Monday, November 25, 2013

Chocolate

His adoptive mom will still not agree to meet or converse, and he apparently is still not interested in contact. However, most of his F*cebook posts seem to be public and I just learned he doesn't like chocolate. Neither do I. That makes me smile.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Facebook

I tried to message someone on a board and Facebook warned me that it might go in their "other" folder. "Other" folder? What's that? I looked at mine and found it. There was a message from Amom from almost two years ago when I accidentally sent a friend request to my (our?) son (and then un-sent it). I thought I had un-sent the request before he saw it. Apparently not. Her message to me was SCATHING. If I had seen it two years ago, I would have known then that all along she has just fed me a line of bullshit about ever getting together or having contact. I don't know what the hell she is telling him about me, and how she is telling him. But for her to say that an almost 20 year-old was "blindsided and hurt by my reaching out through Facebook, of all things", gives me a clue that what she's been telling me all these years is not what she's been telling him. Give me a break already.

So he doesn't want contact. That much it clear. Is he angry about being adopted? He's certainly had a "good" life. Has he been shown my cards and letters over the years? I am beginning to doubt it. Whatever. He will be 22 in June. I didn't send anything at Christmas and now I am glad I didn't. Screw them and their over-privileged lives. I picked his parents for him - he should be grateful for that since they apparently are the ones that have told him his shit doesn't stink. Yes, I'm mad. And shame on me for drinking the kool-aid.

Friday, February 15, 2013

Help me find ...

These Facebook posts where people are trying to find their birthmothers/birth parents make me sad in that my son knows how to get in touch with me and chooses not to do so. Yet, these kids/people do want to know their birth parents. Maybe I made myself too available, but I think I was also sold a "bill of goods" in that his adoptive mother made it sound like contact after the adoption would be possible.  You live, you learn I guess.

Monday, October 01, 2012

Moving on

It's been a few months since I sent his birthday card that was essentially my "see ya! you don't need me so I am gone". And I feel pretty good about it. I mean, I've gotten used to people who were important to me acting like I didn't matter. I didn't think my own son would treat me that way, but apparently he is. So really. See ya. I've gotta move on.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Whiplash

I took a writing class this summer, one of those adult continuing ed classes where you don't get a grade. It was a memoir class and of course almost all my material for the prompts came from the time I had my son. We had to share a four-page piece with the class at the end and have it "workshopped" where people would comment on it and the writer couldn't say anything. I didn't feel like writing something different so I polished up one of my prompted pieces where I had been purposely vague about the placement and wrote mostly about my four days with him. It was based on the fact that I could not remember feeding him. I did drop some hints - like how we took an airplane ride and wound up in an office. But when I got done, it seemed no one understood what happened.

After my initial surprise, I basked in the response of the older females (everyone save one 22 year-old was at least 60) who said, "Oh, how vulnerable, clearly a first baby." "Really captures how hard it is to be a first-time mother and you think you're doing everything wrong." Women started to talk about how they felt exactly the same way. I thought to myself, oh, they didn't understand but isn't it nice to treat his birth and the time I had him as just a normal motherhood? I was taken back to the time when I did pretend with people that I was about to become a mother. It felt nice. Welcoming. Comforting. Then one man piped up and said, "But I feel like something went wrong, but that he didn't die." I said, "That's right. I gave him up for adoption." The room was deadly silent and one woman's eyes were as large as saucers. Literally. I kid you not.

After a very pregnant pause [pun intended], the instructor said that I should probably explain it better, even be explicit about it in the beginning. I said, "No, it will cause everyone to put up their filters as they read it." The gay guy in class said, "Oh, I understand all about filters." I appreciated his support, but still the room was unusually silent. No one proffered any cliches, thankfully, but no one said anything else, either. I finally just said, "I guess I forget that what has been my reality for over 21 years isn't even on most people's radar." And we moved onto the next person.

Sunday, July 01, 2012

So I sent a final birthday card. I didn't make it perfectly clear that it was final, but I wished him a good life. I figure I'll send Amom a letter before Christmas so my intention is clear.

In the background I have Sleepless in Seattle on. It is 20 years old next year. How did that happen? Am I really that old? It was made in 1993. My son was 2. How different would my life be had I raised him. I don't spend so much time in what ifs these days. I didn't raise him. Must move on.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Time to let go

She did respond. And she used a trigger word for me. Someday.

Well, it's been almost 21 years and someday hasn't happened. It's not going to happen. I finally realize that. Why am I so damn gullible?

And for the first time I "get" the birthmoms who have visits and come home with mixed feelings. I have always read those posts with unabashed envy. I would LOVE to have seen my son, known what his eye color turned out to be, heard his toddler laugh, smelled his hair. I wish I had one of his crayon drawings.

After exchanging emails with M, I had those same confused, hurt feelings I get every Christmas when I get a letter or picture. (rarely both) I am so glad to have heard something, but there is so much more left unsaid, so many more questions I have. And you know, I realize now that it would be like that at every visit, if I had ever had the chance to have one. All the what if's, all the shoulda/woulda/coulda's popping up in my subconscious, beaten down by the conscious mind but still there, making me cry and feel raw, wrong and wronged all over again.

It's time to step away and move on. I've had enough of being held emotionally hostage.