Adoption-Giving Up Your Child

I am an adoptee (from birth) and I have given a child up for adoption. Having experienced both ends of adoption I am in a uniquely qualified position to give some perspective on both.

Six months after my abortion I got pregnant again. It was an antibiotic thing again but this time I had been faithful to my boyfriend (same one as before) and not sexually assaulted so I knew who the father was. He and I broke up but for reasons other than my pregnancy, I wasn’t a very good girlfriend, and I ended up jumping right into an abusive relationship with a loser. Sometime in my seventh or eighth month of pregnancy I moved home (I was still in a different province). I was living with my parents in the maritimes when I went into labour. I gave birth to a little girl. I had already started the process of giving her up in a closed adoption through social services. I left my baby in the hospital for a week when it was time to leave but I visited her every day. The extra week in the hospital was a grace period where the mother can change her mind. And I did, I just couldn’t say good-bye.

I brought my daughter home and with my parents’ financial support I gave being a mother a shot. My mother took over quite a bit. It made me feel so incompetent, like I couldn’t get my own baby to stop crying or figure out what she needed. I wanted to be a good mother to this sweet little angel but I was not in a good place.

There’s a lot that happened within the first six months of my daughter’s life. Suffice it to say that I had gone back to that other province and left my baby with my parents. The plan was to bring her out to live with me after I got settled with my boyfriend. Things got violent and I thanked my lucky stars my baby was not with me. For her protection I asked them to have a custody arrangement of some kind but my parents had adoption papers drawn up instead. I signed them, I knew I wasn’t in a stable position to be a parent. It was really hard watching my parents raise her and without saying anything. Sure I could see her every day if I wanted to (I did move out of my parents’ home after signing the papers) but that meant I could not acknowledge her as mine. I had to listen to her call them Mom and Dad. I regretted giving her up but shudder to think of where we would both be if I had made a different decison back then.

I stand by my decision to give my baby up (with the regret and all) but I can’t help but wonder if it would have been better for my mental health if she was raised by people I did not know. It got harder as she grew to hide her parentage from strangers as people began to notice quite a resemblance between her and me; plus everyone around knew this big family secret.

The Choices We Have

I was eighteen the first time I got pregnant. I was on the pill but had also taken antibiotics and did not know how they affected the pill. I was scared, unsure of what to do next. You see, at eighteen I was naive and horny and had been fooling around on my boyfriend who I lived with. I was also sexually assaulted in the same timeframe. I had no easy choice but I had to make a decision and fairly quickly.

What were my options? I could give the baby up for adoption; I could terminate the pregnancy; or I could have the baby and raise him/her. Each solution posed its own unique set of unique challenges and I was the one who would have to live with the consequences. Not my boyfriend, or the guy I fooled around with or the guy who raped me, not my parents or my boyfriend’s parents, I and I alone would have to live with the consequences of my decision permanently.

I thought giving the baby up for adoption meant I would end up wondering where he or she was and wouldn’t be able to let go. I was concerned that the child would grow up with many of the same feelings I had: abandonment; resentment; sadness; anger; and some I just haven’t found a name for. It meant I would have this human grow inside of me to just give him/her away.

I knew my boyfriend would not want to raise a child fathered by the guy I fooled around with, he would not want to raise the child of a rapist, and honestly, neither would I. I settled on terminating the pregnancy. It felt like the best option for me at the time. I underestimated how much emotional baggage it would create.

So, let’s talk abortion first, there’s not a whole lot I have to say about it other than it sucked. I cried for days before and years after. Being raised Catholic coupled with the fact I was the family scapegoat gave me an overdeveloped sense of guilt and shame and so I was unprepared for the emotional turmoil which ensued. I had a really hard time living with what I had done until I finally learned to show my younger self a little compassion.

Not everyone will experience these feelings, some women won’t think twice about it. This is not a judgement, I support a woman’s right to choose whether or not to terminate her pregnancy 100% and maintain that she does not owe me or anyone else an explaination. A decision like this is all about what she can live with.

Today is day three of quitting smoking for the umpteenth time. I’m cranky and restless, I can’t seem to sit still for more than five seconds at a time. Though this post will be published all at once I can assure you I’ve taken ten thousand or so breaks.

My partner, who hates smoking with a passion, is thrilled I’m giving quitting another go. He is more than willing to put up with the complaining and the occasional outburst over something silly. He’s even helping me pay for the patches and losenges.

I started smoking off and on when I was eleven or twelve. Not long after that I was a bonafide full time smoker. I felt older, cooler, I felt like a bad-ass kind of rebel. I knew my parents hated it which only appealed to me more. I fostered a relationship with cigarettes. They were my best friend in many ways, they’ve been with me during hard times and good times, they’ve outlasted most of my relationships, including friendships. They were there for me when nobody else was. They calmed me, they relaxed me, they were such an integral part of my life there was nothing I did that did not involve smoking.

As much as they have done for me, they have done a lot to me. They have drained my bank accounts, they have put me in debt, they have robbed me of my lung capacity and function, they’ve made my fingers and teeth yellow, they did everything an abuser does. They controlled my mood, behaviour, and my apetite.

Being on a modest fixed income I cannot afford to smoke so what happens is I will have enough money to buy cigarettes for about three weeks in a month. Cigarettes are not my only expense. And when I do run out of cash I borrow money or sell something I want to get rid of anyway (I’ll soon run out of things I want to sell too). The whole thing became a cycle, every three weeks or so I went through nicotine withdrawals a couple of times before I could get my hands on smokes again. That’s hard on the body, constantly shocking it like that, not to mention my partner’s having to deal with me became hard on our relationship.

Now, in order for me to be successful, I feel I must view cigarettes as a thief of time and money, and my realtionship with them an abusive one. I am breaking up with an abusive life long “partner” or “friend”. And just like any abuser, they will try to lure me back, they will smell good, they will make me think I can manage just one, they will look sexy and bold. Cigarettes have seduced me more then once, I did say this was my umpteenth time quitting, didn’t I? They will try to make me feel as though I am nothing without them, I can do nothing without them. And all I can do is keep on going, sometimes just five minutes at a time.

I have a few of strategies I’ve employed. I have stocked up on things to do with my hands…painting, drawing, writing, crochet and books. I have clay and a dremel for engraving, I have a wood burner with different decorative tips and some thoughts on how I want to use the money I don’t spend on cigarettes to inspire my granddaughter by sending her some science, engineering, and art projects. I picked up a workbook by Tim Desmond on practicing self compassion, seems like a good time for it. The unhealthiest strategy I have is spending my modest income as soon as I get it so I don’t buy cigarettes. I will say it is effective though.

The sculpture with this post was done between days one and two off the smokes. It has been drying but with cracks at some of the joints. I’m not sure if I will repair it or not as I think the cracks are kind of like me coming unravelled if things don’t work out the way I want. Then again, I am repairing myself by quitting smoking…decisions, decisions. Either way, it’s called Namaste Muthafuckas!

One New Year’s Eve I experienced what may very well be the best way to describe the word alone. I was in weird place and in a polyamorous relationship with a married couple. They dragged me out for the night. We danced and mingled but my heart really wasn’t into it. The clock finally struck twelve and I swear every single living soul in the bar was making out with their partners, including my date(s), but I was not. I tried to shrink back into the shadows and find comfort in the drink in my hand.

One would think I’d be used to it after years of being the kid who didn’t get any Valentine’s day cards or invitations to parties. I was often left out of fun activities, even in the youth group I had joined.

How many of us have had the same striking feeling of aloneness and abandonment. Often an accompanying feeling of being about as out of place as a beautful steak dinner served on garbage can lid? In the scenario, the people, are like the steak dinner and I, well I’m the lid. I’m not a part of the feast even though I’m right there. Not only am I not a part of the feast, I am the least attractive presentation of something that is otherwise fantastic. I watch the steak dinner get devoured from the underside wishing that I could join in with the revelers or at the very least be blissfully unaware there is even a steak dinner at all.

Alone isn’t always a bad thing. I can take the time to recharge and relax; maybe have a hot bath with some epsom salts and candles and my thoughts; reflect on my day and meditate. That’s the kind of solitude where I feel safe, warm and at peace. It helps the creative process. But the other one, the dark one can suck the life right out of me.

When isolation feels cold and dark I try to turn my attention inward and practice self-care. It can be hard when I feel like my existance is so wrong in so many ways. Yoga became a big part of my life, I listen to tons of music or get creative, I do things to make myself feel like I am a part of the universe, a part of the overall human experience even if it is just making a stupid dentist appointment. If I am successful the aloneness isn’t so crushingly dark.

I want to share a song by one of the coolest bands ever (in my humble opinion). There is so much about this song that resonates deeply with me. I feel this song speaking for me, describing my mental and physical exhaustion from facing the never ending slew of assaults on my mental health. It says in spite of my being so very tired I’m still here, I’m still standing, if only barely.

Veteran of a Thousand Psychic Wars

Blue Oyster Cult

If you’ve read my first blog post you know that I have had a lot of truama in my life. I feel I’ve been used and abused by most people in my life; my family, at school, romantic partners, I could go on but that is not the purpose of this post. This post is about facing some harsh realities, including accepting the fact I brought all of my hurts, suffering, poor mental health and anger into my parenting. Probably the easiest thing to do would be to say, “well, I did the best I could.” The statement is as true as the day is long but it also sounds very defensive to me and doesn’t really acknowledge anything or resolve anything.

Most everybody does the best they can at any given moment and wants to do better; those are two basic truths I carry with me at all times. So, yes, one hundred percent, I did the best I could, but it doesn’t help vaildate what my children went through, their hurts and feelings. I understand this because my own mother will never say anything more than she did her best, which I accept, but still crave the acknowledgement and validation of my feelings about my childhood, and maybe even just a little remorse. I feel she poured all of her resentment towatds her sister into me but that’s a whole other thing.

When it came to my children, I was the accessing parent, I had my kids every other weekend and half the summer and other holidays. This arrangement was made after I moved back home but from the time they were around two and a half and eighteen months until they were seven or eight and five or six I lived halfway across the country from them.

I sent them to live with their dad as I was recovering from a bilateral mastectomy and reconstructive surgery, my boyfriend beat me up and I was trying to find a way to leave him. I wasn’t in the best “mother” condition. I had to find another place quickly and had very few options. I didn’t have any family near where I lived who could help or any close friends who were in a position to help. I called their father and asked him to come get them until I got better. He came and got them but then wouldn’t give them back and I didn’t have a snowball in Hell’s chance (according to a lawyer in my family).

I remained in Ontario and my kids lived with their dad in New Brunswick so I didn’t see them after their dad collected them. When I was finally able to go to NB for a visit it was with the intention of moving back, but my folks thought I would be better off heading back to Ontario where I had a job I could go back to. In New Brunswick I’d be starting over (yet again) and there weren’t any jobs to speak of. During my visit I made a monumental mistake and promised my little boy that I would never leave him again. But I did leave and he remembered. After that I rarely saw them until I finally did move back to New Brunswick with a fiancee and his daughter in tow a couple of years later.

My son and my daughter have both confronted me on sending them to their father and I, unfortunately, did the same damn thing my mother did. I defended myself. My son accused me of abandoning them the last time he spoke to me. Instead of even trying to see his perspective I became really defensive and listed all the reasons I felt I had to do what I did. Not one single time in the conversation did I validate or respect his feelings rather I demanded he validate and respect mine. This happened before thereapy, before healing from a lifetime of trauma ; including a fifteen year marriage to a narcissist. A couple of years ago I saw my son and pleaded with him to get some help, to get evaluated for ADHD or Aspbergers, to go to counselling for his anger issues. He hasn’t spoken to me since and wants me to stay as far away as possible (at least for now).

My daughter has tried to express her feelings of longing for her mother as she was growing up. She tried to understand why I left her and asked a trillion questions, sometimes a million times. She tried to tell me of her own trauma, how she felt. What did I do? I told her to go to therapy and move on even though I couldn’t. I told her dwelling too long in the past is a dangerous game (true but not helpful in the moment), I told her about Dialectical Behavioural Therapy, a therapy I had just finished. I wasn’t yet in a place where I could tolerate the starkly bald truth, that I contributed to her trauma.

My stepdaughter no longer speaks to me but I’m not really clear on why. The last time she did chat with me she said I was more like a mother to her than anything else as her mother had passed away when she was around eleven. I’m reasonably sure it is due to pressure from her father and half brother and I think it’s just because they are both controlling narcissists. I honestly don’t even know why her half brother stopped talking to me altogether either except maybe because I left my husband, but I digress.

During a counselling session my therapist suggested, I read a book. One little book, Toxic Parents by Susan Foward, PhD. and let me just say mind blown! Not only did I see my family clearly and my role in my as their scapegoat, I was also able to see my parenting flaws. It blew my mind wide open and rocked my world on fundamental level. I saw how I brought my own dysfunction to the table and that my kids had their own trauma as a result. I also saw how their father and step-father’s parenting traumatized them. I saw the mental abuse my step-daughter endured her whole life from her dad and how I did not protect her, instead I defended him. I feel I made a huge mistake.

In fact, my overall parenting left some things to be desired though I was not an abusive parent myself. I just wasn’t present for them and did not protect them as I should have; and I was complacent, which is still hurtul and damaging. Ex-husband number two would often take over disciplining my children which was inappropriate but I felt so powerless in my marriage. I just want to make it clear and state for the record neither man phyiscally hurt any of the kids in any way, shape or form, it was the belittleling, and that my hsuband thought he had the right to discpline my children in any way.

After finishing the book I was able to speak frankly, open, and honestly with my daughter without defensivenss. I was able to validate her and her childhood experiences. I was able to discuss my lack of parenting skills without overwhelming feelings of guilt and shame, I learned how to better communicate with her, and I learned how to show her that I love her in a way she understands.

She has a daughter who is the absolute sunshine of my life. My daughter is determined to break the cycle of (and truly, let’s call it what it is) mental and emotional abuse and neglect, and has been quite successful. Her little girl is far too smart for her own good but she is indeed quite charming. My granddaughter is sweet, sensitive, kind and is the best snuggler.

If my son reached out to me now I would have very different conversations with him. I would let him know I can see how and why he feels I abandoned him. Everything I was going through at the time doesn’t make his experience less painful for him. I would have better respect for his boundaries and stop pushing him so hard to get help. He’s in the social services system now and is facing some serious legal troubles, they may be better positioned to have those discussions with him. I would just be there for him but I wouldn’t take and shit from him either.

If my stepdaughter ever reached out to me. I would avoid talking to her about her father. She knows what he’s like, she was and still is there. If we had a relationship it would have to be just about her and me, her father’s name should never leave my lips, at least not in a derogatory or prying way.

For now I am repairing my relationship with my daughter and helping build a strong confident empowered granddaughter. For now that is what I have and so for now, just for now, it will have to be enough.