September 7, 2016 by maryleesdream

goodvsevil

 

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what makes a person good, or bad.

No one is all good, or all bad.  I think it’s a matter of perception.

I have been communicating with a paternal cousin, only through Facebook.  We have never met in person.  She is a few years younger than me, and grew up surrounded by our extended family.  I was touched when she said that she was sorry about what happened to me.  No one in my father’s family has ever expressed any remorse about my being given away.

I told her that I thought my father was a bad guy, and she assured me that her Uncle was not a bad guy.  He just made mistakes, and she was not going to judge him based on that.

That’s fair enough, but it’s a little different for me.  I am one of the mistakes that he made, and his choices affected my life in every way.  To me, he is the very essence of evil.  An entitled man, who liked to stick his dick in women (and sometimes children, if you count 14 yr old girls)  with no care at all for what his actions produced.  He left dead and abandoned children  in his horny wake.  He gave me the same amount of care that he would a tissue that he jizzed in.  Just throw it away, and don’t think about it any more.

I also shared that my father’s family does not speak to me, and my cousin told me that there had to be a good reason, because they were good people also, who would never turn on someone for no reason.

Maybe she’s right about that too.  Maybe they are good people, and I did something wrong.  I’m not the most diplomatic person in the world, after all.  I definitely said things that were very hard to hear, but what did I really, ever do to anyone, besides being born at the wrong time, to the wrong woman?

adoption

Where she sees good, loving family, I see cold unforgiving strangers.  We are blood  but I am different because my father put me outside of the family, and his blood is better than mine.

It’s all a matter of perception.

If my father is a good man, who made some mistakes as a callow youth, why does he still shun me and his grandchildren? Why doesn’t he try and atone for his mistakes?  Are these the actions of a good man?

Why didn’t he say anything to me when my mother died?  Does anyone know how much that good man, and his good family has hurt me?

If they are such good people, why can’t I see it?  Why are they hiding their goodness from me?  They seem to love each other, why don’t they love me, their cousin, their niece, their daughter?

Maybe it’s me who is the bad person, unable to forgive and forget.  Maybe that’s why I deserve this.

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Busy Day

Published August 27, 2016 by maryleesdream

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Big day today!

Oldest daughter turns 29 today.  She was born at 2:30 in the morning, after a quick and intense labor, only 20 months after her big brother.  He was the first relative I had ever met, and she was the second, and the first female.  When they laid her in my arms, we looked into each others eyes and I thought, “this one is like me”.  A girl.  She will feel what I feel, think like I think.  And it’s been true.  A link connecting me and my then unknown mother.  A link connecting me to all the women in my family, from the beginning of time.  Women, giving birth, just like me. Happy Birthday, baby girl!

My youngest is going back to college today.  My 4th and last child.  Last night we visited the Birthday girl at work.  She works at an outdoor bar in a fancy hotel.  It just so happens to be the last place Birthday girl saw her grandmother, my mother.

Going there brought up lots of memories of Mom.  Unfortunately, there are not many good ones.  That evening was tense.  Mom was always wired up when we were together.  Her discomfort was obvious.  She tried to hide it, but I could always tell. I’ll never know exactly what she was feeling.  I don’t know if she was framing me at this point.  We had a few drinks and I drove her to the train station.  I gave her money for the train ticket and she sent me $10 in the mail a few days later.  I was mad.  I didn’t want her $10.  She was my mother, and I had no problem paying for her train ticket.  Oh well. Birthday girl never saw her grandmother again.

I was thinking of Moms apartment in the city.  I’d never seen a place quite like it.  It was a studio, a small kitchen and a bed/sitting room.  It was cluttered, but pretty orderly.  Her strange artwork was all over the walls.  I guess you call them collages.  Pictures, or objects pasted onto different things.  She had bloody Kewpie dolls on a full length mirror, with wedding pictures and other things.  This was called, “The Happiest Day of My Life”.  It was about me, and her relationship with my father.  It was disturbing and terrifying.  There was also one with a bunch of rubber dildos, with penis rings in them. I don’t know what that was called.

Her bathroom door was covered with pictures.  I’m not sure what they were.  I did not like her art.  It was too scary, and IMHO, not very good.  I know it was her way of expressing herself, like writing is mine.

My brother has all of her artwork.  I don’t want any.  Anything she gave me, I either gave back, or if it scared me, I burned it.

 

This is something she gave me for my birthday.  Its photos of us, and my father.  It scared the pants off me, but I pretended that I liked it.  I hung it in my bedroom for awhile, but it creeped me out.  I turned it over and saw faint black marker on the back.  I peeled off a sheet of paper that was glued on, and she had written “dead babies in Potter’s field” and, “fucking fairy princess”.  I burned this one after that.  Later I read on her Facebook page that she called this piece, “watch your mouth”.  She never told me that.

When she gave it to me, I was in her apartment.  She pulled it out from under her bed, and spoke in a strange baby voice that she used sometimes.  Maybe it was one of her multiple personalities.  My heart was pounding, and I wanted to run out of there, but I stayed, and acted like this was a normal gift.

Ah, memories!