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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
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.
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