tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83592009488987099812024-03-12T19:03:19.285-07:00Adoption, InterruptedAdoption doesn't always mean "happily ever after."Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-12385799510235454392022-03-12T13:01:00.002-08:002022-03-12T13:01:39.646-08:00Mr. and Mrs. Jones<p> As a follow-up to my last post (three years ago!), our mother said she'd been married once prior to marrying our father, but we weren't able to find any proof of that.</p><p>Thanks to Ancestry continuing to add records, I've now been able to verify that she did, in fact, get married in July of 1952.</p><p>In Colorado, to which I was asked "What the hell was she doing in Colorado?"</p><p>That, unfortunately, is a question I'll probably never be able to answer, but at least we've learned this much.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxo5w6wHcEYGjm-5XZ3IOpiTyLxdeawQ709XzqFj3wkvu5g05KPKH9fxXO5Yzn3KhipKBr5lB2CN2-GVxFgCitnO7a-wye_jPVhKZPO_tuTiYv-0eYyWnP4-ytkol14JEjHrJUkxTl3ymJjlyEWRgHcsEihGVUbeIYZqgGrXgETgjnJ4HtzqN-C1UhFA=s853" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="853" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxo5w6wHcEYGjm-5XZ3IOpiTyLxdeawQ709XzqFj3wkvu5g05KPKH9fxXO5Yzn3KhipKBr5lB2CN2-GVxFgCitnO7a-wye_jPVhKZPO_tuTiYv-0eYyWnP4-ytkol14JEjHrJUkxTl3ymJjlyEWRgHcsEihGVUbeIYZqgGrXgETgjnJ4HtzqN-C1UhFA=w640-h500" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Side note: She must have thought that July was a good month for marriage, as she married our father almost exactly three years later (7/13/55).<br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-87755642285226880252018-09-09T09:23:00.000-07:002018-09-09T09:26:58.409-07:00Finding photographs .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I saw a TV ad for Ancestry's new yearbooks feature, I decided to take advantage and try looking up some relatives. Then someone reminded me that Classmates also has thousands of yearbooks online, so I thought to check there as well.</div>
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It took some digging, but I was finally able to find my mother's high school graduation picture.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Class of 1947</td></tr>
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My brother reminded me where she'd attended college and, after some more digging, I found those yearbooks online through the school's library. </div>
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In 1948, she's named as an officer of Crown and Scepter, an organization affiliated with the Order of the Eastern Star. Fifteen young women are listed as members, but only 13 are in the picture. I asked my siblings, but they're not sure if she's actually in the picture or not. We agree that if she IS pictured, she's the young woman on the far left.</div>
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In 1949, she's a member of the Sigma Sigma Sigma sorority, and that's definitely her seated at the far end of the last row. It's since become more inclusive, but at the time, this sorority was for women who were training to be teachers.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivdaJe5Ss_D9BE2Rgwa25nQ9-iEnqMWHtaPn9Fmf4B-AluuQjf94qvt3anS6U1J5D8KyMJzW3Ld1TOcl2hs6bsJvMbNx8Idw8LN-ld1IsBNsZQzDCoWA5YPMeM5a97ep0wHnyxSgjsPPUo/s1600/SuzanneSorority2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="624" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivdaJe5Ss_D9BE2Rgwa25nQ9-iEnqMWHtaPn9Fmf4B-AluuQjf94qvt3anS6U1J5D8KyMJzW3Ld1TOcl2hs6bsJvMbNx8Idw8LN-ld1IsBNsZQzDCoWA5YPMeM5a97ep0wHnyxSgjsPPUo/s320/SuzanneSorority2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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So, my mother was attempting to follow in the steps of HER mother. Go to college, become a teacher, get married, settle down. She had a lot of artistic talent, dreams of something bigger, and I can only imagine how confined she must have felt. She didn't return to college in 1950.</div>
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A few years before she died, she told my older sister that she'd been married once before marrying our father, but would only say that the man's name was "Jones." While digging for pictures, I also searched for any records verifying this. I found a 1954 church record indicating transference of membership to a different church within the city. This was seven years after she graduated from high school; four years after dropping out of college. She married my father in 1955, in San Francisco, so if she actually was married previously, it had to have happened between 1949 and 1954. </div>
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Curiously, though, the church record still lists her under her maiden name. Although I'm not 100% certain, I believe tradition then was that if a woman divorced, she kept her married name. So -- was she actually married before, or not? When discussing this with my sister, we realized that she married our father in July of 1955 and my sister and brother were born in March of 1956. That's just eight months, not nine -- did they marry because "they had to"? Given that, I suggested to my sister that perhaps our mother didn't actually marry her purported first husband. Perhaps they were simply living together and she was saving face 40 years later by claiming the relationship was legally recognized.</div>
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We don't know and, unless some as-yet-elusive records emerge, we likely never will. It does give me a bit of a smile to think that, just maybe, she decided to flout conventional mores back before it was fashionable to do so.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-74832660597928846022017-06-18T10:55:00.002-07:002017-06-18T10:55:42.610-07:00Three out of four ain't bad .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
Had a good time reuniting with two of my three siblings in April. My older brother wasn't able to join us, but my older sister and younger brother were there, along with their spouses.</div>
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It's interesting how, even though we were mostly raised apart, we're so very similar in so very many ways. It was good to feel that connection, although we were only together for a couple days.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Older sister, "baby" brother, and me; April, 2017</td></tr>
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Hopefully we won't have to wait 20 years for the next get-together!</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-20314851956891218562017-02-20T14:38:00.002-08:002017-02-20T14:38:48.341-08:00Sibling Reunion .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
If I'm remembering correctly, the last time that all three of my full siblings and I were together was in 1996. It's also the <b><u>only</u></b> time we've all been together, except for when we were very young children. In 1996, the occasion was our mother's birthday, and it was a surprise. She hadn't seen me in several years, and hadn't seen my younger brother since he was taken away from her for adoption at the age of three months.</div>
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Last year my older brother and sister, who are fraternal twins, turned 60. They decided on a co-celebration and invited me to join them. Unfortunately, their birthday falls at a time when it just wasn't possible for me to get away so, reluctantly, I had to decline. </div>
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So this year, as <u><b>*I*</b></u> turn 60 (and just how the heck did THAT happen?), there was some chatter about them coming to see me to formally acknowledge my official over-the-hill-ness. In the end, though, we decided it was easiest if I traveled to them. So, come April, I'll be heading off for a second sibling reunion. I'm actually glad I'm making the trip this year rather than last, as my younger brother (who also didn't attend last year) will be able to join us!</div>
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I've met my sister's husband, but haven't met my brothers' wives, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to get to know these new-to-me family members. </div>
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And I'm grateful that we all actually consider each other to BE siblings. Legally, that's not the case, as adoption has officially made us "cousins" -- but we refuse to use that term. We are, now and forever, brothers and sisters. Siblings. <b><u>Family</u></b>.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Happy Birthday to me!</span></i></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-66134433077408091442016-11-10T16:31:00.005-08:002016-11-10T16:31:48.729-08:00Shameless Self-Promotion, part deux .....I recently published my second children's book, again starring the kitten that I adopted from our local animal shelter. One of our local news stations did a story on the book, since a portion of the proceeds are donated back to the shelter, and I'm excited to report that we're already seeing a positive reaction.<br />
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Watch the interview <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.nbc29.com/clip/12885067/fluvanna-co-spca-receiving-proceeds-from-book-sale" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">HERE</a></span> and, if you're so inclined, snag your own copy of the book at Amazon.com:<br />
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Wibber-Dibber-Doo-Merry-Christmas/dp/0996303367" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Wibber Dibber Doo, Merry Christmas to You</a> </div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-55496103637803632182016-05-07T17:29:00.000-07:002016-05-07T18:17:04.230-07:00On the air .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
Although I'm pretty open with my adoption story here, it's not a topic that I normally share with others. So what do you do when there's something about your life that you don't necessarily want a lot of people to know about?</div>
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Why, you go on the radio and tell all!</div>
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The host, the other guest and I talked for more than two hours, and it was edited down to a more manageable one hour total time (split into two half-hour segments). Some of the things we discussed were a surprise to the host and, most likely, will be a surprise to the majority of her listeners also.</div>
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It went well, and I'm glad I took the plunge. Hopefully our shared experiences will help some other adoptees who may be struggling with the same feelings and issues.</div>
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<a href="http://wina.com/podcasts/adoption-hour-1/" target="_blank">Conversations with Wendy (part 1)</a></div>
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<a href="http://wina.com/podcasts/adoption-hour-2/" target="_blank">Conversations with Wendy (part 2)</a></div>
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Many thanks to Wendy Edwards for giving us a safe place to speak our truth, and to her friend, Yvette, for sharing her personal experiences with us! </div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-43878021403439077652016-04-05T14:55:00.001-07:002016-04-05T15:30:56.036-07:00Things that make you go "Ugh" .....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A few years ago, I purchased some new drinkware from Pier 1. The glasses were really nice -- solid, heavy, and with indentations to make them easy to hold. I really, really liked them. Until I dropped one, and then another one fell over in the sink and cracked. With only two full-sized glasses left, I decided it was time to buy some new ones.</div>
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Pier 1 has since relocated and is farther away from where I live, so I opted to go to a big box retailer instead. I found some glasses that looked decent and were relatively inexpensive, so I bought the set and brought them home.</div>
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Once out of the box, they weren't as nice as I'd thought, but it wasn't worth a trip to take them back, so I ran them through the dishwasher and stored them in the cupboard. Since then, I've used the large tumblers several times, but the smaller ones have sat undisturbed on the shelf. </div>
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Until recently.</div>
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When I wanted just a little to drink one night, I grabbed one of the small tumblers. I filled it, lifted it to my lips, and had an immediate reaction of "Ugh!". Though that may seem an unusual reaction to a drinking glass, I knew right away where the feeling came from. The glass in my hand was almost exactly the same size and shape as those used by my uncle's wife for her nightly martini(s).</div>
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Back in the day, gas stations used to give away free promotional items to encourage customers to patronize their businesses. One year, the local Shell station gave away NFL-themed drinking glasses, like this, and several of them were in regular use in my uncle's house:</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My U.S. History teacher gave a student extra credit for bringing him a Jets glass!</td></tr>
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I've not hidden my dislike for my
uncle's wife (as she never hid hers for me), but there were things about
her that were always especially irritating to me, and one of them was her
drinking. My grandparents were not drinkers (except for the beer my
grandfather drank, literally, once or twice a year), so my "Wonder
Years" were spent in an alcohol-free household. I'm certain that I picked up
some negative feelings towards drinking from my grandparents, as they
certainly were judgmental in many ways. I am as well -- so be it.</div>
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But
I hated the smell of alcohol -- then and now -- and never took up
drinking myself. This is actually a <b><u>good</u> </b>thing, because more than once I've felt that, if I allowed myself to do so, I could lose myself in a bottle and possibly not be able to find my way out again.</div>
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Regardless, I vividly remember the stops at the liquor store on
the way home from grocery shopping. While I waited in the car, my uncle's wife would dash in and exit with a brown bag filled with clinking bottles. The liquor store trips became more and more frequent
as I got older, and I have no doubt there was a correlation between my
age (and attitude) and her drinking. I'm sure I sneered at her at the time (since there wasn't anything she could possibly do that would NOT result in a sneer), but I knew enough to keep my sneer well-hidden from her. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
By the time I was in high school, cleaning up after dinner became my responsibility. Honestly, I didn't mind doing it -- especially once a dishwasher had been installed -- but I can distinctly remember the feeling of revulsion each time I had to pick up an empty martini glass and load it in the dishwasher. It was that feeling that flooded through me when I first used one of my new glasses.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Whether these NFL glasses were the exact ones that she drank from or not, I can't
say for sure -- but the ones she used WERE this size and shape. And I was more than a bit surprised to have what was essentially a flashback just by handling a piece of glassware.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i>The mind remembers, much as we'd like to forget.</i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I absolutely don't want these glasses in my home, so will be donating them to the local Goodwill for someone else to use. I'll then head back to Pier 1 with hopes of finding the same nice glasses I had before. Rest assured that I'll be more careful with them this time! </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-85809896571468270292015-11-02T18:44:00.000-08:002015-11-02T18:44:36.314-08:00Shameless Self-Promotion .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
In October of 2014, an essay I wrote was published in the book <i>Dear Wonderful You, Letters to Adopted and Fostered Youth</i>. It's a compilation of writings meant for adolescent/teen readers, especially those who might be struggling with adoption-related issues. It's been very well-received by individuals who work with such youngsters, as well as by others who have simply been touched by the experiences shared by the writers.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
November of 2015 brings the new book, <i>Flip the Script</i>, an adult adoptee anthology of essays and visual art. With nearly 50 writers and artists, the book presents a wide variety of opinions on the institution of adoption. Each contributor attempts to show how adoption has shaped and affected his/her life, with the understanding that although our lives share a common event, we are a diverse group and all deserve to be recognized and heard.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
While I'm proud to be included in both these book, I'm most proud of the children's book that I wrote and published on my own. It's not adoption-related -- at least not *people* adoption-related. It tells the story of a kitten I adopted from a local shelter, and his experiences in his new home. Illustrated with water colors painted by the talented Rebekah Wells, it's a sweet story of love between human and feline. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I hope you find something of value in all three of these works!</div>
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wonderful-Letters-Adopted-Fostered-Project/dp/1502746654" target="_blank">Dear Wonderful You, Letters to Adopted and Fostered Youth</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flip-Script-Adoptee-Anthology--YA/dp/1517686741" target="_blank">Flip the Script, Adult Adoptee Anthology</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wibber-Dibber-Doo-Love-You/dp/0996303391" target="_blank">Wibber Dibber Doo, I Love You</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FCB2FY3iYcxwFPV6HiGaFF36Fv1xkwk86YFLz0upbJmUcFKkhZjsCkRNtwCcJGoPyCLUYsh7JOUNUTRuwdinpM5KQkgcoPWI6E4jFLj9A9a0xQzSnpDvNeefikhRxvV2d8ST4HKErwbc/s1600/FrontCover-Rev.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FCB2FY3iYcxwFPV6HiGaFF36Fv1xkwk86YFLz0upbJmUcFKkhZjsCkRNtwCcJGoPyCLUYsh7JOUNUTRuwdinpM5KQkgcoPWI6E4jFLj9A9a0xQzSnpDvNeefikhRxvV2d8ST4HKErwbc/s320/FrontCover-Rev.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also available directly from the publisher: <a href="http://honeysuckleacres.wix.com/wibberdibberdoo" target="_blank">Wibber Dibber Doo</a></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-34922249745477960152015-08-08T19:41:00.000-07:002015-08-08T19:42:12.172-07:00Continuing the conversation on the adoption contract .....It never ceases me to amaze me that people who have no personal experience with, or connection to, an issue can be SO hostile towards people who do.<br />
<br />
<br />
But, as they say, "it is what it is".<br />
<br />
My essay, dated August 4, 2015, from <i>The Guardian</i> online:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/aug/04/adoptees-annul-relationship-adoptive-parents" target="_blank">Adult adoptees should be able to annul their relationship with their adoptive parents</a><br />
<br />
As of today's date, my little essay has been shared more than 2,300 times and has garnered 561 comments.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhodXfSKOwCb3KUCyz1J4buUkGJRkfVkjWxElEv1FWxm07u8VEADbadmy9fqbe6GFcs083Xku6AH539ycqf8NY1sOe12UMgkwJse13GUYIMvpPMapv1IfYbb3-A4i3pn9MF_c8nXeVaFTTh/s1600/guardianstats.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhodXfSKOwCb3KUCyz1J4buUkGJRkfVkjWxElEv1FWxm07u8VEADbadmy9fqbe6GFcs083Xku6AH539ycqf8NY1sOe12UMgkwJse13GUYIMvpPMapv1IfYbb3-A4i3pn9MF_c8nXeVaFTTh/s1600/guardianstats.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Many of the comments are negative, but that's OK.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It may not be something that's important to a lot of people, but for some of us it definitely IS, and I'm pleased that I was able to provide an opportunity for those voices to be heard.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-14887931280021853492015-07-12T17:10:00.002-07:002015-07-12T17:10:33.140-07:00Life, interrupted .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
If you've spent any time around women, you've probably heard one of them say, "I can't believe it, I'm turning into my mother!" Quite often, we do take on characteristics of our mothers, since that's what we've grown up with.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
In my case, because I had three mother figures, I ended up taking on characteristics of all three. Unfortunately, none of them were <u>good</u> characteristics.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Given the numerous dysfunctions in my life, I don't know why I ever thought I was capable of being a good mother. Ego ... pride ... hubris? Whatever, I was confident that I'd never make the mistakes the adults in my life had made.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And yet ..... </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
On December 28, 2008, I received the following e-mail from my son:</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana",sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mother:<br />
I got the box a few days ago. I threw it away. Anything else you send me will
either be similiarly trashed, or returned. Any emails you send will be deleted
unopened, any calls you make unanswered and unreturned. I will never
communicate with you again after this email, nor accept anything from you
again.<br />
I hope you can find happiness in your life.</span> </i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
This was the last communication I had from him, as he committed suicide two days later. He was 22.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
As soon as I heard the news, it was like a blindfold had been pulled from my eyes. It was a moment of great clarity and I was immediately aware of my inadequacy as a mother. I realized how much I'd repeatedly hurt and disappointed him in his too-short life. I understood, with soul-crushing certainty, that his death was, without question, my fault.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I will carry the grief and guilt with me for the rest of my life.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0oIpDco-6dwJJVpIoa4nsoX4Tu0Q1FCqUeF5TBTDMnvlhTv9HWJJavMhIpea9hcE-dc0l4ioN9RCfsEpVgFZiGO4Bg9P8UDXkdtRAIATCd4iXemVApcgfrHjJ63gY5_wtYf_DuVnkUAA6/s1600/Taylor-Florida.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0oIpDco-6dwJJVpIoa4nsoX4Tu0Q1FCqUeF5TBTDMnvlhTv9HWJJavMhIpea9hcE-dc0l4ioN9RCfsEpVgFZiGO4Bg9P8UDXkdtRAIATCd4iXemVApcgfrHjJ63gY5_wtYf_DuVnkUAA6/s400/Taylor-Florida.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring Break in Florida, 1996</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Of all the many regrets in my life, this is the greatest. You are my heart, Taylor, and I still miss you so much.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm sorry. </div>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-63690007952028363262015-07-05T10:10:00.000-07:002015-07-05T19:51:43.590-07:00The natural state of childhood .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sooooo -- on another blog, I was just told that "The natural state of childhood is lack of choice."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This was in reference to comments I posted about my desire to have my adoption annulled. Of course, other respondents gave me the same, tired, suggestions that I've heard so many times before: </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<ul>
<li>Just change your name</li>
<li>Just find someone else to adopt you</li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Ugh.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm 58 years old, folks! I don't WANT to be re-adopted. Even if I DID, I'm too damned old.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And I've already changed my name through the courts, thank you very much. That doesn't change the fact that the people listed on my birth certificates as my "parents" are not, and shouldn't be granted that title. The knowledge that when I die, their names will also go on my death certificate? Infuriating.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Here's the thing. Let's suppose that once you got married, the law said you couldn't get divorced unless you were going to immediately marry someone else. Once you said "I do," single life is no longer an option for you. Ever.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Does that sound right to you? </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
That's what adoption is, except the initial choice (the contract) isn't something you agree to -- others made the decision for you.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Here's perhaps a better analogy. Suppose, when you're born, your parents decide that you should marry someone they've picked out for you. They sign a contract stating that you will marry John (or Jane) on a specific date, and John's (or Jane's) parents sign a similar contract saying their child will marry you.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Should you be bound by that contract? I'm pretty sure you'll say no. And why? Because someone else is determining your future for you, without allowing you to have any say in the matter.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Ahem. Just like adoption.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But <u><b>adoption</b></u><b> </b>is OK because "The natural state of childhood is lack of choice," right?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Right. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcURxSSswCwRM22BoJBYMy1JbgNiIk3sygi8_98byWJ8fvoALy11H52XxtV4_7c1vU0ZqrVeqArYw7tTalmfcVrf9EQ3CUgdwC5WY2F8ZWL0HqcA-MqS1o7DC2K1dSfzAOlW7ZDc3nkjtd/s1600/eyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcURxSSswCwRM22BoJBYMy1JbgNiIk3sygi8_98byWJ8fvoALy11H52XxtV4_7c1vU0ZqrVeqArYw7tTalmfcVrf9EQ3CUgdwC5WY2F8ZWL0HqcA-MqS1o7DC2K1dSfzAOlW7ZDc3nkjtd/s320/eyes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-45700561059127084452015-07-04T16:35:00.001-07:002015-07-05T04:49:44.986-07:00As Maine goes .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
..... so goes the nation?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This story has been circulating widely in the adoption community since it appeared yesterday:</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://bangordailynews.com/2015/07/03/news/state/bill-to-outlaw-rehoming-of-adopted-children-to-become-law/comments/" target="_blank">Bill to outlaw rehoming of adopted children to become law</a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
and it's being celebrated as a long-overdue mandate.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Two years ago, Reuters published a series of articles on the underground practice of rehoming adopted children (<a href="http://www.reuters.com/investigates/adoption/#article/part1" target="_blank">The Child Exchange</a>). Most Americans were unaware that this was happening, and certainly unaware that it was going on without legal oversight of any kind.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The children most affected by this practice typically have been adopted from overseas, and out of infancy. Chances are, they have spent some length of time in an orphanage or other institutional care and, as a result, have developed behaviors that make it nearly impossible for them to integrate into a traditional family. Perhaps they have medical or health issues that will require extensive treatment in order for them to lead normal lives. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Many times, would-be adopters are not informed of these behavior and health issues, or they naively assume that "love conquers all" and that once "their child" is home, all will be well.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsO9HQyM6stNPeibLiFxsdB7hJoVuzcJHsF_1zVYcGHTBICe-NF-Yy4l3sjwBIgGedqgg22HVfNyEfSpeLJhkI6BIpGkO1967I3G1pEehJdvfR82VoocKX5wtrUWQGdS8Jrxr_eJfoV5f/s1600/loveconquersall.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="97" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsO9HQyM6stNPeibLiFxsdB7hJoVuzcJHsF_1zVYcGHTBICe-NF-Yy4l3sjwBIgGedqgg22HVfNyEfSpeLJhkI6BIpGkO1967I3G1pEehJdvfR82VoocKX5wtrUWQGdS8Jrxr_eJfoV5f/s320/loveconquersall.PNG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Love conquers all"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The sad reality is, though, that many of these children will never meet their adopters' expectations. They may be angry or violent, they may be destructive, they may hoard food, they may be diagnosed with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reactive_attachment_disorder" target="_blank">RAD</a> or <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oppositional_defiant_disorder" target="_blank">ODD</a>, they may abuse animals or other children in the home.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
At some point, adopters become overwhelmed with the child's behavior and decide that their best option is to find a new home for him/her. However, since adoption is supposed to be "forever," and states -- reasonably so -- make it difficult for parents to simply give away their children, these adopters turn to sites such as <a href="https://www.facebook.com/secondchanceadoptions" target="_blank">this Facebook page</a>. If you've ever seen descriptions of pets on a rescue site, you'll recognize the format: a cute picture, a short biography and, most likely, no mention of any serious issues that might exist.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
See? Aren't they all just so adorable?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNa40AB0YuWP1E9hyphenhyphenQUxOeogy3vfuY6qEAG_65DPJ2lxsHzsH0uCH_-jMw15QgPN50vVPiQQ_eDw6x_SzCNkJn4SQ3Jr0-7vT50AMi2LG4tr_TsqB5yDewhC2qG_At4dejSGzzsK11-umj/s1600/animals.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNa40AB0YuWP1E9hyphenhyphenQUxOeogy3vfuY6qEAG_65DPJ2lxsHzsH0uCH_-jMw15QgPN50vVPiQQ_eDw6x_SzCNkJn4SQ3Jr0-7vT50AMi2LG4tr_TsqB5yDewhC2qG_At4dejSGzzsK11-umj/s400/animals.PNG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Directly from Facebook - L: available animals / R: available children</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Unfortunately, and not surprisingly, many of the children "rehomed" in this manner have landed in the homes of pedophiles and other child abusers. Some end up institutionalized, some end up in jail, some end up on the streets.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Some end up dead.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There are no easy solutions to this problem. International adoption has become more difficult in the last few years, because of documented -- and well-publicized -- abuse to children adopted from overseas. Still, it hasn't stopped completely, and perhaps never will.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Not every adoption is going to be a positive experience for all the parties involved, but choosing to hand off the child to someone else without any official oversight simply shouldn't be an option.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Kudos to Maine and to State Representative Craig Hickman for passing this bill. It's the right thing to do, and should be made law nationwide.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-14126350786224393942015-06-21T13:54:00.001-07:002019-11-20T16:04:17.611-08:00Father's Day .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
Today -- June 21, 2015 -- is celebrated as Father's Day here in the U.S. So I thought I'd talk about my birth father.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Very early in this blog, I shared the little I know about his life prior to and during his marriage to my mother. They were married for a few years, and most of the time he was away at sea. He was home enough to sire four children (twins in 1956, me in 1957, my younger brother in 1958), but walked out on our family sometime between my birth and my brother's.<br />
<br />
A few years ago I came across a handful of photos that my mother had sent to my grandparents. Included among them were some pictures of my birth father doing various activities (in one he was hanging wet diapers on a clothesline and was captioned something like "And he swore he would never wash diapers"). I kept them for a while, then sent them all to my sister.<br />
<br />
I did keep one photograph, though, just so that I'd have something to remind me where I come from. Every now and then I pull it out and stare at it. Do I look like him? Do I act like him? What part(s) of me came from him?<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcWg_IJT4tVXMZKcW6FbApmE0gu74HvJh9-dX7jzW1BJ0akWzQyXwcQ9AxFpcPlPH3hmUY74JhXLO1PNXukfDo6lTU-ZGTAuL7u4IARNNEM0nLY3WwNvpJl7LR5GwVpIf6m_OGKZ_mh8lq/s1600/Dear+Old+Dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcWg_IJT4tVXMZKcW6FbApmE0gu74HvJh9-dX7jzW1BJ0akWzQyXwcQ9AxFpcPlPH3hmUY74JhXLO1PNXukfDo6lTU-ZGTAuL7u4IARNNEM0nLY3WwNvpJl7LR5GwVpIf6m_OGKZ_mh8lq/s400/Dear+Old+Dad.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dear old dad, circa 1955</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I've tried without success to determine where the photograph was taken. It appears to be the New Occidental Hotel and, from the Shrine Circus poster in the window, the location is in or around San Francisco. One online site puts that hotel at 607 Montgomery Street, but if that's the correct address, the hotel is no longer there and the entire area has been renovated. But I digress.<br />
<br />
My birth father was, by all accounts, not a nice man. He was a racist, alcoholic, abusive, child molesting gun nut. He died from a "gunshot to the head", at the age of 70, per his death certificate. Apparently this was the aftermath of a bar fight gone bad. One of his brothers finally agreed to pay for a headstone, because no one else was willing to do it. My brother attended the funeral, just to verify for himself that the man was finally, indeed, dead.<br />
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After his death, his then-wife sent a box of personal papers to my siblings. My sister was worried about looking through them, but finally relented. Among the things she found was a paper in which he attested under oath that he had no children. Legally, he had relinquished parental rights to my younger brother and I, but his parental rights were never terminated with respect to my siblings. My sister, for whom family relationships has always been important, was crushed.<br />
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Have I mentioned that he was not a nice man?<br />
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He was an occasional presence in my early life, but I have no conscious memories of him. Even with all his many short-comings, I wish I could have met him.<br />
<br />
Once.<br />
<br />
Accompanied by someone bigger and stronger than him, for my own protection. But I didn't, so all I know of and about him I've had to learn second-hand.<br />
<br />
Despite that, in many ways, I'm fortunate, because I at least know who my birth father was. There are countless adoptees who are still seeking that information. Adoption files are sealed, records are falsified, birth mothers take names to the grave with them.<br />
<br />
How can you fully understand who you are when you don't know who and
where you come from? Adoptees deserve to know that, as much as every other child
does.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-56689451699532846962015-06-20T23:19:00.001-07:002015-06-20T23:19:42.146-07:00Just do it .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
Although I thought, and wrote, multiple times about suicide, I never actually attempted it. However, I did attempt to attempt it once.</div>
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I'm not sure the exact date, but it was prior to the wedding of my uncle's daughter, because she was temporarily living at home. She wed in June, 1971, so I was 13 years old -- 14 at most. What precipitated the attempt is lost to me now, as is why this one night was so much worse than any that preceded it.</div>
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What I do know is that on that one night, I was lying in bed and crying so hard that I was unable to sleep. I was tired of crying ... tired of being miserable ... tired of everything. I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. Years later, my uncle's daughter would tell me that she always knew where her mother's pills were kept, in case she ever decided to make an attempt herself, but I wasn't that savvy. All I knew was that in the bathroom, I'd find the key that would let me escape my unhappiness.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPqVBtIIFA34u-tpKz-0lLUQ9n1nVOAKiHdVG08Mt6bFQ5JOKBkOuYpcYKuiWwC4ccN2gJVukax7RbEXX-UpZPx3e3DZR4MilQn4lW1-ay7YzLcI88CfG9SR_DmbjRoPGRk9Ik9_5jlsH_/s1600/shaver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPqVBtIIFA34u-tpKz-0lLUQ9n1nVOAKiHdVG08Mt6bFQ5JOKBkOuYpcYKuiWwC4ccN2gJVukax7RbEXX-UpZPx3e3DZR4MilQn4lW1-ay7YzLcI88CfG9SR_DmbjRoPGRk9Ik9_5jlsH_/s200/shaver.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The key</td></tr>
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That key was the single blade shaver that belonged to my uncle's daughter. Recall that I wasn't allowed to have a shaver of my own, other than the constantly malfunctioning one that had been my grandmother's. However, I'd played with this shaver many times, and had probably used it a few times as well (without asking her permission). The blade was easy to remove, and that's what I intended to do.</div>
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Sill crying, I knelt in front of the tub, removed the blade from the shaver, and held it to my wrists.</div>
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I continued to feel miserable, continued to cry, and continued to hold the blade. Much as I wanted, <b>really wanted</b>, to take the final step, I just couldn't do it. I was, I suppose, too scared. After 15 minutes or so, I replaced the blade in the shaver and went back to bed, feeling myself even more of a failure than usual.</div>
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As I learned later, I probably would have survived even if I had managed to use the blade -- the cuts I'd hoped to make were in the wrong direction.</div>
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I've often wondered what would have happened if I'd been successful. Would anyone have missed me? Would anyone have cared? I'd like to think so, but have my doubts. My attempt certainly would have been kept as hush-hush as possible. After all, it was important to keep the family reputation intact. Had I survived, no doubt my uncle would have managed to commit me to a psychiatric facility, similar to where my younger brother had spent so many years.</div>
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I still regret that I didn't complete the attempt, especially given the events in my life since then. It would have been so much better ... so much less painful for so many people ... if I'd had the courage to try.</div>
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A couple years ago, a question was asked on a forum where I was a member: <i>"Knowing what you know now, what advice would you give your teenage self?"</i></div>
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My response?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyzjv0sUaczYY20T3bP2qfoTjfRKIg2-1zWkJHepMQVh8i9HqLFOMI7XUz8ZUWAgGQduF7gWmlJvoOkwq8Zs86DuwbukfLclUHadPWZcEQnsWlZwcSUxNmCryVxJXU1QL16QeV0ccmZ_V/s1600/razorblade2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5ORU8OqMsh763YSJPJHcUnqt7xP4-jGZR5SP3f6G-vP7UmfefbQt3eqFrvs9wBkemScCdkbQc12LsLeC3lq4TeTPKeVqTRr33y5k2jiOnWPvJcLyW8RqGaWw59w6Z7CzpIIzs1W2YN9Z/s1600/razorblade3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5ORU8OqMsh763YSJPJHcUnqt7xP4-jGZR5SP3f6G-vP7UmfefbQt3eqFrvs9wBkemScCdkbQc12LsLeC3lq4TeTPKeVqTRr33y5k2jiOnWPvJcLyW8RqGaWw59w6Z7CzpIIzs1W2YN9Z/s1600/razorblade3.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Just do it"<u><br /></u></td></tr>
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I so wish I had.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ePGF1PySLTas4T5O8-dsr43g1cLxhqOLPUPvbmSceyoShfOUJWq7vOeHnTR1yB4JrQ6upGWPQHY5nCy4BWypCIc8mt7nQFpzVPcbH7mb5wEo6CEYClrs60ClgK3C31AqbVu180KNCk8o/s1600/border.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="25" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ePGF1PySLTas4T5O8-dsr43g1cLxhqOLPUPvbmSceyoShfOUJWq7vOeHnTR1yB4JrQ6upGWPQHY5nCy4BWypCIc8mt7nQFpzVPcbH7mb5wEo6CEYClrs60ClgK3C31AqbVu180KNCk8o/s400/border.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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See: <a href="http://pediatrics.aappublications.org/content/132/4/639.abstract" target="_blank">Risk of Suicide Attempt in Adopted and Non-Adopted Offspring</a> <br />
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Recommended viewing: <a href="http://www.lifeworkscommunity.com/video-lecture-full.html" target="_blank">Adoption & Addiction: 'Remembered not recalled'</a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-26633350698898672252015-06-19T12:58:00.001-07:002015-06-19T12:58:33.018-07:00Nancy and me .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
As I mentioned in <a href="http://adoption-interrupted.blogspot.com/2013/11/one-of-four.html" target="_blank">an earlier post</a>, I wasn't able to take showers while living in my uncle's house. There was a bathroom on the top floor, where the kids' bedrooms were located, but the shower head had been removed and therefore the tub was only usable for baths. Even now, I don't mind an occasional long soak, but I'm simply not -- now or then -- the kind of person who enjoys a daily bath.</div>
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Before moving there, I'd showered every night -- long and hard -- often using up all the hot water. Then suddenly that pleasure was taken away from me, and I was extremely unhappy. So I stopped bathing. I'd run water in the tub, then sit on the toilet reading a book for 30 minutes or so; I'd then put on my nightgown, go downstairs and proclaim that, yes, I HAD taken a bath.</div>
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My uncle's wife was no fool and she rarely believed me. The first time I tried to pull this off, she stuck her hand up inside my nightgown to see if my skin was damp. I was shocked and, I believe, said something snarkily inappropriate. Other times, she would simply walk into the bathroom, unannounced, to see if I was actually in the tub. The times that I WAS in the tub, I'd make a similarly snarky comment.</div>
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While I understood that she wanted me to bathe, I didn't believe her methods were appropriate. I also didn't believe that it was fair that I was being forced to do something that no one else was required to do. (And if they'd simply allowed me to shower, it wouldn't have been an issue. Really.)</div>
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My uncle regularly threatened to cut my hair if I didn't keep it clean. My hair, strawberry blonde and hanging to the middle of my back, was my one good feature, and I angrily warned him that he'd better not touch it. Fortunately, he never did.</div>
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Baths, and my lack of cleanliness would be ongoing issues for quite a while.</div>
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Sometime prior to moving in with him, my uncle had given an idea to artist, Ernie Bushmiller, who drew the "Nancy" comic strips. Bushmiller used the idea and sent the original artwork, autographed, to my uncle. He had it framed and displayed it proudly.</div>
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For my 11th birthday, the first in my uncle's house, I received a gift that was long, narrow, and fragile. When I opened it, I found a framed, autographed, Nancy comic strip of my own. In the first frame, Nancy is sitting in the bathtub, and says "I hate taking baths." The second frame adds "Every day is too much!" In the third frame, she confronts Aunt Fritzi with "From now on, no more baths!"</div>
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And the final frame:</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJZqV7mE9qXwsbX0PreH9-ZX4GU7Wv6xfG6RLnuGYQCo8ehOkNuP63UhSGNVTCQWl3ICz2KlBI1iFUsa-VmfY0ts0b2MLPMuSz12yqPSNxZkF9TzYEHRp9R-mUiwHJ2Kdga0kx3L0iqfm/s1600/Nancy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJZqV7mE9qXwsbX0PreH9-ZX4GU7Wv6xfG6RLnuGYQCo8ehOkNuP63UhSGNVTCQWl3ICz2KlBI1iFUsa-VmfY0ts0b2MLPMuSz12yqPSNxZkF9TzYEHRp9R-mUiwHJ2Kdga0kx3L0iqfm/s320/Nancy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ha ha ha that's SO funny.</td></tr>
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As my uncle laughed heartily, I curled my lip in a sneer. It wasn't funny to me then, and it's not funny to me now. Even at 11, I recognized that they were mocking me and having a good laugh at my expense. I didn't appreciate the "humor" and HATED the gift.</div>
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Of course, that didn't matter; they just continued to believe that I was ungrateful and spoiled. My uncle hung the comic strip on the wall in my bedroom, where I was forced to look at it on a daily basis until they shipped me away a few years later.</div>
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I still have that comic strip, though I took it out of its frame years ago. I thought perhaps I could sell it as comic art, but apparently no one else thinks it's funny, either, and I've never received an offer. It's currently hidden away in a drawer, and I think the next time I stumble across it I'll take it out and burn it.</div>
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Did I mention that I HATE it?</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-3052373741082348712015-06-12T01:04:00.001-07:002015-06-12T19:04:46.960-07:00Ding dong .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
My uncle's wife, what more can I say?</div>
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<br />
When my brother and I got in trouble for something, she took away our music lessons -- the one thing that meant more to me than anything else. My brother was later allowed to resume his lessons, but I never was.</div>
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<br />
When I disobeyed her, she didn't just send me to my room -- she locked me in there. Had there been an emergency, I would have been trapped on the third floor with no way out.<br />
</div>
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When the local schools changed their dress codes to allow girls to wear pants, she refused to buy me any. I was forced to wear (ill-fitting) skirts, accompanied by long-out-of-style bobby socks, while my classmates all wore slacks whenever they wanted. She also (falsely) informed me that jeans were not available in my size.</div>
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When I was violently ill one night, she didn't bother to get out of bed to check on me. "Just get in the other bed" she said. When I accidentally threw up in that bed, too, I knew better than to wake her again. I spent the night curled up in a dry corner of the bed, periodically vomiting into a trash can.</div>
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When I needed to stay after school one day, she gave me permission, but said I'd have to walk home -- a distance of approximately three miles. I did so, in my stacked heel shoes, because those were the only shoes I had. It took approximately an hour and she was furious with me when I finally arrived, because it turns out I had an appointment with the ear doctor that day and we were late. [For the record: a) I didn't know about the appointment and b) if she wanted us to be on time, she should have picked me up.]</div>
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Detailed in an earlier entry, she did agree to pick me up one day after school, then left me sitting for two hours with no explanation or apology.</div>
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In high school, during one of her typical "you never do anything for anyone else" tirades, I said I'd like to volunteer to work with the elderly. She drove me to an assisted living place where I did, indeed, volunteer. I'd ride the bus from school, help out for a couple hours, and then walk home (again, it was at least a three mile walk) because she wouldn't give me a ride. I lasted approximately a month, and then quit -- which I'm sure pleased her greatly, since I have no doubt her goal was to demonstrate how worthless I really was.<br />
<br />
When a friend of mine got a job waitressing at Friendly's, I asked if I could do likewise. I even said I'd walk home. Although she'd long told me if I wanted to buy anything I'd have to use my own money (of which I had none), she refused to let me take the job.<br />
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When I said I wanted to go live with my birthmother, she told me my birthmother didn't want me.</div>
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When I ate without her permission, she punished me.</div>
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When I gained weight, she did her best to humiliate me.</div>
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</div>
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When I defied her, she beat me.</div>
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</div>
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When I finally stood up to her, she sent me away.</div>
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</div>
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There's no sugar-coating it. My very presence was abhorrent to her.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEityV_HPxp12DUDjgZDn0siGG4YOQOIADFrdBnCwgKy8lzu34DCtnWSmKMEIBbxJnP1Tt4NRZEpX8CTstU9N3sQPwJdNQzFgADrogyiQO-Yb2P8KJiyEDTTkem-fsGndwxnp7vf7JwUaFuX/s1600/SadGirl.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEityV_HPxp12DUDjgZDn0siGG4YOQOIADFrdBnCwgKy8lzu34DCtnWSmKMEIBbxJnP1Tt4NRZEpX8CTstU9N3sQPwJdNQzFgADrogyiQO-Yb2P8KJiyEDTTkem-fsGndwxnp7vf7JwUaFuX/s320/SadGirl.png" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was no secret to me that I was neither wanted nor loved.</td></tr>
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In 1974, I returned home from boarding school and shortly thereafter left for college. I got my first job, washing dishes in the dorm cafeteria, and finally felt a sense of independence and accomplishment. I spent my entire first paycheck on a used stereo system, some albums, and jeans (which <u>were</u>, as it turns out, available in my size). The job became more important than my classes, and my grades plummeted. I was placed on academic probation at the end of my first year, and I didn't care.<br />
<br />
It was during this time that I began to plot the murder of my uncle's wife, even though I was no longer living in her house and was, in fact, approximately 800 miles away. To my adolescent mind, however, this was the perfect opportunity. My uncle was a member of the town's Rotary Club and attended the weekly meeting every Wednesday evening. Rarely home before 10:00PM, his wife was alone in the house until then.<br />
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Having never taken driver's ed, I didn't own a car; but I knew that I could catch a Greyhound bus that would drop me off in the center of the town. From there, it was about an hour's walk to my uncle's house. I'd made that walk many times, so knew I could do it fairly easily. My plan was to simply walk in the kitchen door, where she would no doubt be playing her typical game of Solitaire, kill her in some unspecified manner, then walk back to town and wait for the next bus back to school.<br />
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Even though the Statute of Limitations has long run out, let me assure you that this plot was all fantasy. I had no intention of actually <u>attempting</u> the deed, because even as a relatively naïve 18-year-old, I knew there was no way I would be able to get away with it. OK, yes, it was also morally wrong but, honestly, that was a secondary consideration. I spent many pleasant evenings tweaking the plan and imagining how happy I'd be once she was dead.<br />
<br />
And then, in August of 1975, I received a late-night phone call from my grandfather, informing me that she had died that day of a heart attack. He and his second wife were living a couple hours distant and we made plans for them to come pick me up the next day so that we could drive east for the funeral.<br />
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As I hung up the phone, I was stunned, and then I started <strike>laughing and jumping for joy</strike> crying. I SHOULD have laughed and jumped for joy, because this was what I'd been waiting and hoping for. She was finally gone, and I hadn't had to kill her myself!<br />
<br />
But I cried.<br />
<br />
<strong>I cried.</strong><br />
<br />
Maybe I was just in shock. Maybe I cried for what I'd wanted from her and that was now lost forever. Maybe her death was simply a trigger that made me recall the overwhelming grief I felt when my grandmother died. I'm honestly not sure.<br />
<br />
But it was just that one night. I never cried for her again. No matter the excuses others make for her actions, I do not forgive and I do not forget -- and I do not cry for someone who is not worth my tears.<br />
<br />
Ding dong, the witch is dead.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-67593640410061544452015-06-07T20:04:00.000-07:002015-06-07T20:04:30.724-07:00Recruited .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
In the summer of 1980, I was (temporarily) a student at New York University. Between classes, I often sat on a bench in Washington Square Park, alternately studying and people watching. One day, I was approached by a clean-cut fellow who appeared to be in his mid-20's. Hovering a few feet behind him was a young woman of about the same age. She watched, smiling rather nervously, as the man started to talk.</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
He greeted me and said that they were members of an eclectic group of people who enjoyed music and art, were interested in social activism, and hoping to make new friends. He invited me to a potluck dinner the next weekend and gave me the address in Brooklyn. I thanked him and said I'd consider it; he and his companion then headed towards a bench where another student was sitting by herself. They started talking and, I assume, she was extended the same invitation.</div>
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</div>
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I admit, I was curious. I was also a little concerned for my safety, but assumed everything would be fine, since serial killers don't travel in pairs, right?</div>
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</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKv4CQ2zhUtjPXcZwg49D03heLY5iaCexmvZfnViACbjPdy1c63iX3IXTG5v56VU7xdNv4e8wfYD5peypZnqJ9NCCQ88qC8_w6k9xrkSECXUD3UE6xSOf7t4-djFmsxTam3MnPnC4U2Yhi/s1600/potluck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKv4CQ2zhUtjPXcZwg49D03heLY5iaCexmvZfnViACbjPdy1c63iX3IXTG5v56VU7xdNv4e8wfYD5peypZnqJ9NCCQ88qC8_w6k9xrkSECXUD3UE6xSOf7t4-djFmsxTam3MnPnC4U2Yhi/s400/potluck.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good food, good music, good friends -- what could possibly go wrong?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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So, a couple days later I hopped on the subway and headed to Brooklyn, where I easily found the address. Several other people had already arrived, and the apartment was full. As we ate, our hosts circulated, making the guests feel welcome and at home. As the meal concluded, they announced that they wanted to show us some slides. In these pictures, we'd see them participating in all sorts of fun activities that we, too, could be part of if we joined their group. At one point, someone started singing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C21G2OkHEYo" target="_blank">Annie's Song</a>, and soon they all joined in, grinning widely.</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The pictures showed them in front of city landmarks and in the countryside. In every shot, they were smiling, hugging, happy. As the slideshow concluded, our hosts told us that they'd be making a trip to their country retreat in a couple weeks, and that we were all lovingly invited to accompany them. It would be peaceful and relaxing -- a brief respite from the hectic busy-ness of the big city.</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Again, they gave us contact information and asked the same from us. As we trickled out, we were given hugs, and wishes for health and happiness.</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
They were all so nice and yet, I was uneasy. Even as a fairly naïve 23-year-old, it didn't feel right. It felt ..... off.</div>
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</div>
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My suspicions were confirmed a few days later.</div>
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</div>
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One of the dinner hosts had told me he was a glass blower, and worked out of a street-front studio space that was provided by "a generous man". That studio was located near where I worked part-time, so I strolled by to take a look. When I did, I realized that the building had been in the news recently as the "generous man" who owned it was, in fact, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sun_Myung_Moon" target="_blank">Sun Myung Moon.</a></div>
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</div>
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Yes, I'd been recruited by the Moonies.</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My first reaction was disappointment, because this potentially important factoid had been kept a secret from the dinner guests. Of course, I understood the reason for the secrecy. The Moonies were fairly universally considered a cult, and most reasonable people don't knowingly join cults. Yet still, I wished they'd been more upfront.</div>
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</div>
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My second reaction was a bit surprising, even to me, because -- despite who I now knew these people to be -- I actually considered joining them on their weekend retreat. I was confident I'd be able to resist their brain-washing techniques but, just in case, I'd leave written permission for family to kidnap and de-program me if necessary. No worries -- everything would work out fine.</div>
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</div>
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Ultimately, I decided to decline the invitation, and never saw any of the group members again. It was the right decision, no doubt, but why had I even considered joining them to begin with?</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The best answer to this, I believe, is that I was still desperately seeking the love and acceptance that had been missing in my life for so long. Feeling inherently unlovable due to the multiple abandonments and abuse I'd experienced, I still longed to be part of a family, to feel wanted, to feel loved. The Moonies were experts at spotting emotionally vulnerable potential recruits, and convincing them they'd find a home in their group. I read somewhere that they referred to this as "love bombing", and that's truly what it felt like at dinner that night so long ago.</div>
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</div>
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I sometimes wonder what my life would be life now had I run off with them and allowed myself to accept what they were offering. Granted, their "love" was a bit skewed and probably not unconditional, but it was surely more than I had my life otherwise. Would I have been happier with them? Would I be happier now? Or would it simply have resulted in one more disappointment to add to an already long list? </div>
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</div>
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Obviously, I don't know the answer, but I sometimes wish I'd been foolish enough to take the chance.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-7840452071876566742015-05-02T17:07:00.000-07:002015-05-03T04:07:38.995-07:00Cancelling the Adoption Contract -- an update .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
Back in December, I detailed my <a href="http://adoption-interrupted.blogspot.com/2014/12/cancelling-adoption-contract.html" target="_blank">quest to become unadopted</a>. Based on advice I received online and in correspondence with other adoptees, I decided to make direct contact with the Court where my adoption was finalized, and ask the current Judge to set aside the ruling.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I gathered my evidence, which included the letter and e-mails I received from the State's Adoption Records agency, copies of death certificates/notices for both adoptive and birth parents, a newspaper article detailing an adoption in Florida which was set aside a few years ago, and scanned diary entries from the time of my adoption, in which I laid out my unhappiness and despair.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
In all, there were a dozen pages, including a carefully-crafted two-page letter presenting the facts and arguing my case. Approximately two weeks later, a large envelope arrived from the Court. Inside was all the documentation I'd carefully put together, along with this letter:</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthsxpS5qbCRhhwIt8qJJBnSnjwmG3gEStrDV1I83FLTnxet5aN7DO6mrHU5xoytltM89K_kS6n7ZgP8G60EMvBYa3nKgIdeWRXwsui4iSzen0nO3G2xgcyyOj_JHNthuUHr6k2qaXKg1K/s1600/JudgesLetterXedOut2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthsxpS5qbCRhhwIt8qJJBnSnjwmG3gEStrDV1I83FLTnxet5aN7DO6mrHU5xoytltM89K_kS6n7ZgP8G60EMvBYa3nKgIdeWRXwsui4iSzen0nO3G2xgcyyOj_JHNthuUHr6k2qaXKg1K/s1600/JudgesLetterXedOut2.jpg" height="320" width="242" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Short, but not so sweet.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
The adoptees I've shared this with almost universally say that the Judge's tone is condescending, dismissive and unhelpful, and I agree.<br />
<br />
I refuse to stop trying for an annulment, because I believe it's my <u><b>absolute </b><b>right</b></u>, as an adult, to decide whether or not I want to continue being a party to a contract signed on my behalf but to which I did not agree.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what my next steps will be, but I'm not giving up.<br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-67336062900173180382015-03-31T23:24:00.000-07:002015-04-01T12:47:05.853-07:00Imaginary family .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
As I mentioned in <a href="http://adoption-interrupted.blogspot.com/2015/04/imaginary-friends.html" target="_blank">my previous entry</a>, a lack of childhood relationships led me to create several imaginary friends. These friends, as relatively fully-formed entities, disappeared by the time I was dumped on my uncle and his wife. However, I didn't abandon them entirely and, in fact, they would -- in another form -- be a part of my life for many years to come.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I'm not sure exactly how or when it started, but by the time I was nine or ten, I was acting out variations on scenes from favorite TV shows in my bed before dropping off to sleep. As during waking hours, I was always the central character in the scene and during childhood, my character was always a hero of some kind.</div>
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I fought countless battles and saved innumerable people's lives -- ever stoically brave, never showing fear.</div>
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Always a hero.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipD8aKF6CIoNMeS9zhFKYaQFW6t9sA-cq53Lmwb__kskvPeA3zS-Ef9Qz1qCF9I4MsOKTftX7h40hutoICF8FrZ9Kq4_S6RNUDFa16WPDhnnBKBtFSjVTorR0-h7P2ajffTNajeXZ95R_r/s1600/hero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipD8aKF6CIoNMeS9zhFKYaQFW6t9sA-cq53Lmwb__kskvPeA3zS-Ef9Qz1qCF9I4MsOKTftX7h40hutoICF8FrZ9Kq4_S6RNUDFa16WPDhnnBKBtFSjVTorR0-h7P2ajffTNajeXZ95R_r/s1600/hero.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In my imaginary life, I was rewarded for my heroism on an almost nightly basis.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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As I aged, the scenes changed and became more complex. There were "story arcs" that would continue over several days, if not weeks. <b> Many times</b> I would tell myself how ridiculous it was to still be pretending to be someone else at [insert age here], and would end a story by killing off my character and vowing to never engage in the activity again.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
However, I would invariably relapse and find myself again living out a pretend, "fantasy" life in my bed. I'm embarrassed to admit, and acknowledge, how old I was when I finally abandoned these fantasies. Before I finally gave them up, the story lines had changed from me being a hero to me being loved.</div>
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[Note that I recognize the similarities (in my stories, at least) between heroism and love. While I never entirely left the idea of being a hero behind, the stories came to focus more on me being loved just for being me.]</div>
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</div>
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<br />
My supporting characters changed over time as well, although there were two primary groups of "friends" and family members that stayed with me over the years. When I tired of one story line, I'd simply retire those characters and revive the other ones. My own character changed very little. She had her own name, history and physicality, and those were never the same as mine in real life. She was always admired for her numerous laudable qualities and, as I mentioned, loved by a multitude of people. There was always a parental figure present (usually a widowed father -- why?). In addition, there was always an aspect of protection, for though she was strong of will and character, there was someone who loved her enough to watch over her and keep her safe. </div>
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Without going into too many details, I mentioned this once to an acquaintance who was a therapist by profession. She said that this was a self-soothing/coping mechanism that I had turned to when I needed comfort, and that makes absolute sense to me.</div>
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Mostly friendless and feeling like an outsider in childhood, I was looking for validation of my worth. Since it wasn't forthcoming in real life, I created an entire fantasy life to give my ego a boost. Likewise, the lack of love from my uncle and his wife led me to seek that out in my imagination. After several minutes of acting out scenarios in which I was the recipient of familial love and care, I could fall asleep feeling somewhat less insignificant.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Kco0r6hOCJm5b3uS27AtsqExohEEiMjMDtczWQTGI2PE__eJWU3iQ2LSqLyD4ErCR9jPfJ_T7AwiOALz5KKqHFHVo11KptxhLBhffXBKoCyW_tFBREXlq5zANzlH-H_RwQcOs69ZsAfo/s1600/insignificant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Kco0r6hOCJm5b3uS27AtsqExohEEiMjMDtczWQTGI2PE__eJWU3iQ2LSqLyD4ErCR9jPfJ_T7AwiOALz5KKqHFHVo11KptxhLBhffXBKoCyW_tFBREXlq5zANzlH-H_RwQcOs69ZsAfo/s1600/insignificant.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2bhrtvCLpPgQeCDsHzI3xUAqHb5QUgpCkz3ZMEodinKM8IOX4E0bOcuQuDmlgwF_fgedRlAAK7z4TsdXVeo9OOq6cdHS4poJZ0WO9bFkSQ1tJI7ap7AWZl4HHSEr3Q-p2gKUbNLN-kxCG/s1600/insignificant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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Yes, I gave up my fantasy life and imaginary family and friends some time ago. </div>
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Well, I gave up the *acting out*, anyway. I still keep a little imaginary life tucked away in the back of my mind. Every now and then, when I'm feeling especially lonely or vulnerable, I'll close my eyes, steal away to my little fantasy world, and spend a few minutes imagining that someone loves me.</div>
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I'm pretty sure it's not an emotionally healthy thing for me to do but, as they say, it is what it is.</div>
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And since it's the closest thing to a "happy" life that I have, I can't see ever giving it up completely.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-17426702102578766222015-03-31T21:53:00.002-07:002015-03-31T21:53:37.386-07:00Imaginary friends .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
As a child, I had very few friends. There were a number of reasons for this: when with my grandparents, we lived in an area that had very children of my own age nearby. I wasn't able to develop many school-based friendships, since I attended the school(s) where my grandmother taught, and they weren't in my neighborhood. By the time we arrived home from school, there was only limited time during which to nurture friendships with the few children who did live in the area. </div>
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No doubt, though, the main reason I had so few friends was that I wasn't an especially likeable child. Angry and self-centered -- more so even than typical for a normal pre-adolescent -- few classmates wanted to be friends with me. In one Sunday School Christmas gift exchange I eagerly opened my gift and found two "Little Golden" books, written for children in first or second grade. Since I was in 5th grade at the time I was surprised and when I looked over at the girl who gave me the gift, she smirked and stuck her tongue out at me. She'd obviously intended the gift to be an insult -- and it was.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEing9qyjIFvfYn7ZOSF5GmMkKPt5VMGVjFpyPz8TTQP4BGTSI5H8uFo6RDMBHt7Z-cKAgO7Ix3FrX1Ang2LhTwS9pqDRNOYtyT7v5_DJhWBEe99zSppyd1gQ1NDMn5LudPZ43DUxJV8jcde/s1600/goldenbook.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEing9qyjIFvfYn7ZOSF5GmMkKPt5VMGVjFpyPz8TTQP4BGTSI5H8uFo6RDMBHt7Z-cKAgO7Ix3FrX1Ang2LhTwS9pqDRNOYtyT7v5_DJhWBEe99zSppyd1gQ1NDMn5LudPZ43DUxJV8jcde/s1600/goldenbook.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's the thought that counts and, unfortunately, the thought was very un-Christian like.</td></tr>
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I did have <a href="http://adoption-interrupted.blogspot.com/2013/08/its-mad-mad-mad-mad-world.html" target="_blank">one best friend, V</a>, but when I moved first to a new neighborhood, and then was whisked away out of state, we lost our connection. Of course, even when we lived across the street from each other, there were limits to how much time we could actually spend together.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Not that I didn't WANT friends. I did -- desperately. In 4th grade, I asked a classmate to spend the night and she agreed. A day or so later, her mother called to cancel, telling my grandmother that the girl was afraid to spend the night away from home. Whether that was true or whether she simply decided she didn't want to spend the night with me, I don't know. Regardless, I was very upset and instead of talking to my classmate and saying something like "I'm really sorry, maybe we can get together another time," I loudly announced to the other students that "She's afraid to go to a sleepover. What a baby! HAHAHA!"</div>
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Shortly after moving to our new house, a neighborhood girl came over to introduce herself. We spoke for a while and then I suggested playing a game that involved closing her in the garage. (I know, I know -- but it seemed like a good idea at the time.) I honestly meant no harm and had no intention of making her STAY in the garage (REALLY!), but she didn't know that and started screaming at me to let her out. Again, instead of empathizing and apologizing, I laughed as I opened the door. She ran home, in tears, and we never spoke again.</div>
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Is it any wonder I had so few friends?</div>
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In 5th grade, my school sponsored some kind of Halloween event and many PTA members participated. One of my classmates remarked that she knew who one of the sheet-covered "ghosts" was because she recognized her shoes as belonging to a friend's mother. I was sad and terribly jealous that she obviously spent so much time with her friend that she was familiar with the mother's wardrobe. </div>
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To make up for the lack of real friends, I created a cadre of imaginary friends. When playing tetherball in the backyard -- I hit the ball with my right hand, and an imaginary friend would hit it with my left hand. (My left hand also played dominoes against my right hand.) I had long conversations with my imaginary friends; supplying all the voices myself. I acted out scenes from my favorite TV shows (more on this in the next entry), putting myself at the center of the action and having my imaginary friends fill in for the secondary characters.</div>
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It was a lonely way to experience childhood, and that loneliness would last well into adulthood.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-47042701922389990692015-02-01T17:42:00.006-08:002015-04-21T19:27:32.190-07:00Summer Camp Stories (part II) .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
The first time we put the canoes in
water, I was terrified. Seated in the middle, I tightly gripped both
sides of the canoe. "Don't worry," said one of the other girls in the
boat, "it's really stable." To prove her point, she grabbed the sides
and rapidly leaned back and forth, rocking the canoe from side to side.
I shrieked, and she finally stopped. Our inaugural voyage continued
and we soon came upon a rocky area with rapids. Having received only
minimal instruction on how to handle a canoe in rapids, the other girls
made a valiant attempt to go straight, but succeeded only in getting
caught in an eddy, resulting in the canoe hitting the rocks and dumping
us all out into the water. Since it was a shallow area, I managed to
again keep my head out of the water, but as I stood up I was crying and
shaking in fear.</div>
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Our primary chaperone wasn't unsympathetic, but he didn't coddle me, either. "You're fine," he said, "it's just water." He was right, of course, and I had no choice but to get back in the canoe and continue. It wasn't too long before I actually began to enjoy canoeing, and by the time camp ended, I was one of the most enthusiastic paddlers in the group. (And I have never since fallen out of a canoe. They really ARE very stable.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-mdoRAxJnQo6Qeg03PIg6nFBx9IuyurXArTHgExGAfuHpsZk6pLoprRynTjq_t_LuNYnvLIXn2kvi1nnyCCvoLsyPTIoYF5Ko-6la0pJKwlsFM3TEpXA8ZgTbknkIFZR-hgUdzLFTwf3W/s1600/canoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-mdoRAxJnQo6Qeg03PIg6nFBx9IuyurXArTHgExGAfuHpsZk6pLoprRynTjq_t_LuNYnvLIXn2kvi1nnyCCvoLsyPTIoYF5Ko-6la0pJKwlsFM3TEpXA8ZgTbknkIFZR-hgUdzLFTwf3W/s1600/canoe.jpg" height="316" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I learned to love canoeing, but I was never crazy about having to portage.</td></tr>
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Though I ended up enjoying the experience, it wasn't always ideal. It rained quite a bit, and on occasion we were stranded for a couple days on a small island in the National Park, waiting for the rain to pass so we could continue our trip. We crowded into an enormous canvas tent, sleeping literally head to toe to head to toe. The tent was pitched on the beach of the island, which wasn't much larger than the tent, itself, and was on a slight incline. <br />
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The slope of the floor matched the social hierarchy of the campers -- the popular girls slept near the top, while the less-well-liked girls slept farther down. I was, no surprise, on the lowest level, just inside the tent flap. This meant anyone coming in walked on my sleeping bag (tracking sand on and in it), and that during the nights, as the "higher up" girls settled in and gravity took over, they tended to inch downward. This resulted in the lesser girls being extremely crowded. In addition, water that leaked into the tent rolled downhill and created a puddle ..... right where I was sleeping. I was damp for 72 hours straight and extremely glad when we finally were able to move on.<br />
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When my uncle arrived to take me home from camp, he'd arranged to bring another camper home as well, since she lived in a nearby town. She was a year or so older than me and we didn't DISlike each other, but we didn't have much in common. There wasn't much talk between her and I, but she kept up a conversation with my uncle for most of the drive. After we dropped her off, my uncle remarked about how pleasant she was, and that it was nice to have such a friendly talk with her.<br />
<br />
I smirked, but didn't say anything, because what my uncle didn't know was that she was a heavy drug user. She was, in fact, high during the drive -- which no doubt helped her feel relaxed enough to hold a long conversation with a stranger more than twice her age.<br />
<br />
This was a time when the US-Canadian border wasn't as tight as is it now, and the officials didn't ask too many questions or search the bus when we crossed between countries. If they had, they would have found drugs in the bags of several girls. They didn't try (too hard) to hide their use, and the chaperones were well aware of that use. They'd often attempt to gently lecture everyone about the danger of using drugs. At some point during the month, while we were riding our bus from one location to another, the head chaperone convinced a couple of the girls to throw their drugs down the toilet. A group of us stood around watching while one girl threw hers in, vowing to never use again. However, when it was time for the second girl to throw hers in, she started crying and said, "I'm sorry, I can't. I just can't." That second girl is the one who rode home with us.<br />
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Speaking of the chaperones. Of the three, only one was a woman, in her 20's. One was an older fellow whose primary responsibility was to drive the bus. The third was a man, probably in his 30's, but who seemed older, and was accompanied by his son who was eight or nine. He enjoyed telling us stories, like how he won a "pissing contest" with some of his war buddies, and other tales which were borderline inappropriate for girls our age.<br />
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During one rest stop in Québec, he put one arm around the female chaperone and the other around one of the prettiest campers, and tried to convince a French-speaking Canadian woman that they were both his wives. They smiled and laughed and thought this, and the woman's puzzlement, were incredibly amusing.</div>
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I never told my uncle or his wife about any of this. I guess I assumed they wouldn't care. Or that they wouldn't believe me. Or that my uncle's wife would have found a way to blame ME for being in the canoe and for the girls having drugs.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-130893176632030372015-02-01T15:51:00.001-08:002015-02-01T17:43:08.808-08:00Summer Camp Stories (part I) .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
I was sent to sleep-away camp every year that I lived with my uncle and his wife. When I was younger, it would be for two weeks at a time; as I got older, it was for four weeks. Although, as a rule, I usually enjoyed being out of the house for a while, my uncle's wife did at one point -- in one of her usual fits of frustration -- tell me that the primary reason for sending me was so that she wouldn't have to deal with me. I wasn't surprised to hear that, but it still stung.</div>
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Regardless, off to camp I went.</div>
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In 1969, my uncle and his wife decided to take a month-long trip to Wales while my younger brother (who was, temporarily, living at home) and I were away at camp. I don't know where he was sent, but I went to a local Girl Scout camp. Unfortunately, in her narrow-focused desire to be free of me, my uncle's wife neglected to notice that the camp didn't offer four-week sessions. Instead, the sessions were two weeks in length, and the counselors told me I was required to go home the weekend between. </div>
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Oops.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I actually didn't mind heading off to summer camp, as it let me escape the abuse from my uncle's wife.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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My uncle's daughter, who had dropped out of college after one year, was living at home for a while. (She came and went a few times between first leaving home and getting married a few years later.) The Camp Director was able to reach her by phone and she was able to come get me the Friday afternoon the first session ended -- and could bring me back the next Monday. It turned out to be a fortuitous mistake, because that Sunday was July 20, 1969 -- the night that Apollo 11 landed on the moon. My brother didn't get to see Neil Armstrong walk on the moon live, but I did. As an avid fan of science fiction and TV shows like "Star Trek," it was incredibly exciting to watch. </div>
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Summer camp always presented one problem, though, as they all included a swimming program. The ear surgery I'd undergone a few years earlier had resulted in a permanently perforated ear drum in my left ear. Because of that, I was under strict physician-mandated guidelines NOT to swim and not to even get water in my left ear. If I <u><b>were</b></u> to get water in my ear, I was at risk of completely losing all hearing on that side. My uncle's wife was well aware of this restriction, and I think she probably included that on camp registration forms. However, it was a struggle every summer when I would have to explain AGAIN that I couldn't swim and that I wasn't allowed to LEARN to swim and that, in fact, I didn't have a swimsuit and therefore couldn't even go in the pool/lake.</div>
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For some reason one summer, when I was in my early teens, the swimming instructor insisted that I get in the water and try to learn. I managed to splash around a little, keeping my head above water the entire time, and was eventually told that was adequate. When I got home, I told my uncle's wife what had happened and, upon hearing the details she became angry.<br />
<br />
At me.<br />
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Never wavering from her steadfast belief that when anything went wrong it was MY fault, she insisted that I should have refused to get in the water (I tried, but no one believed me), that I shouldn't have let them try to teach me to (I did), and said that had I lost my hearing THAT would have been my fault as well.</div>
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Despite her displeasure at that summer's activities, a year or so later she signed me up for a month-long YWCA camping adventure, during which I would join a group of 50+ girls and three chaperones in a trip to Québec, Canada. During that time, the group would be wilderness camping in a national park approximately the size of our New England state. We would travel from campsite to campsite via ..... drumroll, please ..... canoe, traversing small rivers and deep lakes. Skills required of campers?</div>
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<i>1. Ability to swim</i></div>
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Oops, again.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-21375634982037993122015-01-19T15:42:00.003-08:002015-01-19T16:22:49.811-08:00Sent away -- again (part III) .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have few pleasant memories of my time at the school. As I recall, it started snowing early (October?) and the snow continued into spring (March). There were numerous black flies which, I was sorry to learn, bite. HARD. Since there were so few students, it was difficult to find anyone that I felt an affinity with, and I never did fit in. Fulfilling a lifetime (or school lifetime, at least) fantasy, I joined the cheerleading squad, which was open to anyone who wanted to participate. At nearly 200 pounds I was, no doubt, the most improbable cheerleader ever, but I was enthusiastic -- for a while. The other girls on the squad didn't care for me -- and let me know -- and we were a fairly rag-tag group. We did have one girl who could do both a cartwheel and a split; the rest of us mostly jumped around waving our arms in semi-unison. I quit the squad about half-way through the season.</div>
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The school had a stable and boarded horses for the local community. I loved horseback riding when I'd gone to girl scout camp years before, so when the opportunity presented itself to earn riding time, I eagerly signed up. In order to be able to ride a set amount of time, I had to first work by feeding the horses for a (much longer) set amount of time. I didn't mind the trek down to the stables until, as I mentioned, it started snowing. After that, not having proper outdoor attire, it became too much of a chore and I quit that as well. I don't think I got to ride more than once or twice the entire time.</div>
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The one true bright spot was that I was able to participate in the drama program without worrying about my aunt being unwilling to transport me to rehearsals. Because of the school's small size, anyone who auditioned for a part was pretty much guaranteed to get one. I landed the lead in the school's fall production, during which the script called for me to smash a plate onstage and fall to my knees, screaming in emotional agony. It was wonderfully cathartic.</div>
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The only time I received any regular counseling was while I attended this school. Apparently this was something the school required my parents to pay for in return for not expelling me for my criminal behavior. Again, although this was something I'd desperately wanted at home, it wasn't anything I wanted to do at school. I had to ride the activity bus to Waterville one day a week, which piqued the curiosity of the other students. It was obvious that I wasn't going shopping (the main reason students went to town), and I was frequently questioned about what I was doing. Not wanting to admit my destination and the reason for going there, I told everyone that I was instead seeing a doctor for ongoing ear problems. I don't know if anyone believed me, but it's the story I held to for the rest of the year.</div>
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The counseling, itself, wasn't at all helpful. I was in a place I hated, put there by people I hated, and all the counselor had to work with was information given to him BY those people. I was an unwilling participant and no progress was made. The only thing the sessions accomplished was to buy my uncle a little more time without me, so it was well worth it to them. (They paid the school's tuition from the Social Security survivor's benefits I'd been receiving since my grandmother's death, so it's not like it was money out of their pockets anyway.) </div>
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Of course, had they not had to pay for counseling, they might have been willing to pay for the driver's ed program offered by the school. It was much more expensive than the one offered by the public school at home -- the one I'd had to drop out of because my uncle's wife had grounded me. I called -- collect -- to ask if I could take the class, and was told "absolutely not." I pleaded ... I cried ... I was still told no. I believe I said "I hate you!" just before slamming the phone down on my uncle's wife.</div>
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Side note: at the end of the fat camp session, all the campers had the opportunity to go to town and shop for a new outfit. It was a chance to celebrate our weight loss and get something new to proudly wear home. I called -- collect -- to ask for a few dollars and was told "absolutely not." I'll leave to your imagination how the remainder of the call went.<br />
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The school's spring production was "Brigadoon." I'd been in a musical just once before, at fat camp, but I loved to sing and was looking forward to participating. Although I'd hoped for a fairly large role, I ended up sharing a role with another student -- the lines given to just one character in the script were split between the two of us. But I got to be part of the chorus and had a short solo, so I was satisfied.</div>
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Since I had sewing experience, I also volunteered to help with costumes. The play is set in Scotland, so the cast members needed kilts -- lots and lots of kilts. The drama coach purchased bolts of plaid fabric and set up some sewing machines, and work started on the costumes.</div>
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I took one of the sewing machines and some fabric and supplies, and put it all in my room. My thought was that I could sew at my leisure, and not have to do it where ever the "official sewing room" had been set up. However, I neglected to ask permission and when someone noticed the machine wasn't in its assigned location, a room search was made and it was, obviously, found in my possession. </div>
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It was mid-May, and I was called into the Dean's office. He told me that my uncle had already been notified, was on his way (in his airplane!), and that I was being expelled from school that day. I tried to explain that I hadn't <b>stolen </b>the machine and that I had, in fact, simply borrowed it to help make costumes. However, given my history of theft, the school was no longer willing to cut me any slack. </div>
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I was stunned, and begged to stay so that I wouldn't have to miss the play and, in a couple weeks, graduation. However, as back in August, the decision was made and I was told to go pack and be ready to leave within hours. Since it was so close to the end of the school year, the Dean did agree to let me receive a diploma and have my transcript marked "graduated." However, the diploma would be mailed to me and I would not be allowed to participate in the actual graduation ceremony.</div>
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I returned to my room, in tears, to pack as much as I could and to begin preparing myself to face my uncle. He would, I knew, be furious and it was a meeting I was not looking forward to.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-26947191170989282122015-01-19T08:24:00.000-08:002015-01-19T14:33:11.621-08:00Sent away -- again (part II) .....<div style="text-align: justify;">
The driving distance from our house to the school was approximately six hours. It took about half that time to fly, and by midday we'd landed in Waterville, Maine (population ~18,000). From there, we drove a rental car to the school, which was located in North Vassalboro. Though just 10 minutes outside the "city," it was an extremely rural area, home to numerous dairy farms and had a population of just over 2,600.</div>
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Having grown up first in a small city, then in a suburban community, I was upset to find myself in what I perceived to be the middle of nowhere. The school, itself, was a disappointment. Unlike the nice Canadian school I'd toured, this facility had an enormous main building, but it was shabby and in need of maintenance. My assigned dorm room was large, but run-down, and from the moment I set foot on campus, I felt like I didn't belong. I didn't want to be there, but it was what I'd chosen (based only on a directory description) and this was to be my <strike>prison</strike> "home" for the next nine months.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oak Grove-Coburn School -- closed in 1989; now the site of the Maine Criminal Justice Academy.</td></tr>
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My uncle and I met with the Head of School, who warmly welcomed me to school. We then met the dorm's "house parents" who helped my uncle and I unload my meager possessions into my assigned room. After a brief conversation, my uncle gave me $20, told me to behave, and then he left.</div>
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I was on my own, surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar environment that I immediately disliked, and I already hated it. Since the semester had started a few days earlier, I was a late arrival to school and an immediate curiosity. Although a couple other students were new to the school, most of the boarders had known each other for several years. As when I changed schools after my grandmother's death, I was again an outsider -- someone who talked and dressed differently, had an unusual musical hobby, and who was there against my will.</div>
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Based on the classes I'd taken previously, I was placed in Calculus, Physics and German V. However, I wasn't academically ready for either the math or science class, and was immediately in over my head. Because of its limited enrollment (16 people in the senior class), options were limited, and class sizes were small. There were only three students in math and science -- and only one of us understood what was going on. My German class consisted of just one other student and me; the German-born mother of one of the day students came in once a day to teach us.</div>
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I'd been a lackluster student before, and it wasn't any different at the boarding school. Each school night we were expected to do homework in our rooms for a set period of time. However, I quickly learned that no one came to check on us, so I routinely used that time to go exploring instead. I wandered through the part of the building that was in use, but I also found ways to get into parts of the building that were closed off. A favorite hiding spot was a small room I'd discovered which contained a piano. I spent many evenings there, practicing classical music, mostly Mozart and Beethoven, and playing random choral music selections that I found on the shelves there.</div>
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My grades reflected my lack of preparedness, and my uncle let me know he wasn't pleased with my report cards. However, he never threatened to pull me out, since neither he nor his wife wanted me back home.</div>
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In fact, they were so reluctant to have me around that I was only allowed to come home twice -- at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Long weekends were spent at school, and for Spring Break, they arranged to have me stay with the family of one of the day students. When I did come home, it wasn't in my uncle's plane. Instead, they sent just enough money for a Greyhound ticket, and that's how I traveled. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Take Greyhound and leave the driving to us!"</td></tr>
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As I mentioned, the door-to-door travel time was approximately six hours by car. By bus, it was at least two to three times as long, and I made that journey as an unescorted 15-year-old. It was, arguably, a simpler time, but it doesn't seem safe to have a teenage girl travel alone for that length of time, especially among potentially "shady" fellow passengers. However, apparently no one was concerned and, fortunately, I never encountered any problems along the routes.</div>
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Along with exploring off-limits parts of the school, I also explored the private rooms of my fellow dorm residents. Without permission.</div>
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I am not proud of this, but share in the spirit of honesty. At home, I had a history of shoplifting, and had a few times gone into neighbors' homes while they were away. My uncle and his wife were in some cases aware of my activities, and other times simply suspicious. Although I hadn't had any formal involvement with the legal system, I had on one occasion been forced to return a stolen item to the local Woolworth's, tell the manager what I'd done, and apologize. My aunt stood nearby, furious, and she fully supported the manager's decision barring me from the store for the rest of my teenage years.</div>
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My petty thievery continued at school. I stole some small amounts of money and a few personal items. The dorm mother did an unannounced room search while we were in class, found and confiscated these items -- but she could never prove I took the money. During my evening walk-abouts, I learned how to break into the tiny school store and frequently took small items such as candy, school supplies, etc. I felt justified in doing this, since it was like "getting back at" a place where I didn't want to be. Also, my uncle refused to give me any more spending money -- the $20 was, I guess, supposed to last the entire year. Since my pockets were empty, if I wanted something, I had to steal it.</div>
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Although I'm sure the school suspected I was the culprit, they never suggested -- or found any evidence -- that I was behind the thefts, as I'd discovered an excellent hiding place for my "loot." I did get in trouble for stealing something else -- the specifics are lost to me now -- and, naturally, my uncle was contacted.</div>
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Needless to say, he was NOT happy.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8359200948898709981.post-71191041961336026492015-01-19T06:19:00.001-08:002015-01-19T06:20:11.999-08:00Sent away -- again (part I).....<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sometime during my sophomore year of high school, I made a suggestion to my uncle. Having met with my guidance counselor and counted my credits, I realized that I would have enough credits -- though just barely -- to graduate one year early. My uncle's response was a quick and firm "no." Since I had skipped first grade, I was already one of the youngest students in my grade, and graduating early meant that I'd be just two months past my 15th birthday. He thought that I was simply too young and too immature.</div>
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Later during the school year, I made another suggestion -- that I be allowed to finish my last two years at boarding school. I'd met a girl at "fat camp" the summer before who attended boarding school and said she enjoyed not living at home. Again, my suggestion was rejected. During the brief time that my younger brother lived at home (between discharge from the juvenile psychiatric facility and being remanded to the adult psychiatric hospital [at the age of 14]), my uncle and his wife had placed him in a nearby boarding school. He'd lasted only a couple months before being expelled. Since boarding school tuition is non-refundable, my thrifty uncle had lost quite a bit of money with that venture.</div>
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That didn't stop me from asking again, several more times that year. However, each time I was told that boarding school was not a possibility.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No graduating early, no boarding school, no getting out of the house anytime soon.</td></tr>
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However, tensions between my uncle's wife and I continued to escalate, and things finally reached a breaking point. I'm not sure exactly what transpired. Perhaps her physician had said that the stress was bad for her diseased heart. Perhaps, as she'd done once before, she threatened to walk out on my uncle. Whatever the reason, sometime near the end of my junior year, I was told that I'd be spending my senior year at boarding school.</div>
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I suppose I should have been ecstatic to hear this news. After all, it's what I'd asked for several months earlier. However, in my mind there was a difference between spending my last two years at a new school, versus going off for just my final year and this time it was MY turn to say "no." I wanted to stay where I had friends, where I was involved with the drama club, where I could graduate with the people I'd been in class with for six years.</div>
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Unfortunately, the decision had been made. I WOULD be leaving, and I was handed an enormous hardback book, a directory of North American boarding schools. There was a geographic limitation (sunny California was out of the question), but otherwise it was up to me where I wanted to go and I was told to read the book and pick a school.</div>
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My feeling was that if I had to go, I would go as far away as possible. My fat camp friend's school was in Canada, so I decided that's where I wanted to spend the year. It's hard to believe now, but my uncle actually agreed to that and over the summer, he flew me north to take a tour of the school. (He was a private pilot and shared ownership of a small, four-seater, airplane.) I still didn't want to go away, but I didn't dislike the school, so my uncle and his wife completed an application and sent it off.</div>
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I'm not sure whether it was money, issues with international paperwork, or that I just wasn't a suitable applicant, but for some reason we learned at the last minute that the Canadian school wasn't going to be possible and I was told to make another choice. Thinking that far northern New England was as close to Canada as I could get, I decided on a school in central Maine. Because it was so close to the start of the semester, there was no time to tour the facilities ahead of time. </div>
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I'd spent the summer in denial, not really believing that I would be sent away, despite being repeatedly told it would happen. When the local schools opened for the year, I got on the bus and went to class as usual. I did the same the second day, and the third. Unfortunately, that third night I was told to pack whatever I wanted to take with me, because I was leaving the next day. Hurt and angry, I gathered up my limited wardrobe, some personal items, and my accordion and music. I was allowed to call a few of my friends with the news, but packing was my primary responsibility.</div>
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Early the next morning, my uncle and I once again got in his plane and headed north.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0