Have you ever felt like you've been slapped by the world, all at one time?
Monday, October 6, 2014
Monday, September 22, 2014
I don't mean to be a bitch
I'm just tired. I'm tired of being understanding to others while not feeling understood myself.
I'm tired of searching but don't know any other way.
Several months ago I paid as a gift to myself, to speak to a angel speaker.
Kind of like a medium who says she also speaks to your personal guides.
Anyway.
It was a 30 minute call.
Per usual, many of my husbands dead people came through to speak. And per usual I wrote the information down and passed it along to him.
More often the dead want to tell him things or what feels kind of worse, is when they want to speak to my sister.
The gal said a man was there who felt like a father soul. I asked so is he my father? She asked her guides and they said yes, this was my father.
I had imagined him to be dead so it was not like shocking or anything.
She said he was an addict, lots of addictions.
Again, no shock there.
He's able to give me tips but warned me I won't like what I may find and that my paper trail is dead, done, not going to find any hard facts of paper proof.
As we head into winter I find myself feeling more and more detached. Detached from physical items as well as relationships.
My husband continues to do well in building a relationship with his newly found daughter as well as grandson. She will be having a daughter soon as well and I know he will forever be a part of their lives. I encourage him and help him with the little things like picking out gifts and such.
Again, I feel detached.
One of Shannons dead people made the comment "She saved him" and I had to giggle.
So many people see it the other way. So many people feel that he saved me. I know this for a fact, it's not just a feeling.
And so I head into this winter feeling detached from life. My purpose at this point seems to be to care for our aging dogs, and that's just about it.
Maybe this is just the way people get to feeling at this age. Maybe more "work" will come my way.
Most of the time I'm ok with the feeling. It's kind of nice knowing that no one needs to hold onto me for any sort of survival, you know, outside of my pups.
Be loved.........the person or two who actually reads my blog ;)
I'm tired of searching but don't know any other way.
Several months ago I paid as a gift to myself, to speak to a angel speaker.
Kind of like a medium who says she also speaks to your personal guides.
Anyway.
It was a 30 minute call.
Per usual, many of my husbands dead people came through to speak. And per usual I wrote the information down and passed it along to him.
More often the dead want to tell him things or what feels kind of worse, is when they want to speak to my sister.
The gal said a man was there who felt like a father soul. I asked so is he my father? She asked her guides and they said yes, this was my father.
I had imagined him to be dead so it was not like shocking or anything.
She said he was an addict, lots of addictions.
Again, no shock there.
He's able to give me tips but warned me I won't like what I may find and that my paper trail is dead, done, not going to find any hard facts of paper proof.
As we head into winter I find myself feeling more and more detached. Detached from physical items as well as relationships.
My husband continues to do well in building a relationship with his newly found daughter as well as grandson. She will be having a daughter soon as well and I know he will forever be a part of their lives. I encourage him and help him with the little things like picking out gifts and such.
Again, I feel detached.
One of Shannons dead people made the comment "She saved him" and I had to giggle.
So many people see it the other way. So many people feel that he saved me. I know this for a fact, it's not just a feeling.
And so I head into this winter feeling detached from life. My purpose at this point seems to be to care for our aging dogs, and that's just about it.
Maybe this is just the way people get to feeling at this age. Maybe more "work" will come my way.
Most of the time I'm ok with the feeling. It's kind of nice knowing that no one needs to hold onto me for any sort of survival, you know, outside of my pups.
Be loved.........the person or two who actually reads my blog ;)
Monday, September 1, 2014
But doesn't it hurt? You know it'll sag
Ink. Tattoo's. The once only a sailor gets it figure of art.
Yes, I said art.
Lets see, the basics. I currently have 6 tattoo's. I'm not happy with that.
Why?
I don't like even numbers, I want a seventh.
What are they?
In order of when I got them as well as a brief "why".
Bugs Bunny.
My orthodontist used to say I should use the Warner Brother for my stationary since I grew up with WB as my initials (and yes, then I married a B so it would work!)
My ex husband told me "You will never get a tattoo, I won't allow it."
Nuff said.
He was away and I grabbed a friend and got it done.
Tribal band around my ankle.
I wanted something not off the wall and the man who gave me my Bugs had designed a tribal. He asked me if I would want it, I said yes.
Artist drawn pig.
I went through a very long "pig" phase, this finished it out.
Three daisies on the top of my foot.
A daisy a day was written in my first mothers funeral book.
I've always like the flower, any of them, but most the wild ones you least expect to see.
Top of my foot so I can always see.
Dark angel on my shoulder, 4 daisies beneath her.
This is on my shoulder blade. It's my largest and was by far the most painful. I brought in a couple of photos and said "I need her to be sad but free, and some sort of daisy under her."
When we went back a month later to get the work done I was immediately hit with tears when he showed me the photo.
4 daisies beneath her.
Dottye had a total of four children.
Always hope on my wrist.
My sister had sent me some photo copies of old holiday cards with Dottye's writing inside.
I took the two words, which in her cards were not together, and had them put on my wrist.
By it's side is a aqua daisy, aqua being the ovarian cancer color.
It doesn't matter to me if they are not attractive to someone else.
The pain was part of the process.
You know people I am sure, though you may not know it, who hurt themselves.
Physically.
I used to be one of those people.
I wasn't a cutter. I didn't use knives or blades, never saw blood.
I used a hammer or my fist. I would leave myself bruises.
It's hard for some to understand and I thank goodness for that. I would hate for everyone to understand. For me, hurting myself in that way was a form of control. It was also a way to bring out my stuck pain, the pain I could not speak of. As my self inflicted bruises healed, I felt like I did too.
Until the next time.
So you can frown at my tattoo's but for myself they are another form of bringing out the pain, owning it, seeing it and making it something that to my eye is beautiful.
Yes, I said art.
Lets see, the basics. I currently have 6 tattoo's. I'm not happy with that.
Why?
I don't like even numbers, I want a seventh.
What are they?
In order of when I got them as well as a brief "why".
Bugs Bunny.
My orthodontist used to say I should use the Warner Brother for my stationary since I grew up with WB as my initials (and yes, then I married a B so it would work!)
My ex husband told me "You will never get a tattoo, I won't allow it."
Nuff said.
He was away and I grabbed a friend and got it done.
Tribal band around my ankle.
I wanted something not off the wall and the man who gave me my Bugs had designed a tribal. He asked me if I would want it, I said yes.
Artist drawn pig.
I went through a very long "pig" phase, this finished it out.
Three daisies on the top of my foot.
A daisy a day was written in my first mothers funeral book.
I've always like the flower, any of them, but most the wild ones you least expect to see.
Top of my foot so I can always see.
Dark angel on my shoulder, 4 daisies beneath her.
This is on my shoulder blade. It's my largest and was by far the most painful. I brought in a couple of photos and said "I need her to be sad but free, and some sort of daisy under her."
When we went back a month later to get the work done I was immediately hit with tears when he showed me the photo.
4 daisies beneath her.
Dottye had a total of four children.
Always hope on my wrist.
My sister had sent me some photo copies of old holiday cards with Dottye's writing inside.
I took the two words, which in her cards were not together, and had them put on my wrist.
By it's side is a aqua daisy, aqua being the ovarian cancer color.
It doesn't matter to me if they are not attractive to someone else.
The pain was part of the process.
You know people I am sure, though you may not know it, who hurt themselves.
Physically.
I used to be one of those people.
I wasn't a cutter. I didn't use knives or blades, never saw blood.
I used a hammer or my fist. I would leave myself bruises.
It's hard for some to understand and I thank goodness for that. I would hate for everyone to understand. For me, hurting myself in that way was a form of control. It was also a way to bring out my stuck pain, the pain I could not speak of. As my self inflicted bruises healed, I felt like I did too.
Until the next time.
So you can frown at my tattoo's but for myself they are another form of bringing out the pain, owning it, seeing it and making it something that to my eye is beautiful.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Over expressed !!!!!! and !!!!!!
We are such a world of words without emotion it seems with the posts, tweets and blogging that goes on. Lol OMG and I was bawling.
Is it really that funny?
Did it really take your breath away?
How many tears actually fell?
Last night I had the channel on NBC so that I could catch the tribute section of the Emmy's. The truth is most of the shows that were up for nominations I had never seen before. I had heard of them, just never had seen them. I think they are on cable channels that we don't get, we have a thing about the cost of television entertainment and so only pay for the most basic.
My husband and I let the dogs out and as we came in the tribute to those who had died this past year was already in action.
"Damn it! We better not have missed much!"
I stood in front of the TV with him beside me, he was holding one of our dogs.
"That makes me so sad" I said with a tear in my eye as they showed Maya Angelou. A woman once silent with so many words to teach of the heart, the soul, of being one of love.
Soon the slideshow was over (I must say I did not agree with their choice in song, the lyrics for me didn't work, but that's just how I felt about it) and camera moves to Billy Crystal.
It was time. It was time to officially say goodbye to Robin Williams. The man who could so often make me actually laugh out loud (I do that rarely in real life), the man who played by far one of the funniest Jewish Yiddish men, ever.
It was short and to the point. As he began to speak I thought I saw the quiver of his chin and yet he moved on with grace. A few sentences that offered a wonderful visual followed by Robin Williams amazing blue eyes.
Eyes full of tears now though none had fallen I simply said "That really makes me want to cry."
"I know baby" was my husbands response.
I sucked it up, took a few exaggerated breaths and then moved on to getting ready for bed.
As he slept I wondered to myself: when is the last time I simply cried. A time when I didn't think about it? A cry that was natural and not stopped? A cry that was allowed to go on for as long as it needed to?
I know that crying can cleanse the body in the same way that laughter does however I don't allow myself to do it. I have many thoughts on why I don't allow it however I know some folks who would read some of the thoughts if I chose to type them out and be resentful of them.
One reason that doesn't point any fingers to anyone but myself is this thought , a thought I have had more then once.
What if I start to cry and then can't stop?
I mean I know that literally I would be able to stop, but the feeling is still there. When I am on the verge of letting those emotions out what if I just can not stop?
Crying upsets my dogs, it also leaves my husband in a place where he feels useless because he can't fix it. He wants to fix the pain and I know he can't, so I keep the pain to myself. At the very least it keeps him from hurting as well.
I don't often laugh out loud.
My breath is not usually really taken away.
More often then not, my tears are dry.
Is it really that funny?
Did it really take your breath away?
How many tears actually fell?
Last night I had the channel on NBC so that I could catch the tribute section of the Emmy's. The truth is most of the shows that were up for nominations I had never seen before. I had heard of them, just never had seen them. I think they are on cable channels that we don't get, we have a thing about the cost of television entertainment and so only pay for the most basic.
My husband and I let the dogs out and as we came in the tribute to those who had died this past year was already in action.
"Damn it! We better not have missed much!"
I stood in front of the TV with him beside me, he was holding one of our dogs.
"That makes me so sad" I said with a tear in my eye as they showed Maya Angelou. A woman once silent with so many words to teach of the heart, the soul, of being one of love.
Soon the slideshow was over (I must say I did not agree with their choice in song, the lyrics for me didn't work, but that's just how I felt about it) and camera moves to Billy Crystal.
It was time. It was time to officially say goodbye to Robin Williams. The man who could so often make me actually laugh out loud (I do that rarely in real life), the man who played by far one of the funniest Jewish Yiddish men, ever.
It was short and to the point. As he began to speak I thought I saw the quiver of his chin and yet he moved on with grace. A few sentences that offered a wonderful visual followed by Robin Williams amazing blue eyes.
Eyes full of tears now though none had fallen I simply said "That really makes me want to cry."
"I know baby" was my husbands response.
I sucked it up, took a few exaggerated breaths and then moved on to getting ready for bed.
As he slept I wondered to myself: when is the last time I simply cried. A time when I didn't think about it? A cry that was natural and not stopped? A cry that was allowed to go on for as long as it needed to?
I know that crying can cleanse the body in the same way that laughter does however I don't allow myself to do it. I have many thoughts on why I don't allow it however I know some folks who would read some of the thoughts if I chose to type them out and be resentful of them.
One reason that doesn't point any fingers to anyone but myself is this thought , a thought I have had more then once.
What if I start to cry and then can't stop?
I mean I know that literally I would be able to stop, but the feeling is still there. When I am on the verge of letting those emotions out what if I just can not stop?
Crying upsets my dogs, it also leaves my husband in a place where he feels useless because he can't fix it. He wants to fix the pain and I know he can't, so I keep the pain to myself. At the very least it keeps him from hurting as well.
I don't often laugh out loud.
My breath is not usually really taken away.
More often then not, my tears are dry.
Friday, August 22, 2014
And your name is.......???????
There is a comedian I have been going to see for about 15 years now. His name is Flip and he is a hypnotist. Look him, see his show, and you'll understand my title. You won't regret seeing the show, if you do, well you're just not a funny person.
Growing up I would ask "How did I get the name Wendy?"
I knew of two other Wendy's, one younger then me and one older. In my adult life I have met one who is older then me. We've all said, there just are not that many Wendy's.
If I asked my mom she would without fail say "Ask your father."
When I would ask my dad he would reply either that he didn't know, ask your mother, or Peter Pan.
To date, I have not seen the movie nor read the Peter Pan book but I am getting closer to renting Hook. I believe that has something to do with Peter Pan.
I don't recall my brothers asking where they got their names from, I'm not sure if they know or don't really care. It's always been of interest to me.
Am I the only one who wonders where my name came from?
On my parents last visit I decided to ask again. We were in the car headed to dinner, meeting my inlays about an hour away. We had time to kill and we were trapped for the hour in the car, so I went ahead and asked.
"What made you guys name me Wendy" I asked without looking back.
Mom "Well, your father always wanted a daughter........" I let her finish the story of why they had to adopt a girl. In the past I would have said why they adopted me, I'm an adult now and fully aware that I just happened to be the girl available.
Finally she got to the question "I think it was the name of the mother of a nanny dad grew up with. Ar???" her nick name for my dad." Ya. What???"
He wasn't paying attention, or maybe he fell asleep.
We carried on the talk and never could figure out if they had named me after the mother of a nanny my father had, whom he liked very much. Or if my name was from some character from Peter Pan. As 41 I got a new answer though. I always find it interesting how a story can change, or the truth it might be finally comes out.
I have two birth certificates. My "Amended" birth certificate which would indicate that the parents I grew up with were my blood parents by anyone else who looks at the form. I also have my "OBC" which is my Original Birth Certificate.
My name on the amended copy is as I've always known it.
My name on the OBC is "Girl Moore".
The one thing I had so very much looked forward to was finding out what my birth name was, with hopes of why it was given to me.
Girl Moore.
Yup. I'm a girl.
I may never know what my first name was.
I will continue to have fun trying to find out the reasons for my now given name of Wendy. I'll ask until they are no longer here to ask.
The changes in answers are always amusing.
Not knowing my birth name, not as amusing.
Growing up I would ask "How did I get the name Wendy?"
I knew of two other Wendy's, one younger then me and one older. In my adult life I have met one who is older then me. We've all said, there just are not that many Wendy's.
If I asked my mom she would without fail say "Ask your father."
When I would ask my dad he would reply either that he didn't know, ask your mother, or Peter Pan.
To date, I have not seen the movie nor read the Peter Pan book but I am getting closer to renting Hook. I believe that has something to do with Peter Pan.
I don't recall my brothers asking where they got their names from, I'm not sure if they know or don't really care. It's always been of interest to me.
Am I the only one who wonders where my name came from?
On my parents last visit I decided to ask again. We were in the car headed to dinner, meeting my inlays about an hour away. We had time to kill and we were trapped for the hour in the car, so I went ahead and asked.
"What made you guys name me Wendy" I asked without looking back.
Mom "Well, your father always wanted a daughter........" I let her finish the story of why they had to adopt a girl. In the past I would have said why they adopted me, I'm an adult now and fully aware that I just happened to be the girl available.
Finally she got to the question "I think it was the name of the mother of a nanny dad grew up with. Ar???" her nick name for my dad." Ya. What???"
He wasn't paying attention, or maybe he fell asleep.
We carried on the talk and never could figure out if they had named me after the mother of a nanny my father had, whom he liked very much. Or if my name was from some character from Peter Pan. As 41 I got a new answer though. I always find it interesting how a story can change, or the truth it might be finally comes out.
I have two birth certificates. My "Amended" birth certificate which would indicate that the parents I grew up with were my blood parents by anyone else who looks at the form. I also have my "OBC" which is my Original Birth Certificate.
My name on the amended copy is as I've always known it.
My name on the OBC is "Girl Moore".
The one thing I had so very much looked forward to was finding out what my birth name was, with hopes of why it was given to me.
Girl Moore.
Yup. I'm a girl.
I may never know what my first name was.
I will continue to have fun trying to find out the reasons for my now given name of Wendy. I'll ask until they are no longer here to ask.
The changes in answers are always amusing.
Not knowing my birth name, not as amusing.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Regrets?????
Over the years I've been able to look back and with full honesty say "I have no regrets."
Lets be clear, I know I have done tons of things that other people may regret. Or they may be things that they rather I keep silent about. Some of those past experiences I don't speak of often or loudly, but I don't regret them. I'm a little ashamed perhaps, but I don't regret them.
How could that be?
I know that each experience brought me up to the current day. From simple choices to difficult ones, each got me to the spot I am in. Some roads were still under construction, others were walled by foot in order to be able to truly enjoy the road.
This past year however I have figured out I actually do have a regret. I don't know if it is new or if I've just fully begun to understand it. And as I run it in my mind it's still sounding like it might be confusing to others but lets get to it.
Growing up I always knew I would have children. I was not sure how many but often felt like I would have one. I wanted to be a housewife, one who would devote herself to her family. After school activities, clubs, projects......I was ready for the whole fun part.
At 17 years old I had my first miscarriage. I had not known I was pregnant until I had the miscarriage and lucky for me my doctor told my mother I was just having some female issues and needed a D&C. He knew without me saying a word, that this would be the best way to approach the situation of me being pregnant before legal age. Thank goodness for him. I did tell one adult friend who later said something to my mother and I was able to convince my mother that my friend must have misunderstood.
With my first marriage I actually tried to get pregnant and never thought I did. As an Army wife I was able to see a specialist who in turn had me under the knife and said I had a 10% chance of ever getting pregnant and as time went on that chance would become less.
Per usual I can look back and say thank goodness I did not have a child then. The circumstances were less then ideal (that's being nice!) and I'm not sure what would have happened had I had a child. So, after surgery, tests, meds, I finally threw in the towel.
I went on with life and met my forever husband. It was our first date and we lay it all out on the table. I gave him my past in all the detail as well as my hopes for the future. That included telling him about my lack of fertility and we laughed as we both had said we didn't want children.
We got married in Ohio, had a honeymoon in Vegas, then headed back to our home in Texas. I had been late for my period and figured it was stress of the wedding. Being late for me was not unusual, sometimes I would go three months without a cycle, or so I thought.
Before the wedding I had gone to the doctor and seen the PA. I was having fatigue and dizzy spells. She asked "Could you be pregnant" to which I replied with an instant no! She never gave me a test but did give me a pill that I decided not to take due to the side effects. In hindsight, I think when I said no so fast she thought I wasn't "active" with my soon to be hubby. I said no because I had been told I could get pregnant.....
two weeks after we got home my period started, and wouldn't stop. We went to my gynecologist and he ran a urine test to check my hormones. A pregnancy test. It didn't make any sense to me, and I was nearly to the floor when he came out and said "You were pregnant, you are miscarrying." They got my husband who was in the waiting room and we checked out with some meds to help move things along. The following month I went on the BC pill.
Years prior I had always said "I would rather regret not having a child then regret having one."
Over the next few years I would break my silence and make hubby sit down for the talk "Why don't you want a child? Are you sure? Can we talk about it?" It always came down to the same basic talk of how we enjoy devoting our time to each other, how we were both very selfish in our need of attention and affection, finances.........I think most people understand the talks we usually had.
And each time I had to suck it in, suck it up and agree and say "You know you're right. We're right. I would rather regret not having one then regret having one."
(There are far too many people in this world who regret having their child and while they may not admit it vocally their actions scream it...)
My chance of having a child was taken away for the final time five years ago. I remember feeling the shock of that some time after surgery. It was like wow, the rest of my days on this earth I will never again be able to have that conversation "Should we have a child?"
And now I know. I know what regret feels like. True deep to the core regret.
Regret of not having a child?
No
Regret of feeling like the choice was not mine to fully make. It takes two to make the child, and I feel like because of that the choice was never mine.
In so many other aspects of life we get to make a choice all on our own and I feel a bit ripped off.
It's a tad hard to get rid of the thoughts as well as a bit of resentment peeping up.
When my now husband and I were dating he shared with me that he may or may not have a daughter. The story is his to tell, not mine, but I fully supported him in the choices he made about that relationship as the years went on. He had no contact with her until she turned 19. When she reached out they did a DNA test and found out indeed he is her father. The past 3 years of watching and listening to him build a relationship with her leaves me on the side wondering why this path was taken.
And so, I finally know regret.
Lets be clear, I know I have done tons of things that other people may regret. Or they may be things that they rather I keep silent about. Some of those past experiences I don't speak of often or loudly, but I don't regret them. I'm a little ashamed perhaps, but I don't regret them.
How could that be?
I know that each experience brought me up to the current day. From simple choices to difficult ones, each got me to the spot I am in. Some roads were still under construction, others were walled by foot in order to be able to truly enjoy the road.
This past year however I have figured out I actually do have a regret. I don't know if it is new or if I've just fully begun to understand it. And as I run it in my mind it's still sounding like it might be confusing to others but lets get to it.
Growing up I always knew I would have children. I was not sure how many but often felt like I would have one. I wanted to be a housewife, one who would devote herself to her family. After school activities, clubs, projects......I was ready for the whole fun part.
At 17 years old I had my first miscarriage. I had not known I was pregnant until I had the miscarriage and lucky for me my doctor told my mother I was just having some female issues and needed a D&C. He knew without me saying a word, that this would be the best way to approach the situation of me being pregnant before legal age. Thank goodness for him. I did tell one adult friend who later said something to my mother and I was able to convince my mother that my friend must have misunderstood.
With my first marriage I actually tried to get pregnant and never thought I did. As an Army wife I was able to see a specialist who in turn had me under the knife and said I had a 10% chance of ever getting pregnant and as time went on that chance would become less.
Per usual I can look back and say thank goodness I did not have a child then. The circumstances were less then ideal (that's being nice!) and I'm not sure what would have happened had I had a child. So, after surgery, tests, meds, I finally threw in the towel.
I went on with life and met my forever husband. It was our first date and we lay it all out on the table. I gave him my past in all the detail as well as my hopes for the future. That included telling him about my lack of fertility and we laughed as we both had said we didn't want children.
We got married in Ohio, had a honeymoon in Vegas, then headed back to our home in Texas. I had been late for my period and figured it was stress of the wedding. Being late for me was not unusual, sometimes I would go three months without a cycle, or so I thought.
Before the wedding I had gone to the doctor and seen the PA. I was having fatigue and dizzy spells. She asked "Could you be pregnant" to which I replied with an instant no! She never gave me a test but did give me a pill that I decided not to take due to the side effects. In hindsight, I think when I said no so fast she thought I wasn't "active" with my soon to be hubby. I said no because I had been told I could get pregnant.....
two weeks after we got home my period started, and wouldn't stop. We went to my gynecologist and he ran a urine test to check my hormones. A pregnancy test. It didn't make any sense to me, and I was nearly to the floor when he came out and said "You were pregnant, you are miscarrying." They got my husband who was in the waiting room and we checked out with some meds to help move things along. The following month I went on the BC pill.
Years prior I had always said "I would rather regret not having a child then regret having one."
Over the next few years I would break my silence and make hubby sit down for the talk "Why don't you want a child? Are you sure? Can we talk about it?" It always came down to the same basic talk of how we enjoy devoting our time to each other, how we were both very selfish in our need of attention and affection, finances.........I think most people understand the talks we usually had.
And each time I had to suck it in, suck it up and agree and say "You know you're right. We're right. I would rather regret not having one then regret having one."
(There are far too many people in this world who regret having their child and while they may not admit it vocally their actions scream it...)
My chance of having a child was taken away for the final time five years ago. I remember feeling the shock of that some time after surgery. It was like wow, the rest of my days on this earth I will never again be able to have that conversation "Should we have a child?"
And now I know. I know what regret feels like. True deep to the core regret.
Regret of not having a child?
No
Regret of feeling like the choice was not mine to fully make. It takes two to make the child, and I feel like because of that the choice was never mine.
In so many other aspects of life we get to make a choice all on our own and I feel a bit ripped off.
It's a tad hard to get rid of the thoughts as well as a bit of resentment peeping up.
When my now husband and I were dating he shared with me that he may or may not have a daughter. The story is his to tell, not mine, but I fully supported him in the choices he made about that relationship as the years went on. He had no contact with her until she turned 19. When she reached out they did a DNA test and found out indeed he is her father. The past 3 years of watching and listening to him build a relationship with her leaves me on the side wondering why this path was taken.
And so, I finally know regret.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Jury Duty
I've been called for Jury Duty a total of four times, maybe five. I can clearly remember four.
The first two times I arrived at the court house to be told the case no longer needed a jury and so was turned back to head home. Job well done simply by showing up.
The third time was a case on a family suing a doctor who released a woman and the same day she took her own life. I only got to hear some of the details of the case. What hit me the most was seeing the family on the side of the room as the lawyers questioned the possible jury, and the replies from the possible jury members.
I became angry. I found it hard to bite my tongue. An example was a woman who had sat next to me. When we got back to the room after our lunch break, she was not there. We waited and finally the bailiff called her on her cell phone. Her response was that she was late and figured since she was late she just wouldn't come back at all. She was told that yes, she needed to come back. (She actually made the jury , I have no idea how she was a good choice).
One of the questions that we were allowed to answer in more length in private is if we had been touched in any way personally by suicide. I was one of there people who rose my hand.
The just potentials were released for a break and the three of us were held behind. I approached the bench second in line. The deceased woman's family was still on the side, I walked up to the judge, as well as the four attorneys and bailiff.
I explained how I had been personally touched (didn't speak of my own past issues but rather of the stories of Dotty'e's many attempts) and finished off by asking the judge if he always had to deal with such a group of assholes. The looks on the faces told me that what I had said was perhaps not appropriate BUT understood.
I was dismissed at the end of the day and could not get the case out of my mind. I called the court a week after the trial to find out what had happened in the case. The bailiff explained the steps to take to purchase a transcript and then commented on remembering me well.
My honesty was appreciated, though it didn't help any to get me picked.
Yesterday I was in group of 300. The courts needed a total of 130 isn to fill the current cases. I got picked as one of 45 to head across the floor into a case.
The production VS a drunk driver.
We were told he had at least two prior convictions of drunk driving and here that makes this charge a felony. He could do 2-10 years and the penalty would be decided by this jury as well.
Long story short the prosecutor went through each row asking of any of us being personally touched by drunk driving. There were four rows of people, I was in the back row. (I now understand they place you in the order that they upon first looking at your paperwork think they might pick , so once again I would likely not make the team. Man how I hate being picked near last).
I had it pretty together, was simply going to say I lost my first mother to drunk driving. Yup, she was dead, yup it was a drunk driver. No need to go into the details that she was the drunk who was driving.
A gal in the second row said "I lost a dear friend to drunk driving in 1979" I listened and thought wow, that was just a few years after Dottye died. I guess that pain never goes away. "It was in Franklin County, Columbus....." and then I no longer heard her words. Why she decided to be so specific on where it happened? I'll get back to that.
When he got to me I thought I had it together. I took a breath and as the words came out "I lost my first mom, she died in a drunk accident" the tears came. My throat felt as if it might swell shut as people began to turn in the bench to look at me. Oh lord how I hated to be looked at and while I'm crying, please let me melt into this back wall!
I dug into my messenger back for a tissue as the final 6 people gave their reply. And then the last person said "You think we might take a break soon, I really need to use the rest room." Thank goodness for that last man!
We were dismissed for a 20 minute break. I grabbed my bag and high tailed it to the front door. I was out! I felt the sun hit my face and smelled the smoke of those puffing away out front of the building. I paused and reached into my bag for my phone and my vape. I called Shannon and said "I just want to come home. I just don't want to be here anymore." He calmed my down as I puffed on my fake cigarette and by the end of our 3 minute call I was back to being me.
Two things happened as I walked back into the building and waited in the hall with my o there possible jury members.
A woman in bright pink approached me and touched my arm saying "I am so sorry about your mother". Being the me that I am, not liking to make other uncomfortable and feeling guilt replied "Oh no no. Don't be. She died alone, she was the drunk." The woman looked at me and said "My God I just got chills up my entire arm." to which I replied "It's good, chills are a good thing" and I walked away.
I was looking at the back of heads as I scanned the group of people and finally found her. "Are you the woman who lost someone in Franklin County in 1979?"
"Yes, that was me."
"What made you say it was in Franklin County?"
She kind of gave a little laugh with a shrug and said "You know I have no idea".
"I do. That's where my first mother died. "
The woman sat there and looked confused.
"She wanted me to know I wasn't alone, or something. She wanted me to know something."
The woman and I went on to change the talk to something more light, we spoke of Columbus and Cleveland and all of the changes both cities have had over the past 30 plus years.
As we called back in she said "I'm sorry I mentioned the county. I didn't mean to make you cry."
And so I replied "You didn't make me cry, you made me feel a little less alone."
I didn't get picked for the jury. They sent us out for a final 20 minute break and when we were called back in the judge told us "Well I've got good news for you, bad news for myself. They were only able to agree on 11 people so you are all free to go home and do not need to come back. We will do the process tomorrow with a new group. We thank you for taking the time to try and serve. Sometimes this just happens.
A woman I had kind of hung out with during lunch and had several misfortunes in health spoke to the defendants attorney after we were released, off the record. He said that she had been one of the 11 they agreed on. She said "A gal here pointed something out to me that we later found out no one else noticed (that gal was me). The defendant, does he have some sort of health issues. She said she saw him walking to his car at lunch and he was very jerky in the upper body, seeming to have a horrible twitch. She said when he got his upper body to stop his lower badly seemed to drag more then walk."
Indeed this man has some sort of medical condition having in part to do with his back. He has to give himself injections, he didn't say of what. He can "control" the spasms some, but not completely.
"I hope you will bring that up when he gets his trial, with a doctor to explain?" The attorney replied with a smile that he would. He asked which now non jury member had pointed it out and she told him "The one who was crying, the one whose mother had died."
I wish now, and at the moment that she shared this conversation with me, that I had kept my person issues out of the way. It brought about a lot of thought for me, even with my raging migraine. We can look across the room and judge without knowing we are judging. We must remember that there is always a story behind a story.
I hope this man gets a fair trial. I have no way of knowing if he was driving drunk, hat his prior or when his prior convictions were (who knows, maybe he was a pre teen, maybe he was an adult) but in the end I hope that the trial goes as fairly as possible for we will always be human, we will always have our own feelings and thoughts.
No matter how it goes, and no matter what the media shows, I believe in our justice system. I believe there is always room for improvement and I believe that we are lucky to have a voice.
The first two times I arrived at the court house to be told the case no longer needed a jury and so was turned back to head home. Job well done simply by showing up.
The third time was a case on a family suing a doctor who released a woman and the same day she took her own life. I only got to hear some of the details of the case. What hit me the most was seeing the family on the side of the room as the lawyers questioned the possible jury, and the replies from the possible jury members.
I became angry. I found it hard to bite my tongue. An example was a woman who had sat next to me. When we got back to the room after our lunch break, she was not there. We waited and finally the bailiff called her on her cell phone. Her response was that she was late and figured since she was late she just wouldn't come back at all. She was told that yes, she needed to come back. (She actually made the jury , I have no idea how she was a good choice).
One of the questions that we were allowed to answer in more length in private is if we had been touched in any way personally by suicide. I was one of there people who rose my hand.
The just potentials were released for a break and the three of us were held behind. I approached the bench second in line. The deceased woman's family was still on the side, I walked up to the judge, as well as the four attorneys and bailiff.
I explained how I had been personally touched (didn't speak of my own past issues but rather of the stories of Dotty'e's many attempts) and finished off by asking the judge if he always had to deal with such a group of assholes. The looks on the faces told me that what I had said was perhaps not appropriate BUT understood.
I was dismissed at the end of the day and could not get the case out of my mind. I called the court a week after the trial to find out what had happened in the case. The bailiff explained the steps to take to purchase a transcript and then commented on remembering me well.
My honesty was appreciated, though it didn't help any to get me picked.
Yesterday I was in group of 300. The courts needed a total of 130 isn to fill the current cases. I got picked as one of 45 to head across the floor into a case.
The production VS a drunk driver.
We were told he had at least two prior convictions of drunk driving and here that makes this charge a felony. He could do 2-10 years and the penalty would be decided by this jury as well.
Long story short the prosecutor went through each row asking of any of us being personally touched by drunk driving. There were four rows of people, I was in the back row. (I now understand they place you in the order that they upon first looking at your paperwork think they might pick , so once again I would likely not make the team. Man how I hate being picked near last).
I had it pretty together, was simply going to say I lost my first mother to drunk driving. Yup, she was dead, yup it was a drunk driver. No need to go into the details that she was the drunk who was driving.
A gal in the second row said "I lost a dear friend to drunk driving in 1979" I listened and thought wow, that was just a few years after Dottye died. I guess that pain never goes away. "It was in Franklin County, Columbus....." and then I no longer heard her words. Why she decided to be so specific on where it happened? I'll get back to that.
When he got to me I thought I had it together. I took a breath and as the words came out "I lost my first mom, she died in a drunk accident" the tears came. My throat felt as if it might swell shut as people began to turn in the bench to look at me. Oh lord how I hated to be looked at and while I'm crying, please let me melt into this back wall!
I dug into my messenger back for a tissue as the final 6 people gave their reply. And then the last person said "You think we might take a break soon, I really need to use the rest room." Thank goodness for that last man!
We were dismissed for a 20 minute break. I grabbed my bag and high tailed it to the front door. I was out! I felt the sun hit my face and smelled the smoke of those puffing away out front of the building. I paused and reached into my bag for my phone and my vape. I called Shannon and said "I just want to come home. I just don't want to be here anymore." He calmed my down as I puffed on my fake cigarette and by the end of our 3 minute call I was back to being me.
Two things happened as I walked back into the building and waited in the hall with my o there possible jury members.
A woman in bright pink approached me and touched my arm saying "I am so sorry about your mother". Being the me that I am, not liking to make other uncomfortable and feeling guilt replied "Oh no no. Don't be. She died alone, she was the drunk." The woman looked at me and said "My God I just got chills up my entire arm." to which I replied "It's good, chills are a good thing" and I walked away.
I was looking at the back of heads as I scanned the group of people and finally found her. "Are you the woman who lost someone in Franklin County in 1979?"
"Yes, that was me."
"What made you say it was in Franklin County?"
She kind of gave a little laugh with a shrug and said "You know I have no idea".
"I do. That's where my first mother died. "
The woman sat there and looked confused.
"She wanted me to know I wasn't alone, or something. She wanted me to know something."
The woman and I went on to change the talk to something more light, we spoke of Columbus and Cleveland and all of the changes both cities have had over the past 30 plus years.
As we called back in she said "I'm sorry I mentioned the county. I didn't mean to make you cry."
And so I replied "You didn't make me cry, you made me feel a little less alone."
I didn't get picked for the jury. They sent us out for a final 20 minute break and when we were called back in the judge told us "Well I've got good news for you, bad news for myself. They were only able to agree on 11 people so you are all free to go home and do not need to come back. We will do the process tomorrow with a new group. We thank you for taking the time to try and serve. Sometimes this just happens.
A woman I had kind of hung out with during lunch and had several misfortunes in health spoke to the defendants attorney after we were released, off the record. He said that she had been one of the 11 they agreed on. She said "A gal here pointed something out to me that we later found out no one else noticed (that gal was me). The defendant, does he have some sort of health issues. She said she saw him walking to his car at lunch and he was very jerky in the upper body, seeming to have a horrible twitch. She said when he got his upper body to stop his lower badly seemed to drag more then walk."
Indeed this man has some sort of medical condition having in part to do with his back. He has to give himself injections, he didn't say of what. He can "control" the spasms some, but not completely.
"I hope you will bring that up when he gets his trial, with a doctor to explain?" The attorney replied with a smile that he would. He asked which now non jury member had pointed it out and she told him "The one who was crying, the one whose mother had died."
I wish now, and at the moment that she shared this conversation with me, that I had kept my person issues out of the way. It brought about a lot of thought for me, even with my raging migraine. We can look across the room and judge without knowing we are judging. We must remember that there is always a story behind a story.
I hope this man gets a fair trial. I have no way of knowing if he was driving drunk, hat his prior or when his prior convictions were (who knows, maybe he was a pre teen, maybe he was an adult) but in the end I hope that the trial goes as fairly as possible for we will always be human, we will always have our own feelings and thoughts.
No matter how it goes, and no matter what the media shows, I believe in our justice system. I believe there is always room for improvement and I believe that we are lucky to have a voice.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
When the fog lifts
There is something known among some adoptees as the adoption fog.
It's the "Oh being adopted doesn't matter to me, all is peachy" sort of attitude.
Here's my thought on it.
If you're in the fog, and you're cozy there, then stay there. If it seems to be working for you and you feel like you are living your life in the happiest and healthiest way possible, then enjoy.
I was never in the fog. I wasn't graced with a period of time where being adopted didn't have a clear impact on my being. Being adopted is very much a part of what makes me who I am. There has never, in my own mind, been any denying that. Those around me may have denied it, and I often didn't speak out loud of it, but in my own mind a period of time never went by where I wasn't clear on how being adopted impacts my life.
The impact changes over time.
And so like any human being who tries to remain healthy, my own being changes.
As the week of depression surprised me to some degree since I usually don't have such strong bouts when the weather is nice and warm I can't help but to see how my depression has some effect in the same way as my being adopted does. It was a week of not having much to say, a week of setting aside doing anything of my "normal" routine. It was a week of trying to escape my own mind in books, movies, and sleep. It was not my roughest week, not by a long shot. Rather then thoughts of suicide there were questions as to why some things in my life are as they are, a general question of "What is my purpose?" In a parallel to being adopted it was a week of feeling like I was on the outside looking in, trying to function and fit in.
My conclusion as the depression fog lifted once again. Pretty simple really and possibly something others are aware of every day. My purpose is to be me.
Flawed in each of my own special ways = a very special me.
I often wonder, even on a good day, why people don't much like me. Not a self pity sort of Why me. It is a fact that people in person can only "Take me in small doses" (once said by a friend). I do have to ask my husband from time to time, what it is about me that people don't like.
I am typing it here as a reminder.
"I don't think it is so much that people don't like you. I think it has more to do with how they feel about themselves. You are honest and you have such a big heart. When you say it how you see it it's out of pure love or concern and that scares some people as it points out things they may not want to look at."
It is true. I don't have a filter but the good news on that is that because I have a big heart the words that come out are said in love, not spite or hate. The words may be misunderstood based on the person who is hearing them. I get to go to bed each night perhaps with a friend fewer but knowing that my heart is always in the right place.
This also means, for me, that there are times where I am pained by things others say or do and so working on my protection bubble is something I continue to focus on.
It's ok to be me. It's what I do best.
It's the "Oh being adopted doesn't matter to me, all is peachy" sort of attitude.
Here's my thought on it.
If you're in the fog, and you're cozy there, then stay there. If it seems to be working for you and you feel like you are living your life in the happiest and healthiest way possible, then enjoy.
I was never in the fog. I wasn't graced with a period of time where being adopted didn't have a clear impact on my being. Being adopted is very much a part of what makes me who I am. There has never, in my own mind, been any denying that. Those around me may have denied it, and I often didn't speak out loud of it, but in my own mind a period of time never went by where I wasn't clear on how being adopted impacts my life.
The impact changes over time.
And so like any human being who tries to remain healthy, my own being changes.
As the week of depression surprised me to some degree since I usually don't have such strong bouts when the weather is nice and warm I can't help but to see how my depression has some effect in the same way as my being adopted does. It was a week of not having much to say, a week of setting aside doing anything of my "normal" routine. It was a week of trying to escape my own mind in books, movies, and sleep. It was not my roughest week, not by a long shot. Rather then thoughts of suicide there were questions as to why some things in my life are as they are, a general question of "What is my purpose?" In a parallel to being adopted it was a week of feeling like I was on the outside looking in, trying to function and fit in.
My conclusion as the depression fog lifted once again. Pretty simple really and possibly something others are aware of every day. My purpose is to be me.
Flawed in each of my own special ways = a very special me.
I often wonder, even on a good day, why people don't much like me. Not a self pity sort of Why me. It is a fact that people in person can only "Take me in small doses" (once said by a friend). I do have to ask my husband from time to time, what it is about me that people don't like.
I am typing it here as a reminder.
"I don't think it is so much that people don't like you. I think it has more to do with how they feel about themselves. You are honest and you have such a big heart. When you say it how you see it it's out of pure love or concern and that scares some people as it points out things they may not want to look at."
It is true. I don't have a filter but the good news on that is that because I have a big heart the words that come out are said in love, not spite or hate. The words may be misunderstood based on the person who is hearing them. I get to go to bed each night perhaps with a friend fewer but knowing that my heart is always in the right place.
This also means, for me, that there are times where I am pained by things others say or do and so working on my protection bubble is something I continue to focus on.
It's ok to be me. It's what I do best.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
A reason to live if just one more day
I can't think of a time when death was not a daily thought. Not a thought I would usually share publicly but what the hell, everyone else is opening up.
I wouldn't call my thoughts suicidal though they do range in thinking of how I could end my own life. It's not planning per say, just thoughts. I've spoken to a few people about it with mixed reaction. There is one person I know who understands that the thought of death, even at my own hands, brings some sort of comfort.
I've had plenty of bouts with depression where death doesn't cross my mind as an answer, but then neither does life. There have been times as well where death seemed the only rational way to deal with the pain, darkness and emptiness that nothing seems to remove but time.
For many years I was able to break free of my thoughts with a different though : I must first find my birth mother.
There was one point in time where that wish was not enough and I attempted to take my own life twice within a two week period.
I was 23 years old.
I was married though my now ex husband for the first attempt was in Korea.
I was lonely. I went out with a couple of girlfriends one evening for dancing and when I came home to my empty house I was once again alone and it felt as if the loneliness would never go away.
I grabbed my bottle of sleeping pills (I had not been sleeping well at all) and began taking them one by one. I pretended they were tick tacks. I wondered if I would go to hell.
As my dog sat by my side I got scared and called a friend who in turn called the MP's, When they arrived at my house they said they couldn't force me to go to the ER but really wanted me to. I didn't want to, but I also didn't want to die alone.
When my dog grabbed one of the MP's hats and began running around with it they began to laugh.
Laughter was not something I had heard in a very long time.
To the ER I went with a mandatory lock up for 3 days.
My husband came home after that for a mid tour leave.The first thing he asked me upon arriving at the house was "When is the last time you cleaned?" He had said I could go back to Korea with him. I wasn't sure which would be worse, going with him or staying home alone again. Again at a loss for where my life was going I decided to make one more failed attempt. After taking this time a full bottle of sleeping pills I sat in the bathroom alone while he watched TV and drank his beer.
And then, I changed my mind.
I was not able to stand up and found myself pulling myself across the linoleum floor to him. I could no longer raise my head and lay a rooms length from his recliner.
"I think I made a mistake. I took a bottle of pills and I think I changed my mind".
He got up and came over to me and picked me up. Instead of turning towards the kitchen to bring me to the car he took me to our bedroom and proceeded to rape me.
When he was finished he closed the door, leaving me in bed with my forever friend, a dachshund. I'm not sure what happened over the next three days but as you can see, I did finally wake.
I didn't have a dime to my name and as I dropped him off at the airport to head back to South Korea I left the airport with determination and hope rather then tears. I didn't know how I would do it but it was time to really be alone in my journey.
I found a job, I packed my bags and I moved with my dog into a gang filled area of the city. I was free from him as well as my depression, for the time.
In looking back there is not a moment I regret from my 23rd year. Each moment that happened had its place and brought me to the new roads I have no traveled.
Depression is still a very common part of my life. The world around me could be perfect and I know there will still be days that my only reason for getting out of bed is to feed the pets that have no ability to open a can of food.
There are also the days where I jump out of bed and forget to think about death. They come more often in the spring and summer then they do in the winter.
There is one thing I have learned and that is I can only say I'll try for one more day. I no longer try to set a goal as to what I am trying for. When I found out that my birth mother had died at 24 hers of age, and that she too had tried multiple times to take her own life, I knew then that in order to survive I had to remind myself that it's for me.
It's not for what I might find.
It's not for who I might hurt.
I can only make myself survive for myself.
I wouldn't call my thoughts suicidal though they do range in thinking of how I could end my own life. It's not planning per say, just thoughts. I've spoken to a few people about it with mixed reaction. There is one person I know who understands that the thought of death, even at my own hands, brings some sort of comfort.
I've had plenty of bouts with depression where death doesn't cross my mind as an answer, but then neither does life. There have been times as well where death seemed the only rational way to deal with the pain, darkness and emptiness that nothing seems to remove but time.
For many years I was able to break free of my thoughts with a different though : I must first find my birth mother.
There was one point in time where that wish was not enough and I attempted to take my own life twice within a two week period.
I was 23 years old.
I was married though my now ex husband for the first attempt was in Korea.
I was lonely. I went out with a couple of girlfriends one evening for dancing and when I came home to my empty house I was once again alone and it felt as if the loneliness would never go away.
I grabbed my bottle of sleeping pills (I had not been sleeping well at all) and began taking them one by one. I pretended they were tick tacks. I wondered if I would go to hell.
As my dog sat by my side I got scared and called a friend who in turn called the MP's, When they arrived at my house they said they couldn't force me to go to the ER but really wanted me to. I didn't want to, but I also didn't want to die alone.
When my dog grabbed one of the MP's hats and began running around with it they began to laugh.
Laughter was not something I had heard in a very long time.
To the ER I went with a mandatory lock up for 3 days.
My husband came home after that for a mid tour leave.The first thing he asked me upon arriving at the house was "When is the last time you cleaned?" He had said I could go back to Korea with him. I wasn't sure which would be worse, going with him or staying home alone again. Again at a loss for where my life was going I decided to make one more failed attempt. After taking this time a full bottle of sleeping pills I sat in the bathroom alone while he watched TV and drank his beer.
And then, I changed my mind.
I was not able to stand up and found myself pulling myself across the linoleum floor to him. I could no longer raise my head and lay a rooms length from his recliner.
"I think I made a mistake. I took a bottle of pills and I think I changed my mind".
He got up and came over to me and picked me up. Instead of turning towards the kitchen to bring me to the car he took me to our bedroom and proceeded to rape me.
When he was finished he closed the door, leaving me in bed with my forever friend, a dachshund. I'm not sure what happened over the next three days but as you can see, I did finally wake.
I didn't have a dime to my name and as I dropped him off at the airport to head back to South Korea I left the airport with determination and hope rather then tears. I didn't know how I would do it but it was time to really be alone in my journey.
I found a job, I packed my bags and I moved with my dog into a gang filled area of the city. I was free from him as well as my depression, for the time.
In looking back there is not a moment I regret from my 23rd year. Each moment that happened had its place and brought me to the new roads I have no traveled.
Depression is still a very common part of my life. The world around me could be perfect and I know there will still be days that my only reason for getting out of bed is to feed the pets that have no ability to open a can of food.
There are also the days where I jump out of bed and forget to think about death. They come more often in the spring and summer then they do in the winter.
There is one thing I have learned and that is I can only say I'll try for one more day. I no longer try to set a goal as to what I am trying for. When I found out that my birth mother had died at 24 hers of age, and that she too had tried multiple times to take her own life, I knew then that in order to survive I had to remind myself that it's for me.
It's not for what I might find.
It's not for who I might hurt.
I can only make myself survive for myself.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
The laughter stopped
Depression VS Sadness
Are they different??
I spent much of last night pondering, thinking, and crying.
On the evening of the death of Robin Williams I was crushed that he was gone, saddened by those who had negative things to say, and finally, saddened that I was not surprised.
For those who don't like to read ramblings then stop at the following line which in my mind may sum up what I'm about to type:
Depression comes from within, Sadness comes from that around us.
This blog, as is with the rest of my blogs, are based on my experience. I'm not a doctor, hell I didn't even finish high school, but experience I do have many.
As an adoptee I have always had some sort of emptiness inside. Yes, Always. Not having a base to your tree makes it difficult to balance. Pasting on pretend roots doesn't hold a person stable during rough times. The emptiness came from feeling alien to my surroundings and doing what I could to fit in.
My family, for the most part, was happy. Laughter was heard often and while we had rules we also had fun. I believe that our family was as average as any other. We hold our secrets and we also hold onto old family vacations.
I was at a shrink often. I'm not sure why I never felt the ability to open up in such a setting. One man would ask at the beginning of each and every visit "What are you thinking?" A few visits in my reply would remain the same "Of how to answer that question" and we would spend the next 50 minutes watching the shadow creep on his wall as the sun set. It was fall when I made my visits to him. He was one of the few who asked how I felt about being adopted. My reply was that I didn't feel anything about it, and it was never asked again.
I saw another who fell asleep during my visits, while I was speaking to her. She would wake up and offer off the wall advice. To say I took it personally would have been an under statement at the time. I told my mom "She falls asleep while I talk to her!" My mom didn't believe me at first but after a few visits with my same complaint she spoke to the woman who indeed had some sort of iron deficiency. She began taking a supplement and thanked my mom for letting her know and offered some fee sessions. I refused to go back.
While in high school I had a friend. She sat behind me in "sober homeroom" which was a small group of us who had stopped drinking, doing drugs, needed support first thing in the morning. I enjoyed the group, especially when we got to ditch the first class or two to head out as a group for breakfast.
This girl was a pretty redhead. Orange really. She was graduating that year and had a nanny job lined up for the summer. I believe she was an A student thug I can't say for sure, but I do know she got into the school she wanted and would be headed off to start her new life in the Fall. She wore Keds and I used to playfully joke with her that her Keds didn't hold up like Converse would, she always had a hole in the toe of her shoe.
She killed herself. She "had it all" and she killed herself.
A victim to depression placed on meds that helped her to jump from the cliff of life to the eternity of death.
Dead.
For all of my teen years I knew that suicide would always be an option, I always had a reason not to. I needed to survive, I needed to get out on my own, I needed to find my birth mother.
I did not want to die before meeting my birth mother at least just once.
I made it through my teen years and moved at the age of 18. The road to my own survival was not a smooth one and allowed for many hints to happen that could cause others to hold their head in shame. I have no shame over what I had to do to survive the moments.
Married at a courthouse I moved with my now ex husband to Texas. My depression was at bay for a while. Without (at this time anyway) going into details, the desire to find my birth mother no longer healed any weight over my desire to leave this life.
I attempted to take my life twice. The first failed attempt left me feeling like a complete scum of the earth as the medical team shoving coal down my gut looked at me like I was almost too worthless to help. They didn't look sad at me, they looked annoyed.
My second failed attempt brought about some life changes, including but not limited to leaving my first husband.
My path of independence continued and I met my forever husband. It was the year we were planning our wedding as well as looking for a home. Upon seeing several homes I began to cry and not understand how I could hurt so much when everything was going so well. I wanted to die and I could not locate a reason for wanting this. I was placed on Zoloft and it evened me back out. I could breath again.
In order to cut on length (I know, too late) I want to skip forward to now. I was put on meds nearly 20 years ago. I have used those meds three times, each for a period of a year. The last time was 3 years ago. They made me numb and I finally had to stop taking them.
What is depression for me?
Well, let me tell you about sadness first.
I can look at the news, the news including the passing of Robin Williams and I can cry. I can say how I hurt for him and his family. I hurt for struggle he must have gone through.
I watch the conflict of different countries and I hurt for the people in the conflicted areas. I hurt for the other people not in the areas who are making their own political calls on judgement.
I see the stories online of animals being abused and I hurt, I hurt for them and I hurt because it feels like I can not do anything for each pet.
Hurt, also called sadness is not the same as depression.
I wake up depressed on days that have no hurt in them.
The world around me and within my own home can be close to perfect and yet it pains me to get out of bed.
Depression hurts physically. For me it can be similar to that "butterfly" feeling but multiplied by hundreds and so making it painful.
Depression episodes come on with no warning and I can never tell how deep the dark pit will get, or how long it might last for. It lifts in the same way, without warning.
But why don't depressed people reach out for help?
For me it's a simple answer : Because I'm depressed.
I don't want to wake up, I don't want to face the darkness of my own mind, I don't want to speak of the emptiness that feels like it has been filled by cement inside.
Words during depression elude me in that a simple call for help doesn't make sense in my darkened mind.
Dark.
Depression is dark and asking me to see the light while in the midst of it is simply silly.
I hate depression.
My post is really pretty simple and while I could delete the above I won't because for some reason I was supposed to type what was typed.
In keeping it simple:
Depression, Self Pity, Sadness and Self Loathing are not the same. Each is very different.
Please, just don't judge.
Are they different??
I spent much of last night pondering, thinking, and crying.
On the evening of the death of Robin Williams I was crushed that he was gone, saddened by those who had negative things to say, and finally, saddened that I was not surprised.
For those who don't like to read ramblings then stop at the following line which in my mind may sum up what I'm about to type:
Depression comes from within, Sadness comes from that around us.
This blog, as is with the rest of my blogs, are based on my experience. I'm not a doctor, hell I didn't even finish high school, but experience I do have many.
As an adoptee I have always had some sort of emptiness inside. Yes, Always. Not having a base to your tree makes it difficult to balance. Pasting on pretend roots doesn't hold a person stable during rough times. The emptiness came from feeling alien to my surroundings and doing what I could to fit in.
My family, for the most part, was happy. Laughter was heard often and while we had rules we also had fun. I believe that our family was as average as any other. We hold our secrets and we also hold onto old family vacations.
I was at a shrink often. I'm not sure why I never felt the ability to open up in such a setting. One man would ask at the beginning of each and every visit "What are you thinking?" A few visits in my reply would remain the same "Of how to answer that question" and we would spend the next 50 minutes watching the shadow creep on his wall as the sun set. It was fall when I made my visits to him. He was one of the few who asked how I felt about being adopted. My reply was that I didn't feel anything about it, and it was never asked again.
I saw another who fell asleep during my visits, while I was speaking to her. She would wake up and offer off the wall advice. To say I took it personally would have been an under statement at the time. I told my mom "She falls asleep while I talk to her!" My mom didn't believe me at first but after a few visits with my same complaint she spoke to the woman who indeed had some sort of iron deficiency. She began taking a supplement and thanked my mom for letting her know and offered some fee sessions. I refused to go back.
While in high school I had a friend. She sat behind me in "sober homeroom" which was a small group of us who had stopped drinking, doing drugs, needed support first thing in the morning. I enjoyed the group, especially when we got to ditch the first class or two to head out as a group for breakfast.
This girl was a pretty redhead. Orange really. She was graduating that year and had a nanny job lined up for the summer. I believe she was an A student thug I can't say for sure, but I do know she got into the school she wanted and would be headed off to start her new life in the Fall. She wore Keds and I used to playfully joke with her that her Keds didn't hold up like Converse would, she always had a hole in the toe of her shoe.
She killed herself. She "had it all" and she killed herself.
A victim to depression placed on meds that helped her to jump from the cliff of life to the eternity of death.
Dead.
For all of my teen years I knew that suicide would always be an option, I always had a reason not to. I needed to survive, I needed to get out on my own, I needed to find my birth mother.
I did not want to die before meeting my birth mother at least just once.
I made it through my teen years and moved at the age of 18. The road to my own survival was not a smooth one and allowed for many hints to happen that could cause others to hold their head in shame. I have no shame over what I had to do to survive the moments.
Married at a courthouse I moved with my now ex husband to Texas. My depression was at bay for a while. Without (at this time anyway) going into details, the desire to find my birth mother no longer healed any weight over my desire to leave this life.
I attempted to take my life twice. The first failed attempt left me feeling like a complete scum of the earth as the medical team shoving coal down my gut looked at me like I was almost too worthless to help. They didn't look sad at me, they looked annoyed.
My second failed attempt brought about some life changes, including but not limited to leaving my first husband.
My path of independence continued and I met my forever husband. It was the year we were planning our wedding as well as looking for a home. Upon seeing several homes I began to cry and not understand how I could hurt so much when everything was going so well. I wanted to die and I could not locate a reason for wanting this. I was placed on Zoloft and it evened me back out. I could breath again.
In order to cut on length (I know, too late) I want to skip forward to now. I was put on meds nearly 20 years ago. I have used those meds three times, each for a period of a year. The last time was 3 years ago. They made me numb and I finally had to stop taking them.
What is depression for me?
Well, let me tell you about sadness first.
I can look at the news, the news including the passing of Robin Williams and I can cry. I can say how I hurt for him and his family. I hurt for struggle he must have gone through.
I watch the conflict of different countries and I hurt for the people in the conflicted areas. I hurt for the other people not in the areas who are making their own political calls on judgement.
I see the stories online of animals being abused and I hurt, I hurt for them and I hurt because it feels like I can not do anything for each pet.
Hurt, also called sadness is not the same as depression.
I wake up depressed on days that have no hurt in them.
The world around me and within my own home can be close to perfect and yet it pains me to get out of bed.
Depression hurts physically. For me it can be similar to that "butterfly" feeling but multiplied by hundreds and so making it painful.
Depression episodes come on with no warning and I can never tell how deep the dark pit will get, or how long it might last for. It lifts in the same way, without warning.
But why don't depressed people reach out for help?
For me it's a simple answer : Because I'm depressed.
I don't want to wake up, I don't want to face the darkness of my own mind, I don't want to speak of the emptiness that feels like it has been filled by cement inside.
Words during depression elude me in that a simple call for help doesn't make sense in my darkened mind.
Dark.
Depression is dark and asking me to see the light while in the midst of it is simply silly.
I hate depression.
My post is really pretty simple and while I could delete the above I won't because for some reason I was supposed to type what was typed.
In keeping it simple:
Depression, Self Pity, Sadness and Self Loathing are not the same. Each is very different.
Please, just don't judge.
Monday, August 11, 2014
DNA, Family trees and my constant struggle to find that part of me
It's been a while, I am aware of this. Truth is I forgot where I had moved my blog to. It struck my thoughts today to go over to my website and see if I had posted a link over there. Ahhh, yes here it is ...
It has been a year and a half since my last "blog". Sigh. I'm not ever going to become popular with my words or lack of.
To catch you up.
I finally found my birth mothers birth family. I know the rearm birth mother offends some, it's what I grew up with, it's what I am comfortable with in telling of relation. Her name as you may recall was Dottye.
She as well as her two older sisters were placed in an orphanage in 1954 in East St Louis. My sister was able to send off for Dottye's OBC (original birth certificate) and with that I was able to verify the last name that was her blood name. We already knew her birth name but the OBC gave us a couple of other details that helped in my search.
As I searched and opened my own account on ancestry.com I was able to narrow down some "Owens" people and relatives of. I sent them messages and finally had a hit. That hit as we fast forward brought me to a man who was Dottye's older half brother.
Farris Owens was Dottye's birth father. He had in his life 4 wives. First wife gave him three sons, second wife (my maternal grandmother) gave him three daughters. Third wife rendered zero children and his fourth and final wife gave him six daughters. I got all of this information from one man, my Uncle. We've spoken several times. I sent him photos and he blessed me with photos as well. I finally know what my mother looked like as a young child, as she stands with her father before going to the orphanage.
The story of how she ended up in the orphanage of coarse has two sides as well as many missing parts. Farris, my maternal grandfather as well as Wille "Billie" my maternal grandmother have bother long passed. I received a lot of information on Farris as my Uncle has been very open. He calls me his kin folk because I am his blood family.
The information from Willies side has not been as much. I know from a boy who was her step son that she was very much loved by him.
He told me: She left Farris, they had split up. She couldn't read or write. She was very young. (I believe he married her when she was 15.) She went back to see the girls and they were gone. She asked Farris to tell her where they were and all he would tell her was he didn't know.
She married another man, the man whom she spent the rest of her life with. Together they searched for the girls, her daughters, even hired private investigators to try and find them, to no avail.
She spent the rest of her life wondering where her girls were.
She went to her grave not knowing.
She never had other children.
No one, I mean no one, should have to go to their grave wondering. She should have had the answers.
In my DNA testing of which I have tested at three companies I have found that my paternal side continues to elude me. It's a roller coaster of continued emotion and frustration as I am excited when I get new information such as it is likely that my fathers mother aka my paternal grandmother was 100% Italian, possibly immigrated. If she was not a direct immigrant, her parents were. That is exciting as it was not something I knew a year ago however the twist to that is in my searching I can no longer get excited when I see a match who has Italian sounding sur names.
My fathers father aka my paternal grandfather was likely a mix of 2 of four possible heritages. Italian not being one of them. He too may have been an immigrant.
What am I frustrated about??
I have very very few paternal matches in any of my three tested sites. I am not comprehending or grasping the different ways to work with these matches in creating trees or researching chromosomes to figure out my own tree. I read, I ask questions, I read some more and yet I still am not comprehending it. And this often brings my mood down.
I had decided to stop looking when I was pulled back to my search.
The Probate Court of Franklin County (Columbus Ohio) continues to deny my request for the agency name. Why they won't tell me who facilitated my adoption is beyond me. While we were finally able to get the law in Ohio changed (YES!!! You will be able to get your OBC in Ohio starting March 2015) this is of no personal value to me as I already have my OBC.
I continue to struggle with knowing I have spent so many years on this search with the question of what has it all been for. One the rare occasion that I break down into tears my husband reminds me that it's not in my DNA to give up.
I don't have children nor will I ever. I found my mother at a grave. My relationships with others are often strained as I have the adoptee feeling that I am "fake".
I do not want to end up like my maternal grandmother.
I would like it if when my time comes I could go to my grave knowing the few answers I desire.
Perhaps as time goes on I will learn to just let it go. Lord knows I have tried to let it go time and time again.
It's a difficult week as I look back over twenty- four years of legal age searching and wonder what else I might have done with my time.
The reality is I do a lot with my spare time besides searching, just in the past ten years since finding Dottye at a grave I have been more determined then ever to not find him at a grave as well. Either way, I'd sure like to know.
It has been a year and a half since my last "blog". Sigh. I'm not ever going to become popular with my words or lack of.
To catch you up.
I finally found my birth mothers birth family. I know the rearm birth mother offends some, it's what I grew up with, it's what I am comfortable with in telling of relation. Her name as you may recall was Dottye.
She as well as her two older sisters were placed in an orphanage in 1954 in East St Louis. My sister was able to send off for Dottye's OBC (original birth certificate) and with that I was able to verify the last name that was her blood name. We already knew her birth name but the OBC gave us a couple of other details that helped in my search.
As I searched and opened my own account on ancestry.com I was able to narrow down some "Owens" people and relatives of. I sent them messages and finally had a hit. That hit as we fast forward brought me to a man who was Dottye's older half brother.
Farris Owens was Dottye's birth father. He had in his life 4 wives. First wife gave him three sons, second wife (my maternal grandmother) gave him three daughters. Third wife rendered zero children and his fourth and final wife gave him six daughters. I got all of this information from one man, my Uncle. We've spoken several times. I sent him photos and he blessed me with photos as well. I finally know what my mother looked like as a young child, as she stands with her father before going to the orphanage.
The story of how she ended up in the orphanage of coarse has two sides as well as many missing parts. Farris, my maternal grandfather as well as Wille "Billie" my maternal grandmother have bother long passed. I received a lot of information on Farris as my Uncle has been very open. He calls me his kin folk because I am his blood family.
The information from Willies side has not been as much. I know from a boy who was her step son that she was very much loved by him.
He told me: She left Farris, they had split up. She couldn't read or write. She was very young. (I believe he married her when she was 15.) She went back to see the girls and they were gone. She asked Farris to tell her where they were and all he would tell her was he didn't know.
She married another man, the man whom she spent the rest of her life with. Together they searched for the girls, her daughters, even hired private investigators to try and find them, to no avail.
She spent the rest of her life wondering where her girls were.
She went to her grave not knowing.
She never had other children.
No one, I mean no one, should have to go to their grave wondering. She should have had the answers.
In my DNA testing of which I have tested at three companies I have found that my paternal side continues to elude me. It's a roller coaster of continued emotion and frustration as I am excited when I get new information such as it is likely that my fathers mother aka my paternal grandmother was 100% Italian, possibly immigrated. If she was not a direct immigrant, her parents were. That is exciting as it was not something I knew a year ago however the twist to that is in my searching I can no longer get excited when I see a match who has Italian sounding sur names.
My fathers father aka my paternal grandfather was likely a mix of 2 of four possible heritages. Italian not being one of them. He too may have been an immigrant.
What am I frustrated about??
I have very very few paternal matches in any of my three tested sites. I am not comprehending or grasping the different ways to work with these matches in creating trees or researching chromosomes to figure out my own tree. I read, I ask questions, I read some more and yet I still am not comprehending it. And this often brings my mood down.
I had decided to stop looking when I was pulled back to my search.
The Probate Court of Franklin County (Columbus Ohio) continues to deny my request for the agency name. Why they won't tell me who facilitated my adoption is beyond me. While we were finally able to get the law in Ohio changed (YES!!! You will be able to get your OBC in Ohio starting March 2015) this is of no personal value to me as I already have my OBC.
I continue to struggle with knowing I have spent so many years on this search with the question of what has it all been for. One the rare occasion that I break down into tears my husband reminds me that it's not in my DNA to give up.
I don't have children nor will I ever. I found my mother at a grave. My relationships with others are often strained as I have the adoptee feeling that I am "fake".
I do not want to end up like my maternal grandmother.
I would like it if when my time comes I could go to my grave knowing the few answers I desire.
Perhaps as time goes on I will learn to just let it go. Lord knows I have tried to let it go time and time again.
It's a difficult week as I look back over twenty- four years of legal age searching and wonder what else I might have done with my time.
The reality is I do a lot with my spare time besides searching, just in the past ten years since finding Dottye at a grave I have been more determined then ever to not find him at a grave as well. Either way, I'd sure like to know.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Fall Ramble
There are times where I allow my thoughts to speak among themselves.
Other times I type them out then hit the wonderful delete button.
Often I type them and allow the public into my mind knowing full well that some of my words bring them outside of their own comfort zone. That comfort zone is not mine to worry about.
I woke this morning in a funk. I knew full well that it was coming and also know why it has arrived.
Spending close to two months getting ready for our annual Halloween fest has allowed me to shove life aside. I needed the break and imagine that I will soon find another way to avoid the reality of my voices.
Fall is a happy time in our home. One of the few things that Shannon and I have in common is our love for the festivities that come with Halloween. Our new home has offered us much comfort even in the small space and damaged goods. I feel like this home and the land that is with it has offered me my original packaging.
My thoughts move on to my sister who shares DNA through her mom, my first mom, Dottye. My sisters birthday falls on Halloween which was no real surprise to me when I first contacted her. Somehow in my own way of thinking when I heard her date of birth I knew it was one of the signs, The brothers that I had been raised with who do not share DNA but rather a history of good and not so good memories, they both have holiday birth dates as well.
As we prepared for our party I would find myself wondering if Dottye liked parties, did she have parties, did she love Halloween or simply love the fact that she bore a child that she got to keep on that very date.
As the years of my limited knowledge pass by I imagine that I am less like Dottye in personality then I had once hoped or thought. I'm fine with that as I do know for fact that I carry some of her mannerisms. I also like to think that perhaps she is proud of who I am, maybe I carry some of the personality traits that she desired.
As we prepare for our annual parental visit I can't help but to think of soul relations. I can look at past relationships and current between other people and say that the soulful connection to my parents is really not there, not for myself.
And that thought moved over to daily life and friendships.
Have you ever met someone and known that you knew them before?
Have you ever felt a connection to a stranger for what seems like no reason at all.
I can often feel that people are attracted to me not in a physical way but a more personality or spiritual way and it baffles me each time that I feel it. I don't often connect to people on a deep level , in my life there have been a hand or two full of folks I have been able to feel the light from, and that doesn't always mean that the light is specifically for me but rather a light that they are able to offer to everyone.
Upon speaking to a friend a few weeks ago it was nice to feel a connection of understanding when I told her that there are times where perfect strangers can totally drain my energy. I need my alone time though I know it's not always safe to be within my own world, sometimes it is safer then the energy drain from others.
I don't long for a safe life, I find many days are rather mundane. I do however wish to find a path that offers me answers to so many questions while walking along with strangers and friends alike who carry that light for non specific people. I hope to be one day a person who can offer that light.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
The day she quit
40.
Yes. I made it to the ripe ol' age of 40.
I won't go into too much detail as that is not what is currently on my mind however I can tell you that for the first time in memory I did not have a single negative or self hate feeling on my actual date of birth this year. All due to the love of my husband.
Nuff said on that for now.
What brings me by my blog after so much time away?
A brain full of words twisting and mixing, forming new words by blurring into each other.
You might recall that about 6 months ago I mailed letters to people who had signed Dottye's funeral sign in book. I looked for names with address in Ohio, Nevada, Arizona as well as Massachusetts. It was a long shot.
I'm used to long shots.
The day OF my 40th birthday I came home from breakfast with my husband and sister to find a message on my machine.
Yes.
THE day of my birthday.
It was a man who had received one of my long ago sent letters. He explained that he was just now getting to me as he had taken the time to think about who the letter was intended to go to.
He is the son of a man who is now deceased, a man named Robert. That is who my letter was to go to.
I waited a few days before calling him back.
My husband had surprised me by flying my sister in for my birthday weekend, and then surprised me again with a surprise party! I was busy, emotionally worn out and frankly totally out of it for most of the weekend.
After my sister left on Monday I took the day to gather myself then called this man back the next day.
We spoke for over and hour.
His father.
His father often spoke of Dottye with much fondness.
His father.
His father grew up near Boston.
His father.
His father was 6 foot 2.
Once again my heart and my brain do battle.
So many things fall into line.
So many things that offer no concrete proof.
Once again I make the choice to send off for a DNA kit.
We should know within 7 weeks if this man whom I spoke to is my brother.
A brother who shares the same father.
It's hard to say what my reaction will be if once again it is not a match and simply another twist on my road.
I can tell you what my reaction will be if it is a match.
Chances are you will hear me from your own home no matter how far away if I get that call or email saying "you have a new match."
Wait with me for the 7 weeks.
Hope with me that it takes less then 7 weeks.
Share my journey and give me the strength to deal with the results.
Strength.
Ironic.
Hope
Yes. I made it to the ripe ol' age of 40.
I won't go into too much detail as that is not what is currently on my mind however I can tell you that for the first time in memory I did not have a single negative or self hate feeling on my actual date of birth this year. All due to the love of my husband.
Nuff said on that for now.
What brings me by my blog after so much time away?
A brain full of words twisting and mixing, forming new words by blurring into each other.
You might recall that about 6 months ago I mailed letters to people who had signed Dottye's funeral sign in book. I looked for names with address in Ohio, Nevada, Arizona as well as Massachusetts. It was a long shot.
I'm used to long shots.
The day OF my 40th birthday I came home from breakfast with my husband and sister to find a message on my machine.
Yes.
THE day of my birthday.
It was a man who had received one of my long ago sent letters. He explained that he was just now getting to me as he had taken the time to think about who the letter was intended to go to.
He is the son of a man who is now deceased, a man named Robert. That is who my letter was to go to.
I waited a few days before calling him back.
My husband had surprised me by flying my sister in for my birthday weekend, and then surprised me again with a surprise party! I was busy, emotionally worn out and frankly totally out of it for most of the weekend.
After my sister left on Monday I took the day to gather myself then called this man back the next day.
We spoke for over and hour.
His father.
His father often spoke of Dottye with much fondness.
His father.
His father grew up near Boston.
His father.
His father was 6 foot 2.
Once again my heart and my brain do battle.
So many things fall into line.
So many things that offer no concrete proof.
Once again I make the choice to send off for a DNA kit.
We should know within 7 weeks if this man whom I spoke to is my brother.
A brother who shares the same father.
It's hard to say what my reaction will be if once again it is not a match and simply another twist on my road.
I can tell you what my reaction will be if it is a match.
Chances are you will hear me from your own home no matter how far away if I get that call or email saying "you have a new match."
Wait with me for the 7 weeks.
Hope with me that it takes less then 7 weeks.
Share my journey and give me the strength to deal with the results.
Strength.
Ironic.
Hope
Saturday, March 31, 2012
The kindness rule......
A few people that I know have received my book of poetry. One person I have know pretty much my entire life but we've become very close over the past 15 plus years.
She called and left a message on my machine.
She was very impressed, I believe she said among other things, blown away.
Her words were kind, I felt my face turn red as I listened to the message.
I called her back and reminded her that we had a kindness rule in this house. You must only be kind in small doses, keeps us all grounded. It's part joke, part truth, part my way of keeping that hard exterior.
She was only able to read a few poems at a time, I'm not totally sure why. Maybe part of it has to do with knowing my story so well? She did say that she picked a few to read and found herself reading them more then once. Then she had to stop herself.
The feedback so far has been interesting. I know that my personality would not be one that you might normally think these words and thoughts would come from. Then at the same time I think maybe it is.
While I share my information like a very open book, I do tend to back away from the emotional part of my own story. My hard exterior makes it easier to keep most people at arms length away, which is my often failed attempt at keeping them from my heart, keeping people from hurting me.
That being said there are a few who have found their way in, some sooner then others, and some lost their privileges at my heart. Hurt it a few times and I may smile, but I won't ever let you back in, though I may smile and lie so not to hurt your feelings.
I digress. I usually do.
My point is that this has been a rather interesting life so far. A person like myself, closed emotionally to so many, made the choice to have my deepest feelings published. It may be as close as I will ever get to having a child. The pain, the joy, the fears and the hopes. They are not for the flesh of a child, but rather for the book I produced and hope will in some way, touch people that I may never have the honor of meeting.
She called and left a message on my machine.
She was very impressed, I believe she said among other things, blown away.
Her words were kind, I felt my face turn red as I listened to the message.
I called her back and reminded her that we had a kindness rule in this house. You must only be kind in small doses, keeps us all grounded. It's part joke, part truth, part my way of keeping that hard exterior.
She was only able to read a few poems at a time, I'm not totally sure why. Maybe part of it has to do with knowing my story so well? She did say that she picked a few to read and found herself reading them more then once. Then she had to stop herself.
The feedback so far has been interesting. I know that my personality would not be one that you might normally think these words and thoughts would come from. Then at the same time I think maybe it is.
While I share my information like a very open book, I do tend to back away from the emotional part of my own story. My hard exterior makes it easier to keep most people at arms length away, which is my often failed attempt at keeping them from my heart, keeping people from hurting me.
That being said there are a few who have found their way in, some sooner then others, and some lost their privileges at my heart. Hurt it a few times and I may smile, but I won't ever let you back in, though I may smile and lie so not to hurt your feelings.
I digress. I usually do.
My point is that this has been a rather interesting life so far. A person like myself, closed emotionally to so many, made the choice to have my deepest feelings published. It may be as close as I will ever get to having a child. The pain, the joy, the fears and the hopes. They are not for the flesh of a child, but rather for the book I produced and hope will in some way, touch people that I may never have the honor of meeting.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Poems
As many of you who are close friends or on my Facebook know, I had a book of poetry published.
The title is Shadows of a Dark-Alley Adoptee
I was asked today what the title meant.
A friend named JoAnne actually came up with the title. As soon as she suggested it I knew it was perfect.
Shadows : so often I feel like I am only a showdown of myself, a shadow of who people think I am, a shadow of who I wish to be.
Dark-Alley : to me, a dark alley is the same as that part of myself that I keep hidden. It's the secrets, the pains, the parts I try to stay away from. Walking down a dark alley is scary, sometimes dangerous, and this is the same way that I feel about part of my soul.
Adoptee : I do hope there is no explanation needed for that word.
When I told my husband " I'm going to try and publish a book of poems" he looked rather confused. It was then that I shared with him a few of my writings. I had never told anyone about my poems, though I had posted a few online.
I never thought of them as poems, but rather as thoughts that sometimes happen to have a rhythm of sorts.
Also, I do not recall what I wrote, which is often the case when speaking or writing from the soul. I had an editor so for myself, I only had to change what I was told was wrong spelling or grammar, and then re type them. This did not require me to read or absorb them.
Last night I decided that I should probably go ahead and read what I had written. I chose to read five poems that I had already share with other people.
My feelings were a bit mixed.
So rather then go with feelings, which I tend to not deal with very well, I thought about them in a more analytical way.
While my poems are based on being adopted, because in fact that is what my life is based on, the poems that I read we're dealing with pain and loss. A loneliness that comes with grief, a desire to be understood in a world wrapped with feelings that can make a person feel so alone.
My hope? Well this book of poems is actually about hope for others. I find it is often easier to hope for good for others, as I tend to judge others far less then I judge myself. That being said, my number one hope with this book is that I can touch people in a deeper way then my own personal story. That I might shed some light on a person who is dealing with the sadness of another. Or that the person reading my poems might share this horrible sadness, and feel a little less alone.
The chances of this book leading to anyone who knew Dottye or my birth father is so slim, I am aware of that. There is a tinge of hope for that as well though.
Lastly, wouldn't it be nice to be remembered for setting a goal and reaching it? That goal, not finding my birth family, not being a poet or author, actually that goal is to be a better person then some thought I could be. To be the caring person that we all have in us to be, to help just one person to know that while they might have a dark side, that does not mean that they are damaged. Nope, it just means that they see things in a different way.
Shadows of a Dark-Alley Adoptee
Yup, that's me.
The title is Shadows of a Dark-Alley Adoptee
I was asked today what the title meant.
A friend named JoAnne actually came up with the title. As soon as she suggested it I knew it was perfect.
Shadows : so often I feel like I am only a showdown of myself, a shadow of who people think I am, a shadow of who I wish to be.
Dark-Alley : to me, a dark alley is the same as that part of myself that I keep hidden. It's the secrets, the pains, the parts I try to stay away from. Walking down a dark alley is scary, sometimes dangerous, and this is the same way that I feel about part of my soul.
Adoptee : I do hope there is no explanation needed for that word.
When I told my husband " I'm going to try and publish a book of poems" he looked rather confused. It was then that I shared with him a few of my writings. I had never told anyone about my poems, though I had posted a few online.
I never thought of them as poems, but rather as thoughts that sometimes happen to have a rhythm of sorts.
Also, I do not recall what I wrote, which is often the case when speaking or writing from the soul. I had an editor so for myself, I only had to change what I was told was wrong spelling or grammar, and then re type them. This did not require me to read or absorb them.
Last night I decided that I should probably go ahead and read what I had written. I chose to read five poems that I had already share with other people.
My feelings were a bit mixed.
So rather then go with feelings, which I tend to not deal with very well, I thought about them in a more analytical way.
While my poems are based on being adopted, because in fact that is what my life is based on, the poems that I read we're dealing with pain and loss. A loneliness that comes with grief, a desire to be understood in a world wrapped with feelings that can make a person feel so alone.
My hope? Well this book of poems is actually about hope for others. I find it is often easier to hope for good for others, as I tend to judge others far less then I judge myself. That being said, my number one hope with this book is that I can touch people in a deeper way then my own personal story. That I might shed some light on a person who is dealing with the sadness of another. Or that the person reading my poems might share this horrible sadness, and feel a little less alone.
The chances of this book leading to anyone who knew Dottye or my birth father is so slim, I am aware of that. There is a tinge of hope for that as well though.
Lastly, wouldn't it be nice to be remembered for setting a goal and reaching it? That goal, not finding my birth family, not being a poet or author, actually that goal is to be a better person then some thought I could be. To be the caring person that we all have in us to be, to help just one person to know that while they might have a dark side, that does not mean that they are damaged. Nope, it just means that they see things in a different way.
Shadows of a Dark-Alley Adoptee
Yup, that's me.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
You don't know me
Sometimes I wish I could escape the image of me.
No one knows me.
We only put out there what we allow to be seen.
We only know how we treat others.
I was a JAP at least that was when I was young.
I was defiant and ran.
I was a whore.
I am broken.
I have always been broken.
I'm loving, I care.
I hurt people just by being.
Please stop being nice to me!
You don't even know me!
No one knows me.
We only put out there what we allow to be seen.
We only know how we treat others.
I was a JAP at least that was when I was young.
I was defiant and ran.
I was a whore.
I am broken.
I have always been broken.
I'm loving, I care.
I hurt people just by being.
Please stop being nice to me!
You don't even know me!
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Self
I wonder how long it takes to find myself.
What if I decide that I don't like me.
How often did others know that they were keeping me silent,
Killing me a tiny bit each day.
Will the me inside of me be happy that I finally looked for her,
Instead of looking for others?
Will she retreat to an even darker place,
Hide her face in shame and pain.
Will she forgive me?
I wonder if I will like me?
What if I decide that I don't like me.
How often did others know that they were keeping me silent,
Killing me a tiny bit each day.
Will the me inside of me be happy that I finally looked for her,
Instead of looking for others?
Will she retreat to an even darker place,
Hide her face in shame and pain.
Will she forgive me?
I wonder if I will like me?
Monday, January 9, 2012
Sex , effing, or love?
I know where I stand on the three. I don't think that sex or effing has anything to do with love, though I think you should love the person that you do it with.
When I spoke to Allison Dubois the first time, we spoke for the most part about Dottye. I don't have my notes here in bed but I do recall something along the lines of Dottye looking for love, believing each man that to,d her "I love you".
There are days when I think I must be so much like her,or at least that I used to be so much like her. Lately I wonder though if maybe I am actually completely opposite from her.
Either way I don't think there is a thing that I could find out about her that would make me turn my back on her or speak unkindly of her. She struggled , that's a definite given. I believe we had a lot of the same sort of things happen in our lives. While she was looking for love, I was just looking to be rescued.
Love and rescue.
They kind of are the same really.
I will always keep my heart open for her. She is a part of my soul, and I will always feel the need to defend her. I think maybe because it feels like no one defended her enough while she was here.
My book sits in a box, I've yet to read it. I still feel like its not time. However, it does feel like it might be close to the time to write her story, as I see it.
I think it's time to make sure that people will Remember Dottye.
Don't you?
When I spoke to Allison Dubois the first time, we spoke for the most part about Dottye. I don't have my notes here in bed but I do recall something along the lines of Dottye looking for love, believing each man that to,d her "I love you".
There are days when I think I must be so much like her,or at least that I used to be so much like her. Lately I wonder though if maybe I am actually completely opposite from her.
Either way I don't think there is a thing that I could find out about her that would make me turn my back on her or speak unkindly of her. She struggled , that's a definite given. I believe we had a lot of the same sort of things happen in our lives. While she was looking for love, I was just looking to be rescued.
Love and rescue.
They kind of are the same really.
I will always keep my heart open for her. She is a part of my soul, and I will always feel the need to defend her. I think maybe because it feels like no one defended her enough while she was here.
My book sits in a box, I've yet to read it. I still feel like its not time. However, it does feel like it might be close to the time to write her story, as I see it.
I think it's time to make sure that people will Remember Dottye.
Don't you?
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
To have and to hold
Im one of the people who over the years have played the head game " If you could only grab a few things from your home, what would you grab?"
Growing up there were two stuffed animals. I would wish that I could take them all.....but two for sure. It would be those two stuffed animals and my baby blanket. I would even practice grabbing them in case of a fire. Currently, those two stuffed animals are together with my blanket, in my bedroom. I left them home that I grew up with, and they came with me.
As an adult I've played this game as well. Now I am speaking of material items, pretending that the humans and pets are outside waiting for me. What would I grab if I only had minutes?
I would cry, I would leave those stuffed puppies behind and blanket, in order to be able to grab my adoption files. There are several.
Before find
After find
Arizona
Birth father
Vegas
Mentions in other books
As well as my search scrap book.
My jewelry would be nice as well, maybe I'll think about wearing all of the sentimental items all of the time so I never have to worry about grabbing them.
Or maybe I just won't orry about it at all.
As I sat outside tonight looking at the stars and watching two planes fly over I had a wish that I imagine will not come true.
It's a comforting thought and a sad one all at the same time.
I wish I could find that hidden treasure chest.
You know the one right?
It's the one that holds the letter, the journal, the single item of jewelry even if it's costume, and an article of clothing. All in a treasure chest, or safety deposit box that is suddenly found.
The note says it is for me:
For my last born daughter, the daughter I never held but loved so much.
Xoxoxox your mom Dottye
That would have been so cool.
Growing up there were two stuffed animals. I would wish that I could take them all.....but two for sure. It would be those two stuffed animals and my baby blanket. I would even practice grabbing them in case of a fire. Currently, those two stuffed animals are together with my blanket, in my bedroom. I left them home that I grew up with, and they came with me.
As an adult I've played this game as well. Now I am speaking of material items, pretending that the humans and pets are outside waiting for me. What would I grab if I only had minutes?
I would cry, I would leave those stuffed puppies behind and blanket, in order to be able to grab my adoption files. There are several.
Before find
After find
Arizona
Birth father
Vegas
Mentions in other books
As well as my search scrap book.
My jewelry would be nice as well, maybe I'll think about wearing all of the sentimental items all of the time so I never have to worry about grabbing them.
Or maybe I just won't orry about it at all.
As I sat outside tonight looking at the stars and watching two planes fly over I had a wish that I imagine will not come true.
It's a comforting thought and a sad one all at the same time.
I wish I could find that hidden treasure chest.
You know the one right?
It's the one that holds the letter, the journal, the single item of jewelry even if it's costume, and an article of clothing. All in a treasure chest, or safety deposit box that is suddenly found.
The note says it is for me:
For my last born daughter, the daughter I never held but loved so much.
Xoxoxox your mom Dottye
That would have been so cool.
Monday, January 2, 2012
The gruesome facts
I find that often I feel the need for all of the facts. I'm just that way in life.
Tell me that you stepped in dog shit and I want to know where, what type of surface, how big, how solid and what shoes were you wearing if any at all.
Growing up when asking questions pertaining to my adoption I learned to work around the looks. My parents didn't look like they liked all of the questions. I learned to ask few questions but ask them at the right times in the right way.
Today I was focusing in part on researching my DNA matches. When you find fourth cousins it is a pretty big task to figure out how you relate when you yourself do not have any surnames to reference. I had an idea that didn't pan out too well however I will try a new idea in that area tomorrow or the next.
When doing "research" every now and then I feel the need to get into the reasons for my search.
I usually only need one item to bring me that answer, and it is my adoption scrapbook. I do not have each and every piece of paper work in that book, but the ones that cause the most emotion, pre Dottye.
My first designed page includes a photo of myself on the phone, for the first time with my sister Karen. It was July in Texas, hot, and I was out back so I could smoke while we talked. With those photos is the Columbus dispatch news article on Dottye's crash and death.
To look at that page is to see the pure happiness and the deepest of despair all at the same time.
As a side not I am typing this on my iPad with my ear buds in. I turned the music on shuffle. What song just came on for the first full song? Simple Minds Don't You (forget about me.) I shit you not I had no idea that I even had this song.
Anyway as I was saying.
I read the article once again. Then, I went to Facebook.
When Dottye died she had first hit two other cars. One was with a teen and his teen sister. I know the young man had critical injuries but someone later told me that he did survive, but lost an ear. His sister had cuts and bruises.
There was another teen who she hit and he didn't have any injures.
I do believe I found him on Facebook and did send him a message. I have no idea if he will reply and if he does I have no idea what I will say.
The other person that I believe I found was the accident investigator. Again, I have no idea if he will reply or recall the incident.
My desire to reach her, to know her, all the details both good and bad have taken me to some odd and also fun places.
Looking back at my search since finding her there has not been a thing mentioned to me that I have regretted hearing.
I understand that some do not need or want to know details and I am cool with that. We all take things in different ways and for some it is better to just know the main points. I however need to know them all.
As I turn my ear buds off to hear my husband snooping, I know that there are no answers that can take me down. I'm too strong to be broken by anyone but myself. The answers that may come to me this year I am unsure of what they will be.
I have no doubt though that there is a list of us ready to hear them, and should I need to fall for just a moment, I know there will be lots of people to hold me up.
Tell me that you stepped in dog shit and I want to know where, what type of surface, how big, how solid and what shoes were you wearing if any at all.
Growing up when asking questions pertaining to my adoption I learned to work around the looks. My parents didn't look like they liked all of the questions. I learned to ask few questions but ask them at the right times in the right way.
Today I was focusing in part on researching my DNA matches. When you find fourth cousins it is a pretty big task to figure out how you relate when you yourself do not have any surnames to reference. I had an idea that didn't pan out too well however I will try a new idea in that area tomorrow or the next.
When doing "research" every now and then I feel the need to get into the reasons for my search.
I usually only need one item to bring me that answer, and it is my adoption scrapbook. I do not have each and every piece of paper work in that book, but the ones that cause the most emotion, pre Dottye.
My first designed page includes a photo of myself on the phone, for the first time with my sister Karen. It was July in Texas, hot, and I was out back so I could smoke while we talked. With those photos is the Columbus dispatch news article on Dottye's crash and death.
To look at that page is to see the pure happiness and the deepest of despair all at the same time.
As a side not I am typing this on my iPad with my ear buds in. I turned the music on shuffle. What song just came on for the first full song? Simple Minds Don't You (forget about me.) I shit you not I had no idea that I even had this song.
Anyway as I was saying.
I read the article once again. Then, I went to Facebook.
When Dottye died she had first hit two other cars. One was with a teen and his teen sister. I know the young man had critical injuries but someone later told me that he did survive, but lost an ear. His sister had cuts and bruises.
There was another teen who she hit and he didn't have any injures.
I do believe I found him on Facebook and did send him a message. I have no idea if he will reply and if he does I have no idea what I will say.
The other person that I believe I found was the accident investigator. Again, I have no idea if he will reply or recall the incident.
My desire to reach her, to know her, all the details both good and bad have taken me to some odd and also fun places.
Looking back at my search since finding her there has not been a thing mentioned to me that I have regretted hearing.
I understand that some do not need or want to know details and I am cool with that. We all take things in different ways and for some it is better to just know the main points. I however need to know them all.
As I turn my ear buds off to hear my husband snooping, I know that there are no answers that can take me down. I'm too strong to be broken by anyone but myself. The answers that may come to me this year I am unsure of what they will be.
I have no doubt though that there is a list of us ready to hear them, and should I need to fall for just a moment, I know there will be lots of people to hold me up.
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