When the brain gets in the way~

I've been told often that I have a good gut instinct. Fact is that I do. Another fact is that I often let my brain over ride my instinct.

I think maybe we're born with it. 

People who are victims of crime will sometimes say "Something just didn't feel right, I should have......." fill in the blank. I think we are taught to ignore or not trust our instinct.

You know as a child you might say to a parent that you don't like another relative, and they tell you now now be nice. And years later you find out that relative was touching children. Something along those lines.

Gut instinct.

There have been times over the years where my mom will say something, or react to something my father has said. I usually don't comment on it, I just notice it and save it in my "useless" memory area.

I remember a lot of random things and it often makes my husband laugh or roll his eyes.

There are some things though, that simply can not be erased from my memory, stored away for a time when I might need to reference them.

When I was 13 years old I got to go to California to visit my Aunt. We did all of the fun things. Disney Land, good food, beaches. I remember a lot of the trip, not all of it though. 

The part that I remember the most is waiting for my luggage with my parents when I got home. My dad was angry at me. At 13 I thought I was doing a good thing by paying a dollar to the deaf guy who gave me a note with a sticker on it. I had money left over from my trip, and dad was less then pleased with my stupidity for falling for this scam. As a side not, I still have a hard time not giving to the people who approach me with those little notes....

I announced that I knew of something that I wanted to buy.

My mom was kind enough to ask me what it was that I wanted.

I told her "An Italian horn charm!"

Why did I want one?

It was really simple actually for my young 13 year old mind. In California I noticed that everyone who had one on seemed to be very attractive. I thought maybe if I wore one, I would become pretty as well. I didn't tell my parents that this was why I wanted one. Their reaction shut me up pretty fast.

Dad said with anger "What do you want that for? You're not Italian!" I hated when he got so angry with me in public.

Mom's reaction was to dad, not me. She elbowed him in the gut and said "Ar." which was his sort of short name from mom.

I shrugged my shoulders and the subject was dropped.

I never did get that Italian horn.

I did however get a clue.

If I ever asked my parents , well correct that .......if I ever asked my mom about my birth parents I was almost always told the same thing. She would tell me their height, their hair and eye colors, and that they "matched" me up with my parents because I would surely look like them.

That was it, that was all I was told. I learned to stop asking, and start observing.

I couldn't have an Italian horn because I wasn't Italian, or maybe because I wasn't ever going to be pretty enough to wear one.

My gut told me that there was more to it. And so I saved this piece of information and did a recall on it almost 20 year later.......................


Want to cheat? Go to my site to see photos and more info.

Gun safe's, Fallout shelters and birth control...

Often called a roller coaster ride.

It seemed I was on the phone constantly and emailing. Telling people what other people were saying, and filtering my words.

My sister had said "call anytime" and I took her up on it. After our first night of conversation I wanted to know more, needed to feel the connection.

I called and she was very short with me "I have things to do with family, I'll email you from work."

It was a simple and honest statement really, but I felt set up.

This was the day after receiving a plant arrangement from her that said "welcome baby girl Moore, Love your big sister". Baby girl Moore, the only birth name I might ever know.

I can filter my words on a good day. All of the calls from family and friends was begining to take it's toll.

I was beginning to feel very, very angry.

The anger was at both the facts as well as the presumed lies.

I wondered then, and still wonder today if I will ever know the full truth.

The shut down of my spirit was beginning, and I often felt the need to test the fate of my own soul.

I only did it a few times......often I would warn Shannon of my mood and "dark" desires.

There were however a few times that I got into the car and drove as fast as I could get her to go, all the while questioning if I would hit the brakes at the next red light.

There only seemed to be one thing at the time that would break my feelings of desperation.

I had more siblings out there, and I needed to tell them what I knew.

I needed to tell them why she would never come looking for them either.

As I set out to find them,I had no idea how interesting, and then devastating those finds would be.
I wish I had known I would need better protection then what I had. Is there ever a way to keep yourself open to kindness and love, and at the same time block out the hateful words?

Joy to the World.....Three Dog Night. Yes, there is a reason for our love of this song. 

I saw her face

My sister had told me that she would have photos of Dottye scanned in and send them to me when she was at work. When I woke I went right to the computer to check email.

She sent me an email telling me that they were on their way, in several emails, and to call her when I see them. She wanted to hear my reaction.

Shannon was asleep and I didn't see any reason to wake him as I opened the first email with photo attachments.

I would never get to speak to Dottye. That was such a new reality that frankly I was not really dealing with. It was hard to envision what speaking to her would have been like, without seeing her face.

I was excited but nervous as I opened the first set of photos. What if I didn't see any resemblance?

I clicked open.

There she was.

Dottye Robertson Moore.

My first mother who went to the grave at the age of 24.

I looked at the first one, no not really looked, I stared at it.

It was a holiday photo, I knew that from the decorations in the house. It was not in good focus but I noticed it right away, as did my brother Scott when he replied to my email showing him. "You stand just like her!"

My God could anyone know what it felt like to see someone with the same posture as myself? 

I continued to scroll through the photos. 

Next is a close up shot of her on a back patio. She is smiling full tooth smile.

Jesus we have the same teeth. Our top teeth, same. Identical! She had my teeth! Or was it that I have hers? 

I opened the next email to more photos. I was amused at how often her look changed. There's one where she has a flower on her and her face is chubby. I couldn't relate to the look she had going, but there were the freckles I so often tried to cover up.Under her eyes, and a few on her nose.

I got my freckles after our first family trip to Grenada. I had a sun burn that left tiny blisters, and when the blisters went away I was left with freckles. I wondered when Dottye first got her.

I opened the last email and tears began to roll down my face.

Did my sister send them in this order on purpose?

Was this some kind of sick joke?

I got out of the chair and woke Shannon.

"Please baby, you need to get up and come look at this. You need to tell me if you think Karen somehow manipulated this photo or found a photo of me and made it look like her mom."

He came into the office and I made him sit in the chair. I scrolled to the photo. I begged him "Baby please, what do you think?"

He was as stunned as I was. I showed him the other photos and then we went back to that final email.

"Baby, is it her or is it a messed up photo of me?" I asked as tears again began to roll down my face.

He smiled and pointed out that I have never not worn bangs. This photo was indeed Dottye, with her bangs pulled back and a smile that didn't show teeth.

He got up and hugged me.

I fell into the office chair, to stare.

For so many years when I looked into the mirror I felt like I looked at a stranger. 

I almost never looked at my own reflection with pleasure in my own appearance.

Yet here I stared at a woman, my birth mother, who looked just like me and there was not an ugly bone in her.

How on earth could that be possible?

How could I possibly look like someone who was so attractive?

I forwarded the photos to several family members.

I called my parents and my dad answered. I said "Dad, I'm emailing some photos to you now of Dottye. I'll stay on the phone while you open them."

It only took a moment before I heard him laugh and speak in amazement, I'm pretty sure I also heard him get choked up over it.

I called my sister and didn't have any real words. I thanked her for sending them and told her it was a lot to take in.

As I got ready for work that morning I looked in the mirror. I can't say that I suddenly found myself to be attractive, but I did finally look in the mirror.

For some time after that my dad would take the one photo in particular and hand it to a friend or place it on the table in front of them and say "Do you know who this is?"

They would always reply "Well it's Wendy." to which he would laugh and correct them.

When ever he would tell me about so and so or that person, he said it with laughter, so I thought this was going to be an easier ride then it ended up being.

On my desk I have a handful of photos.

One of them of coarse, is that face.

You can see most of the photos at the web site Remember Dottye web site but for those who don't want to head over there, I will share the photo that I will never forget.

The photo that is a reminder that I am not as ugly as I thought I was.

A photo that makes me question, what might she have looked like at 25.

What a photo can do.

Over the weekend, you know, that first weekend, I sent my sister some photos of myself. I sent them to her home computer. When she saw them she replied something to the effect of "Ya, I can see some resemblance. I'll have to look on my work computer where I can see them better."

She said she would send me some photos of herself as well as her family that she had on her home computer but that she would have to bring photos of Dottye into work and have them scanned in.

When the photos of my sister came through I felt horrible because I felt disappointed. I searched the photos desperately trying to find a feature that made me thing YES! That's my sister. I couldn't. I so wished that I would see myself and I just didn't.

Shannon printed the photos out for me and we took them with us to his parents house to show his mom. She was so excited and said we did look alike. My mother in law has a way of seeing the good in everything. I just couldn't see it, and it was such a confusing feeling.

I was so excited because I had found my sister, so sad to have lost my mother. Wanted with all my might to finally look like someone and felt ungrateful.

The fact that I had searched "legally" for 14 years and had hit the bottom of my ride was taking it's toll on my emotional side.

And there was a scary yet comforting fact that my sister had told me.

Dottye had what was called by other family members "the dark side".

I'm not sure if in this day and age it would be called depression, manic depression or bi polar. What ever you call it, she had it. 

And that knowledge was comforting, maybe in a sick way. I knew I had at least a little bit of my mother in me.

A dark side, the desire to smoke, and walking with our toes in.

I needed to connect with my sister, I needed to pull myself out of this funk, I needed to not explore that dark side of my own.......................................

I only had to wait one more day for photos of Dottye. I had to get my head ready for more disappointment as I was sure it would come.

My main goal was to not hurt them.

You know sometimes we can learn things even when no words are said.

Speaking of my adoption, searching for birth family, there were words said and looks of sadness.

I used to use the old excuse "I have a right to my medical history" to which my father replied "Just go to the doctor." 

I understood loud and clear that my searching for birth family was not understood by my parents. Given our history of communication, I knew better then to let them know that I would search anyway. I wouldn't stop until I got all of the answers that I felt I needed.

I was as ready as I could be to call them. I knew some of the basics that I wanted to tell them. The main thing was to not hurt them. They had, and probably still have no idea how much work has gone into my search. When I find people who are supportive in one area, I simply stop sharing that area with them. In the case of my parents, the main subject was my search. I felt however, that as my parents, they deserved to know.

My mom answered and I asked that she get dad on the line as well. I told her everything was ok I  jsut wanted to speak with both of them at the same time. I spoke clearly and calmly and hoped that the call could be short and to the point.

Sometimes we need more then hope. What I needed to do was start learning how to shut my mouth rather then spew out everything when my nerves get going.

Anyway.

They were both on the line. "I know it has been a while since I have shared with you anything about my desire to find my birth family. I wanted to let you know that I have had someone helping me to search and we found my birth mother."

Oh and ok were the replies.

"And?" mom said.

I explained to them that we found my birth mother. Her name was Dottye and she had a daughter, possibly had other children who she placed for adoption as well. (I knew this because Karen said there may have been at least one birth when Dottye was in high school. I also knew this because on the vital stats record it showed that Dottye had 3 live births and 5 miscarriages.)

"Dottye is dead. She died in a car accident in 1973." I informed them finally.

Moms reply. Well it hit me a little during the actual words but didn't hurt or then anger me until after I hung up the phone.

"Well I'm sure that will make things easier." she said

I also shared with them that the family had believed that Dottye and her sister were at least part Native American.

"You're Indian?" dad said.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh. Well that would explain all of your issues." mom chimed in.

I decided the call had gone on long enough. I had been pleasant in sharing with them that I had spoken to my sister and she was really nice. I saw that I had already given them too many details in my effort to please them, to make them feel like they were a part of my new journey. I didn't talk back, I just took it in and it was time to get off the phone and let it all blow back out.

I told them I would keep them posted on if I learned anything new, but I knew the reality was that if I wanted to protect my own feelings, I would have to be careful as to what I told them.

It wouldn't be the last time that they would hurt me, far from it. 

I only wanted them to know that this was not any sort of attempt at getting rid of them as my parents. 

When I hung up the phone I went out to Shannon and told him about the call. I needed to defuse and so I made a call to a close friend as well. She's known me almost my entire life so gets it, gets the hurt and is able to tell me how I walk into it at times.

After speaking to her I wondered. Mom and dad didn't sound surprised when I told them she was dead.

Why didn't they sound surprised????

When I spoke.......well I wrote

I can't say at what age it was that I began leaving letters for my parents rather then talking to them. At almost 39 it just feels like I always communicated this way. 

Why? When talking or eventually yelling at my parents I often felt like I was being told that I was wrong.

I can understand being told that you are wrong about things that are factual. I don't have much of an issue with that kind of wrong.

A child, teen, or even an adult shouldn't be told that they are wrong for the way that they feel. 

So often I was. I learned to leave a letter instead.

This worked for a while.

Then they started correcting the grammar or spelling. 

When I was about 19 or 20 my mother replied to one of my letters with her own angry letter, and that was the last time that I vented to them or spoke my mind to them through a written letter.

My mom wasn't a pack rat and didn't  hang onto many of our childhood mementos. She did however give me a small envelope of items.

My letter "M" from when I ran cross country. A couple of one page stories. And a letter that I wrote to them. I am not sure of the age, but it was in pretty bad cursive.

Mom & Dad,

I'm sorry for being so bad the past few days. I'v just been thinking why my mom (the one I was born out of) put me out for adopition, What she looks or looked like. If I have a hole family like I do now, and I want to see her, him, or whatever us left of them.

Sorry,

Goodnight,Wendy

PS I love you both a hole lot.

My mom gave me this letter back a long time before I started to find my truth, and when I read it so many years ago it broke my heart. When I read it now, it hurts even more. Is there a chance that somehow I knew all along that she was dead? 

I would need to give myself a day to grasp my ride. I couldn't call them in excitement, I would need to have my guard up. If I called with excitement their words would hurt too much. I was not sure what the words would be, but I've been their daughter long enough to know that many conversations included pain in some sort of way. I decided to call them Saturday. Shannon would be home. I would call in the afternoon which would give me most of the day to get my mind as ready as it could.

Adoption, birth family, search. None of it was ever open for discussion in my family unless it was in a light hearted sort of way. If my shrinks ever asked "How do you feel about being adopted" I would reply "fine." Truth is it was not fine, I just knew that it was the way that it was and addressing it wouldn't make anything change.

It's interesting how much I was able to learn from my parents, with so few words.

Remember Dottye photos and web site

My sisters dream..........or nightmare

The first night that I spoke to Karen she had asked me if I could call her back. She needed and hour. It seemed odd to me. Here this person calls you saying you're sisters, or half for those who are writing the numbers, and all you need to digest it is an hour?

When she called me back is when I found out what she really needed the hour for.

She wanted to call her aunt, to find out what she knew.

This was my first introduction to Ruby.

Ruby was Dottye's sister.

When Karen asked her the reply was "I don't know anything about her. Dottye had a child while she was in high school but that is all that I know about."

Interesting. We'd find out more truth, or lack of truth as the years went on.

One of the things Karen told me that night nearly broke my heart all over again.

See, when Dottye died, Karen went to live with Ruby. Then to her grandparents, then back to Ruby, then to her father, back to Ruby and back to her father again. Or something along those lines. Does the order really matter? To Karen it probably does, to me it didn't. I only could wish that Dottye had never died so that Karen might have been able to be in one place.

Anyway.

Karen told me that when I called it brought back a childhood dream? Fantasy? Nightmare?

She had in the back of her mind thought that maybe her mom had not died at all. Maybe her mom was locked in a dungeon and Ruby had kept her in it. She couldn't say why it was Ruby who was the monster in this story. My guess is it has something to do with the fact that Ruby told Karen, not even six yet, that crying for her mom to come back didn't do any good. And that she needed to stop crying.