Champagne and Tears

FINAL POST

2008-09-17T21:52:00.000-07:00

Ummm.

My mother has been reading my blog. I just found this out tonight.

Purely by coincidence, I temporarily closed shop here because I have been trying to figure out what to do with this place. Well, now I have my answer! Thanks Mom!

T'was bound to happen, but at the same time it was unexpected.

Forgive me, I am a little lost for words.

In my heart of hearts, I hope my mother can see beyond my pain and anger. I don't want to hope. Hope has crushed me so often.

Mother, did you cry reading about our reunion story? Did you remember those good times, those early times, those times I can't seem to forget?

As high as the sky, as deep as the ocean, as far as I can see, and with all my heart

I don't want you to be 90 and me to be 70 and we are still fighting about adoption.

How could you read my words and not call me?

How could you not see me here?

I always thought, you know, if we could just talk it all out, with you listening without fighting and getting defensive, I always thought that if you gave me a chance you would see me.

Well, this was/is your chance! It's all here! You read, you saw, you never called.

I've never in my life told you that I never wanted to see you again. I've never in my life denied that you are my mother. I don't know what else to say. It was all here!

This blog is now a carcas.

This is sad to me, but it is also OK.

Mother does the truth hurt? I know that it does. I've lived with it every day. Your guilt has killed us. You could not reach your guilt, instead you denied it. Instead you lived in a fantasyland that makes it A-OK to abandon your child. Is that all you know? Parenting is for life, did you miss that memo?

23 years! What a fucking mess!

How was your birthday?

You saw the pics of my new place, what do you think? Not too shabby, eh?

I hope you have read the blogs on my links. I hope you have learned something.

I'm rambling now, in a speechless sort of way.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

To my blogging friends. Thank you. Thank you a million times for the support. Thank you for reading, and checking on me. I know I am a sucky blogger. Thank you Rhonda for my award. Thank you ATM for introducing me to blogging. Thank you Joy for being so fabulous, I love your style. Thank you Theresa for being the bomb, you rock a million times, you are too good for words. Thanks to all the mothers for sharing your stories. I still miss Nicole's blog.

There are too many people to thank. I can't name them all.

You know where to find me.

I'm not going anywhere, but this blog is done.

Bye blog.

I have to go, sooner than I expected. I hate Good-byes.

This feels like a really shitty ending, I'm sorry.

I can't stand the sight...

2008-09-07T02:54:00.000-07:00

of pregnant women.

Last night out for dinner, a pregnant woman was next to me and I had to avert my eyes. I have a very weak stomach, and when I see a pregnant women I nearly want to upchuck.

I know that will offend people, but that is not my intent. I'm just being honest.

I used to think, well it's because they are fat. But, no, obese people do not offend me. Sometimes it is hard for me to dig deeper. I hate being in pain. I do not relish in pain.

The reason why I can't stand the sight of pregnant women is because it is very triggering. I just assume the mother to be is keeping her child, whereas I was tossed out with the trash. Why couldn't I have a mother who kept me?

And I think back to when my mother was pregnant with me, I swear I have those memories in my cells, and I imagine she was shame faced. I imagine her hate for me grew with each passing day, as her belly swelled. I imagine she cursed when she could not fit into her favorite jeans. I imagine she just wanted to get it all over with, so she could be free of me.

I have no joyous birth story. My mother can't even remember the time I was born.

The pain starts in my eyes, they sting without even crying, moves down through my throat nearly suffocating me, into my stomach, tightening and crushing me, like my own pain wants to kill me.

Is that my mother reaching back in time trying to snuff me out?

Where do I get my will to live?

I do not know.

A Dad would have been nice

2008-08-29T19:47:00.000-07:00

Growing up I didn't think much about my father. Or maybe I didn't allow myself to think of him.

Thinking about my "real mother" was painful enough. I would dream about being 18 and finding her. I thought it would take years. But I knew that I would search the globe if I had to. I couldn't think about not finding her. It was far too painful.

I never thought about grand-parents either. Or cousins or aunts or uncles.

I did think about siblings. I thought, could this boy I'm kissing be my brother?? Um, barf.

When my parents found me, it was like I was hit by lightening or something. I never imagined them finding me. Or rather I never imagined my mother finding me.

But when they did, all I really wanted was my Mommy. I was 15 but I was an infant. I felt silly for that, but now of course it makes sense.

From all the reading I've done it seems we all go back to that infant stage. We want a do over. I don't mean to generalize, but this is what I've seen. This is what happened to me.

In normal child development the infant turns into a toddler who turns into someone who wants her Daddy too.

I had very delayed development here.

By the time I would have wanted my Daddy, my mother and I were in an all out war with eachother. I wanted my Mommy, but Mommy hurt me, and she wasn't sorry, and she would do it again, and she kept lying to me, and she kept abandoning me, and she kept verbally abusing me, so hence the severely delayed development of wanting Daddy.

That first year, Dad would come home for the weekends. He was a Very Important Executive, so he had to travel all during the week.

Those first few months, Dad would bound into the house happy and excited to see me, to see us, and yet all I still wanted was my crazy mother. He was mostly kind, but my mother was so abusive, that I didn't notice his kindness.

On Saturday mornings he would make me, us, scrambled eggs and they were the best scrambled eggs ever. That didn't last long, however, because at some point my mother decided I didn't deserve it.

For years I painted my father as the nice guy, the man who just couldn't handle his wife. Who couldn't stand up to her. Who couldn't stand up FOR me.

And I mostly kept these thoughts to myself, because it was too painful otherwise. I had to tell myself that I had one decent parent for my sanity.

I eventually came to the realization, in my 30's, that my father isn't really such a nice guy after all and I had to tell him that his gig is up. He is not a man, no matter what his golf buddies or his stock broker think.

I emailed him a heartfelt letter last year, in one last ditch attempt to see if my father had any kind of Dad in him. He didn't.

All evidence suggests that if he never saw me nor my brother again, it wouldn't be cause any concern. My brother and I do nothing to enhance his net worth.

But driving home from work today, I felt stabbed. I live in a stunning neighborhood these days, and a Dad and his young daughter had set up a vegetable stand along side of the road, with a big sign that said, "Dad and Daughter's farm fresh veggies."

This silly thing made me cry.

It would have been nice to have a Dad.

My new home

2008-08-18T00:04:00.000-07:00

Hot Date Tonight

2008-08-10T16:51:00.000-07:00

I've only lived here three weeks now, and I've already met a hot guy!

I was at a local wine store last weekend, and he seemed impressed with my selection of French wines, and I was impressed with his gorgeousness. Not sure how old he is, maybe 30 if a day. I didn't ask because then he would ask my age, and that might scare him.

Mmmmm younger men.

Added bonus: he's from Europe! He's got this sexy Dutch accent.

He's been to Paris a zillion times.

Tonight I hope to find out what the heck he is doing here.

If you don't see me around much, you will know why.

Oh happy days...

Didn't finish...

2008-08-03T02:50:00.000-07:00

OMG I love my new place! Have I mentioned how much I love this place? Have I mentioned how fantabulous it is? So far I've had two parties and they were rockin'.

I freakin' LOVE Whole Foods! OMG how did I live so long without Whole Foods???

I won't tell you about all the freakin' fabulous food I've had because unless you live in a Foodie city like Paris, or NYC, or San Fran you will be very jellus.

But I didn't finish.

I didn't finish my expedition of 15 years worth of my life stuffed into a studio apartment. Almost! I pulled several all nighters, but hey a girl's gotta have a life ya know?

So this week, in between food orgies, I have PROMISED myself that I WILL organize, de-clutter, and clean up one drawer every day. Just one, and eventually I will be done, right? Right. ( As an aside, they say that the worst broken promises are the ones to yourself, and I subscribe to that principle. Thusly I make very few promises to myself.)

So I've been good on my promise all this week. Even tonight when all I really wanted to do was watch Leo's pre-Titanic stardom movie "Total Eclipse" or some other of my soft gay porn because I met this Euro Hottie today while at the booze store and well...

Ok so no Leo tonight, but I found some interesting stuff.

I found a card, unsent, to my dear Grand-father who died in 1999. I don't know why I didn't send it? God, how awful was I. All I could (still) think about back then was Mommymommymommymommymommyiwantmymommy when I should have been move loving to my Grandpa. I wasn't a bad grand-daughter but I could have appreciated him more.

The card is sitting next to a picture of him and I on the mantel (I have a mantel?)above which sits Grandpa's oil painting he willed to me.

But I also found something that hit me. Something horrible. Something that might have flattened another woman, but hey not me. What is being raped compared to adoption? LOLOLOL

So this was written in 1994/95.

It was late August
That fateful day
Two friends out to have some fun
Before the Fall semester had begun

Who could have known
How the night would end
Nothing bad can happen
When you are with friends

That's what I thought
When I went out that night
Only later I would have
To fight for my life

I keep thinking about
What could I have done?
I keep asking myself
When could I have run?

Bad judgement was my only crime
It shouldn't be me who is doing the time
But here I am locked indoors
Because I don't go out anymore

And every morning I see the sores
On my neck, and under my eyes
Will there come a day?
When will it end?
Will there come a time
When my soul can mend?

--------------------------------------

And then another card. This one to my Mother. No clue when I bought it, but guessing it is over 10 years old. Should I send it? Hmmmm

I mean I could say hey I realize this is over 10 years late, but gee Ma remember when you were once 15 years late?

Thank you protesters!!!

2008-07-25T04:03:00.000-07:00

Thank you, thank you for being there when I couldn't be there.

Thank you Kali, Michelle, Joy, Dory, Amy, Stewie and about 55 others who marched and protested in the heat of New Orleans, to speak for me and millions of adoptees.

You did a wonderful job! You gave it your heart and soul, and I'm proud of all of you.

See ya next year in Philly!

http://adopteerights.net/nulliusfilius/?p=245

Happy but still

2008-07-24T02:37:00.000-07:00

I'm lovin' my new place. But I hate unpacking. I've got a lot more room, I even have a storage closet for my crap I didn't throw out!

I had seven friends who helped me move. Seven! I've read that if you have three good friends that you can count on, you should be thankful. And I am. After all my stuff was moved in, we sat around drinking and eating, and I thought these people are my family. These are people who I can count on. These are people who accept me as I am. I can laugh, or cry, or be bitchy, and they still love me. On occasion they have even listened to me rant about adoption without batting an eye. Not that they get it, of course they don't.

One friend mentioned that my apartment was like one she had dreamed about. Wow. Yeah it is pretty nice. I catch myself sometimes thinking, wow this is mine?? Okay yeah I don't own the place, but it is MY rental.

So I'm happy for the first time in a long time. I feel like I'm living the life of Riley here. I swear. I look around and I have so much to be happy about.

But still.

I have moments where my stomach lurches, and I fight the urge to puke.

I have moments where I feel like if I breathe deeply enough my breath will hit a pain center in my body and I will not be able to return from that pain.

I have lost my mother over and over and over again throughout my life. Why does she matter so much? And my father, yes I think about him too, but it isn't the same. It's a primal need, there is no other explanation.

I don't understand adoptees who reject, and I never will. Of course I understand the anger, you bet I do, but I tried for over 20 YEARS to make it work with my mother. Decades of my life to work out some sort of relationship. Will I ever see her again? How long will it be? That is always the question.

I wish I could say, "Eh, I don't give a fuck!" Oh I would if I could.

My brother enjoys telling me that all I need is a man in my life. WTF??? He doesn't get it.

He is not speaking to them either. He thinks they are both assholes, and he is done with them. He is very detached. He doesn't understand why I can't be like him. The other day he said, and I quote, "If I saw those two assholes stranded on the side of the road, I wouldn't stop. I would drive right by and I wouldn't look back."

And I believe him. I would stop to help. I couldn't not stop.

I hate that no matter what I do, or what I accomplish, there will always be this hole. This unmet need. Crushed dreams that nothing can ever make up for.

My new digs

2008-07-22T02:38:00.000-07:00

It's beautiful. Stunning really.

The walls are a green/gray which reminds me of Paris. I have a deep red accent wall in the dining room. Brand new carpeting that is so comfy squishy I can go barefoot. Normally I hate going barefoot. I have a wood burning fire place, and a mantel. Grandpa's oil painting that he willed to me is hanging above the mantel.

The kitchen has brand new stainless steel appliances. I have a garbage disposal.

I have central air.

I have a balconey.

All of the light fixtures, faucets, and blinds are brand new.

The kitchen tile is brand new.

I have a washer and a dryer.

I have a ginormous walk-in closet.

There is a year round swimming pool, jacuzzi, weight room, and internet cafe in the the clubhouse. Oh and saunas too.

There is a pond, and a water fountain, and big huge weeping willow trees, and ducks, and geese, and rabbits on the property.

It is sooo quiet. What is everyone doing? The walls are thick I don't hear a soul. There are over 200 units here, and everyone is so quiet.

I have a Whole Foods and Trader Joes within a short drive.

My commute to work should only take me about 20-25 minutes.

When I'm all unpacked I will post pictures. My living room should be on a magazine cover.

I keep thinking someone is going to knock on my door and tell me it is all a big mistake and I have to leave because I don't deserve it.

Reunion: 7/9/85

2006-08-07T05:37:00.000-07:00

I've been obsessed with reading Blogs now for awhile thanks to a certain person whose name I will not mention, but she knows who she is!

I've so many thoughts running around in my head, so many things I want to share, there have been uncountable triggers. I just want to scream and cry and puke all at the same time. Mostly, I wonder what the hell I'm doing, and if I'm on the right path. I feel like I am always running, from what exactly I don't know. But I guess I need to find out. In order to find out, I think I need to continue to tell my story.

And so it goes...

A FedEx letter came to the house early July, 1985. WTH? Who would be sending a FedEx letter to aparents? A curious sort, of course I asked about it. "It's nothing." Well, I knew it wasn't nothing because they both looked liked they'd seen a ghost.

All was quiet on the homefront for a few days, and I knew sumpin was up! Finally they sat me down and told me it was a letter from my abandoners. No, they didn't use that word, I can't remember the exact word they used but I doubt it was "birthparents".

Holy crap!!!

It was like a punch in the gut. A good punch if you can imagine that. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd be found. Not at 15. Not at 18. Not ever. I'd always imagined pounding on her door years later after having poured blood, sweat, and tears into my search for answers. And I'd be angry. Damn angry pounding on that door.

Married? WTH? A brother? A full-blood brother? OMG.

Nope. Never imagined that. My mind would drift to half-sibs, but not much more than the likely possibility. Dad? Never thought of him too much, other than wonder if he even knew about me. Or if she even knew who he was. Remember adad said she was likely a prostitute. Now that didn't ring true, but then again I couldn't push the possibility entirely out of my mind.

What happened after that was somewhat of a blur, and it seemed to happen at lightening speed. A phone call. "I love you". Those were the first words my mother said to me. I don't remember what I said, but I do clearly remember thinking how could she love me?

HOW COULD SHE???

They lived so close. All this time. So close, and yet so far away. Two different worlds. They were all living their lives, and I was trying to survive mine. What took them so long? I loved them and I hated them at the same time.

Soon some pictures arrived. Wow. My mother. My real mother, she exists. And my father. And my brother. Separate photos. Not together. Did my mother have the sense to not send a happy family photo? Could she have had the compassion to know that would have stabbed at my heart? I've never thought about that until just now. I'll never know. I know it is not something a narcissist would do, but maybe she wasn't full-blown by then.

A meeting was arranged. We'd meet at a half-way point. Later I'd find out we met in the town I was born in. Did my mother pick the place on purpose? I don't know.

It was about a 45 minute drive. Amom took me. We met in a McDonald's parking lot. I saw her before she saw me. I tried to run to her, but amom had a grip on my arm.

She looked beautiful, with long ironed straight raven hair. Ivory skin, and piercing dark eyes. My eyes. My skin. My hair. I dared not touch her, I didn't want amom to get mad. Mother gave her a rose, for what I'm not sure. For cleaning up her mistake? Well, we all know how that turned out. She didn't exactly do a bang up job, no pun intended.

Amom finally left the car, she had gotten in the back seat, I was in the passenger seat. I can't remember how many hours we had, maybe six at best. I do remember what I was wearing, lol. My ultra cool Jordache jeans, and an aqua-blue T-shirt that said "Hang loose in Hawaii". I remember I wanted to look nice to meet my mother, and I spent extra time feathering my hair just right. I wanted her to see I grew up pretty after all, and not the ugly baby she threw away.

"I thought you were going to thank me."

Those words would set the tone for our entire relationship. Of course I didn't realize it then. I just laughed out of shock. Here we were, she found me. This should mean she wants my forgiveness right? This should mean she wants to apologize right? This should mean she wants to make up for lost time, and be the mother she should have been all along right? This should mean she wants to do the right thing THIS time, right???

Why the fuck did she find me? She just wanted THANKS??? Well, tough shit. You don't get thanks for throwing away your firstborn. It doesn't work that way.

I didn't say anything that I can remember. I was in shock. And I was happy to be with my real mother. And I loved her as much I hated her. But I only told her I loved her. And when I had the chance I held her, and hugged her tightly and I never wanted to let go. I've never known a love so fierce, so wanted, so needed for my life to have any sort of meaning. Maybe I loved her too much, too soon. Maybe I shouldn't have held on so tight. Maybe I scared her; she was only 34 years old.