Something To Think On This Christmas Eve

Some things have been brewing in my head this holiday season concerning family and friends. Something someone once said to me was "your friends are the family you choose". And of course, when this particular little thing popped into my head tonight I thought of all the friends I've made on Facebook and the things we have in common. For those of us that are adoptees or first/natural moms we have a unique view of holidays and the difficult emotions we deal with each year; however, something else occurred to me that goes along with the friends and family and adoption.

We, as humans, do NOT have a choice in the family that we are given, whether our families are made "the old fashioned way" or provided by an adoption agency. I do not mean to negate or dismiss our unique position, but I would like to put some perspective on it. There are some great families and some totally dysfunctional families. There are some adoptees that have wonderful upbringings and some that have terrible childhoods. And the reverse is true also; there are some "natural" families that are horrible and some that make "Leave It To Beaver" look dysfunctional. No matter what, we really don't have any choice in the matter; we're babies, children, people that don't have any legal rights until we're 18 (at least in the US).

As we grow up we decide, we choose, what is important to us, what we're passionate about, and what we can shrug off. We as adopted people and natural moms that have realized the complete inequity of the adoption process have chosen to educate ourselves, to investigate this thing called adoption. I believe that the choice we have made is a good one, but I think it's good to keep in mind that no matter how our families were made or broken, in the beginning of all our lives, adopted, fostered, natural, NONE of us has any choice in how our lives begin. What matters is what we DO with our lives. Do we make our world better or do we bring others down? These are all choices we make.

What choices will you make in the year to come?

Open Adoption is a Euphemism

I know this may sound like a no-brainer, but for me it's a bit of a light bulb going on over the head. There is no such thing as "open adoption". It's a lie, a fallacy, a euphemism, a trick to lure young women into an office in order to summarily plan the future of her unborn child: without her.

Let's start with an examination of just exactly what "open adoption" means. First, there is no ONE definition for the term. For some, an open adoption could simply mean looking through binders or websites of couples or families seeking to adopt and choosing a particular set to place their child with. While others see open adoption as an opportunity to remain an active part of their child's life, with the adoptive parents permission, of course. For most, open adoption is anything in between these two extremes.

In my own experience, as an adoptee born in the '60's, there was no such thing as open adoption. I doubt the term or idea had even truly been used until the mid 1980's. When I lost my first son to adoption, we were supposed to have an "open adoption". We met with my son's adoptive parents a week prior to his birth for about two hours; we were on first name basis only. The agreement was to have pictures and an update letter every 3 months in the first year, and then just twice a year until he reached 18 years old.

Unfortunately, this is not what happened. I should have known that within the first year of his life and the pictures and letters only arrived a few times what the future would hold. But there were health issues going on with my/our son; life and death matters that, until my son's adoptive parents wrote the first time, I had no idea about.

My son stabilized, though he continued to have health issues that I was not to know about until far after the fact. And being adopted myself, I had no recourse, no ability to pass along pertinent information. And except for one medical condition, which I knew for certain was directly related to his birth father which wasn't life threatening (and something that we had passed along to the adoptive parents), I had no idea why my baby was having such difficult health issues.

On the whole, I have varied responses about this. Knowing now what I know, the intellectual, perhaps more mature side of me understands why the pictures and letters stopped; eventually, there were health reasons that weren't my son's that riveted the attention of the family. And I will admit that I didn't keep the adoption agency up to date on my where abouts. But when I did, there weren't any pictures or letters awaiting me after about my son's 7th or 8th birthday. But deep down, in my heart of hearts, I am hurt beyond words.

Beyond my personal experience, I read day after day of adoptions that were supposed to be open, only to end up closed due to some reason within the adoptive, and controlling, family. The rare circumstance is the adoptive family that doesn't close adoption these days. No matter what is told to the mother or parents seeking to place their child for adoption, there's always seems to be "something" that gets in the way of keeping the adoption open. Whether it's health issues within the family, or insecurities within the adoptive parents, all the good intentions to remain open with the first family, the family of true origin, fall away with the years.

There's the old saying "the road to hell is paved with good intentions", yet adoptive parents don't seem to realize that when they close the doors to the first family the hell they create is for the person or persons who was supposed to love their child so much they were able to "give them away", to "give them to a loving family who could provide what she or they couldn't". And depending on the life of the adopted child, the adoptive parents end up creating a hell for the person they were supposed to love unconditionally, even if that child wasn't "of their bodies", but "of their heart".

For Adoptees, birthdays = deathdays

Last night, I read Linda Gambino's "Birthdaze" to my fiance and daughter. For years, I didn't realize that I hated my birthday because of being adopted. I never really even realized that the anxiety that gripped me a week or so prior to my birthday wasn't about what crappy presents I might or might not get, or who would even remember my birthday. And as I write this, I'm looking back at my birthdays as a child, and I'm realizing that I really did hate my birthday early on. Nothing was ever quite right with my parties; I can remember one where I didn't win at one of the party games, and ran off crying.

I reminded Ron of the first birthday of mine that we had together; the day after we got into a fight, and Ron thought I was angry at him. My birthday is in July, and for him, work and therefore money, is tight in the summer. He was only able to do a minimal amount for my birthday, but it was really wonderful and thoughtful, and I loved him for what he was able to do. But I was still anxious and crabby and I really didn't know why. So, we fought. I wasn't angry at Ron, and I told him that at the time, but he was very confused by my emotions; heck, so was I! Here was a great guy who did his best to give me a happy birthday and we get into a fight the day after for what seems to be no reason.

After reading that post to him, and I reminded him of the fight, the light bulb just went on and he looked relieved that there was some explainable reason for something so strange.

It took 40 years and another adoptees' musing on her birthday to realize that it wasn't my family or even lack of funds, or even lack of friends that made my birthdays suck; it was being adopted. As I talked with my fiance a little more after my daughter went to bed, he told me that really, for adoptees birthdays are synonymous with celebrating a deathday. I asked him to explain and here is what he told me. For those of us who are adopted we are always aware that our first family, our first mother, isn't there. But on our birthdays it is a force-able reminder of our loss, and we grieve. Most of the time, we grieve for the death of someone, and in a sense the birthday for an adoptee is really the day of their first mother's symbolic death, the day that we are given life, and taken away from the life giver. That "primal wound" that is spoken of for adoptees is replayed over and over again every year; this is the day that my mother died to me.

I am grateful (in the good way) for Linda's post. That really opened up my eyes for me, and I appreciate it so very much; so, thank you Linda. I owe you. You gave a sense of relief to my fiance and daughter and with that information, have empowered them (we'll fill my youngest in later). :)

A reply to "What's in a name?"

What's in a name?

Recently, I read a blog of a friend of mine who is both an adoptee and a first mother who asked just this question. And it got me thinking...again.

I'll address what could perhaps be considered the first question; what's in a name?

Once upon a time much power was attributed to a name. If you knew a persons TRUE name you held power over them, so your true name remained a secret only known to you and whoever you chose to tell, which was usually your mate; and possibly one of your parents knew. It was thought that if you knew a person's true name that you could even kill them with just a simple word.

My ex-husband is attributed for naming his sister. The story goes that his parents had a hard time coming up with a name for the new baby, and he suggested both first and middle and so to this day that's what she is called. During their childhood, and even until fairly recently, brother and sister shared a very close bond. Would they have had that bond if he had just let his parents to hash things out? Who knows? But, in my opinion, I believe that his naming his baby sister was a very significant deed; maybe even a weighty responsibility.

In the Jewish religion, children aren't named after living family members, or anyone the family knows, because it is felt that to give a baby the name of someone living takes away life force from the other person.

The questions in my friend's blog are a bit more adoption specific. The answer to the first one she asks, for me, is: well, since I haven't found my first family yet, I don't know what my first name was. Her question being if there were any adoptees that had changed their name back to their original name.

I do know that the foster family that kept me during the interim time between being relinquished and being adopted called me Margot. Since I grew up in the era that had the original Superman movie with Margot Kidder, whom I did NOT like as Lois Lane, I can't say that I'm overly fond of the name Margot. Wouldn't the irony be if that's what my first mother wanted to name me?

As for how would I feel if my first son changed his name back to what I named him, I would LOVE it! But I don't see it happening at all. No matter what, in my heart of hearts I will ALWAYS refer to my first son by the name I gave him; but TO him, I call him the name his adoptive parents gave him. I can't feel too terribly bad with the name he was given, however, because it happened to be my second choice for him.

For the record, I have ALWAYS hated my name! I doubt I'd change it "back", but you never know. Dana is who I am now, it's how my children know me, how my mate knows me. I think at this late stage in the game, it would just feel strange to be called something different now.

A Reply to "Adopted People Are Not Allowed Ancestory Because It Might Upset Someone"

As always, Lorraine writes a thoughtful and incisive blog into the perilous waters we all tread if we're part of the adoption triad.

In her most recent blog,"Adopted People Are Not Allowed Ancestry Because It Might Upset Somebody" she tackles some adoptee issues spurred on by reading an article of an adoptee beginning their search for their first parents. The primary issue is how adoptees have been brainwashed by the "you should be grateful you were adopted" attitude.

I can only speak to my particular experience, but let me say that Lorraine hit the nail squarely on the head for me. I don't think that my adoptive parents ever consciously tried to imbue this upon me, but they did anyway. I was told the old rags of "you were chosen", "we chose you", "your birth mother wanted the best for you", etc. ad nauseaum. THAT'S the first layer of ingraining the adoptee into the grateful attitude. For me, the second layer was a bit more personal. My a-father would jokingly say that I was a strange looking baby; that my eyes were too close together and almost looked cross eyed. WOW! Well, gee, maybe THAT'S why my real mom didn't want me; I was too goofy looking. And then there's the third layer that the adoptee subconsciously places upon themselves that since I was chosen over all the other children that needed good homes, I need to live up to their expectations, be good, don't act out, try to be on your best behavior at all times, because you never know, they may decide they don't want you anymore and "take you back".

Many adoptees constantly lives with the sensation of never being quite good enough, never measuring up. Even after reaching adult hood over 20 years ago, I still live with this. I've made a conscious effort to try to put it aside, but the root is still there, even if the germinated flower was ripped out long ago. This feeling has lead me to destroy relationships that I cherished because I simply couldn't believe that this person saw any worth in me.

I remember when I first started my search for my first family, 20 years ago, that when I confided in my a-mom, she pointed out to me that while she couldn't stop me, that I should be considerate of my a-father's feelings; they might get hurt. I didn't want to seem disloyal, did I? (Let me say before I go any further that my a-mom is a good person, and not manipulative in any fashion. She didn't actually say the disloyal comment to me directly, but that IS how the comment came across. I KNOW she didn't mean it, but I've always been the "sensitive" child, and so took everything "too seriously".) In essence, I should make sure my a-father's feelings were considered before my own and that a grateful daughter wouldn't put him/us/me through this. They never asked me to NOT search and would tell me that they were worried for me. While they didn't have this language, they didn't want me to experience the "second rejection". I don't know how many conversations I've had with them listing the reasons why I'd rather know than not. I'd rather deal with the rejection a second time than to never know anything about where I came from. (I've always found it frustrating to try to impart this attitude to someone who isn't adopted because regardless of how eloquent I am with my words, how passionate I speak to the subject, there is NO WAY someone who isn't adopted could EVER understand. My fiance can literally trace his genealogy back to King Solomon! How blessed is THAT?!?! Yet for all his ability of being able to see both sides of an argument, this is one side he can NEVER fully comprehend.) It's only been within the last few years that my a-parents have given me their full support in my search; the clincher? Because it would be good for my mental health.

GRRRRRRR!!!!

When I got my non identifying information, I was, of course, grateful. At last, I had something more than just my imagination and vague descriptions from my a-parents of what my first family is like. But something that Lorraine mentioned in her blog struck me like a blow. In my non-id, there is a statement about my first mother; "she is described as being 'unusually pretty'". I remember staring at those words til I thought the ink would fade out. "unusually pretty". That's WONDERFUL! Maybe I wasn't the ugly duckling I'd always feared I'd continue to be! If she was pretty at 17, then at 19 I had HOPE!

Now, I look back on that and think, "ohmygod! What was I THINKING?!?!" Is THAT all they gave me?!?! The most I have ever been GIVEN was this! But I was the grateful bastard, well trained to be thankful for any drib or drab that was given to me.

Lorraine wrote, "I guess it's that last bit that would kill me if I were on the adopted side of this painful process called adoption. Upturned nose? Pretty? Engaging smile? I think I would start looking at every face in the supermarket all over again, trying to figure out if upturned noses fall with age (they do) and wonder how "pretty" looks at say, sixty, seventy, or so, to judge from the career choice of her first mother--data processing, the precursor to computers."

Oh Lorraine! You don't know how right you are! I've spent my entire LIFE looking for someone that looked like me, my mother, a sister, maybe even an effeminate brother? Do I even HAVE siblings? To this DAY I still look at strangers and wonder if I'm related to them. I can't help it. I ask random people when I find out their last names are either Williams or Hernandez if they had anyone in their family that gave a child up for adoption. How pathetic is that?

When all is said and done, adopted is who I am, a part of me that no one can ever take back or change. The damage is done, so to speak. All I can do is deal with the boat load of issues given to me by people who tried to love me the best they could.

The Story So Far

My name is Baby Girl Williams/Hernandez. That’s the name that appears on the previously public California Birth Index, reflecting my original birth certificate. Actually, there are 2 separate entries for me; Baby Girl Williams AND Baby Girl Hernandez. The search angels that have helped me with this are all assuming they’re the same because the coincidence of another female child born in Sacramento County at exactly the same time and placed for adoption is slim to none.

So, I go off an assumption that’s who I am. The odds are pretty good, in my favor, so to speak, that those ARE the names of my birth/first parents, but you must admit that trying to search based solely off of an assumption is just a bit scary. However, as the odds are in my favor, that’s the assumption that I have to go off of because if I don’t, then there’s really no search at all.

I’ve also been known as Margot; the name my foster parents called me during my brief, three week stay in their home. But that’s a detail for further on in the story.

The name that my adoptive parents gave to me is Dana Marie Lowrey (my middle name would always be Marie, but my mother has told me that she wanted to call me Paige; however, my brother and father kept calling me Dana. Guess it stuck). I’ve always known I’m adopted. I can’t recall a time I didn’t know. I’m grateful to my parents for never trying to hide that fact from me. I don’t know why they chose to tell me, but I don’t think that really matters. They did and that’s what counts. I’ve known too many adoptees that have discovered the fact of their adoption late in life, and the sense of betrayal leaves an indelible mark upon them that nothing can erase.

I grew up in the Greater Sacramento area in California, and at least on the surface I had a good upbringing. Money was never a problem, and although I didn’t have the latest designer jeans, I was always well fed and clothed. My parents loved me. I knew that. But I’m not sure that they ever really understood me, as I’m not sure they understand me still. I don’t know if that’s because there was a more significant gap in age between me and them, or if it was because I wasn’t biologically their child; most likely a combination of both and more, since we are more than just the sum of our parts.

Underneath was where the turmoil lay. I had a significant lack of self confidence, and still struggle with it to this day. My parents separated when I was 3 ½. My brother and I went with my mother to live at her parent’s house for one summer in a small town north of Palm Springs called Yucca Valley. When it became apparent that my brother was too much for my mother to handle, he went to live with my father. After that summer, my mother moved us to the city of Orange. We lived there while my mother received her real estate license. During this time I recall visiting my father on at least one occasion. I recall the day care my mother had for me. I even recall the view out of my bedroom window and generally what the apartment looked like. What I don’t recall, but was later told, was that my father was making concerted efforts to win my mother back after she’d gotten fed up with his philandering. I remember, however, when they got back together and we moved back in with my father. I was barely 5 years old by this time.

I was painfully unpopular in school. I had very few friends, and the ones I did have weren’t the true blue, dyed in the wool friends you’ll have til the end of time. My friends were a temporary thing, and to this day I’m not really close to that many people. In addition, I was an easy target in school for the teasers and the bullies. I wore my emotions on my sleeve, and could cry at the drop of a hat. This wasn’t something that started in kindergarten; the day care I mentioned is my first memory of social out-casting. The details are fuzzy, but I do remember sitting alone on the play ground, in the sand box and watching everyone play. I remember feeling like I didn’t belong, I didn’t fit it, and I had no idea why. Why didn’t these kids like me? Was it because I was new? Did they somehow know I was flawed in some way because my parents weren’t together? Or did they see a flaw in me that was so fundamental that I could never fathom it? No, I wasn’t a prodigy, I didn’t think in these terms, exactly, but the feelings and sensations are still very clear to me, still very painful. I was only four years old.

And I always seemed to be more susceptible to the teasing of my peers. I never really saw other kids breaking down on the playground crying. Maybe if there was a skinned knee from the blacktop, or a bumped head from the monkey bars, sure. But I was one of the rare breeds of children that all the other children seemed to instinctively know about; this one will respond the way we want to, this one is entertaining. I liken it to sharks and the smell of blood in the water; they’ll come from vastly great distances just for that smell, and if they can get a taste, even better.

The friends I felt that I could count on, at least to a certain extent, were my friends who lived in my neighborhood. There weren’t that many. There was one time when I was probably 6 years old or so and my best friend, who lived across the street from me, and another friend and I were playing hide and go seek. My best friend, Kim was older than I by only a few months, but for some reason it was a point of contention between the two of us. And her friend, Julie, who lived down the hill from us, whom Kim had known longer, having lived in the neighborhood longer, was a year older than either of us. I suppose at that age, a year is a big deal, but I remember Julie lorded it over me like I was flawed or defective for being younger than she. I remember feeling a great deal of angst about this, but at least I can look back now with bemusement because it really doesn’t make much sense. Perhaps I was still the “new” kid, or she just needed something to feel superior about. If I recall correctly, she has a brand new baby brother and maybe she needed to feel important to someone, perhaps not receiving the kind of recognition at home that an older sibling sometimes feels when a new baby is brought home. Who knows? In any event, I doubt it is difficult to see who was “IT” in our little game of hide n seek; me. And this next part is probably really easy to guess. I counted to 100 dutifully (I was still playing fair at that age) and when I went to go seek they were no where to be found.

Now, in the everyday life of a child, of children, this really isn’t an extraordinary event. Being a mother, watching stupid things like that happen to my kids, I get it now. BUT, there was this…thing in me that said I was different, that I wasn’t like them, that I was flawed and defective because my real mother didn’t want me and I had to live with people that weren’t my blood relatives, people who would never really understand me. Sure, they loved me, and they told me I was chosen, that they chose me, and that I was special because of that, but I didn’t believe that for one second. Yes, I believe they loved me, but the rest was unadulterated lies. Everything in me KNEW that my real mother didn’t want me, so why would anyone else? So this episode has stuck with me my entire life, because just like the first rejection, to which they say newborns, babies can only, MAYBE be aware of, I was rejected again by someone who was supposed to stand by me, because she said she would.

Yes, I can see it for the stupid stunt that it was now, but it scarred me more deeply than I’ve ever let on to anyone else before now. And I really didn’t realize just how badly it did scar me until now, 34 years later.

By the time I was 7 years old, my brother began to repeatedly molest me. It didn’t stop until my mother walked through the door one afternoon and caught my brother touching me. After a family discussion consisting of “that’s not what family’s do to or with each other” talk, life got back to “normal” again. My brother stopped molesting me, at least until I was a teenager, and everything went on as though nothing had happened.

And when I say “normal”, I mean it was never mentioned again, never talked about again, I was never taken to any sort of therapy; it was, as Alanis Morriset put it, under rug swept. For a time I forgot about it, at least consciously. It was the only way I could deal with everything that had happened. It seemed that’s what my parents wanted, and like the dutiful child I was, I obliged. And perhaps it was the only way that I could deal with the rage that deep down was growing inside me; a rage that no child should have to experience or endure. A rage born of seeing my innocence stripped away with no seeming consequence. That this person that, until then, I adored, my brother, had taken away my innocence and nothing was done to correct this gross injustice. And only in later years did I learn that he was threatened with being sent away from the family with military school should his actions continue. I don’t really know what kind of difference this would have made to the 7 year old me; perhaps, like some victims, I would have balked at the absence of my molester, my brother. Perhaps I would have felt vindicated. There’s no way to know; however, a threat of being sent away from the family seems like such a pitiful consequence considering the action. Doesn’t Newton’s Third Law say that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction? Where is the equality in this? Where is the justice? Don’t we teach our children that every action they take, good or bad, has its consequences? Where were his consequences? Does the self loathing I imagine him to have sometimes equal to the actions he took against me when I was so helpless against him? Or should I simply be grateful that perhaps in some afterlife, he’ll be punished?

There are no easy answers to these questions. Perhaps there are simply no answers, because, perhaps, we really don’t live in a just world.

By the time I was 8 years old, in third grade, I was a victim, yet again, of another molester; this time at school. And while technically, at least in the state of California, “sexual exploration” between children of the same ages isn’t considered molestation, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t. I don’t think I would know this person if I met him on the street today, but his face is blazoned upon my memory, and I could describe him in clear detail, if so required. And yes, I remember his name, but for privacy sake, it won’t be mentioned here.

And no, the story doesn’t end here. I don’t really remember when the boy down the street started to “play with me”; I think it was in this age range, 8 to 9 years old. This lasted until his parents divorced and he wasn’t around nearly as much. I do remember having the courage to stand up to him at one point when he brought a friend along and wanted me to...perform similar favors. Though I seem to remember that after I said no to that one incident, some rumors began to float around school that I was easy and would provide entertainment to any boy who asked. Around this same time, the daughter of a coworker of my mother’s thought it would be fun to strip naked when I was 11 years old and “explore”.

I think saying no to the threesome that was proposed finally gave me some strength to stop the abuse cycle, at least for a little while.

Between the ages of 11 to 16 were relatively “normal” for me; if you can call a girl entering puberty, who is sexually hyperaware, normal. I always considered myself “boy crazy”. I liked boys. I didn’t, and still don’t, think there was anything wrong with liking boys. I was always aware of the boys in school, though, and I don’t know if that is normal. I always had a crush on someone, and can still name just about every boy I did have a crush on. I never really thought boys liked me, though. Or if they did, they only wanted one thing. And since I was so horribly screwed up, why not give it to them? I’m not sure if I understood the significance of virginity when I was 7 years old, but by the time I was 13 years old, I knew I was damaged goods, in so many ways. And by the time I was 13, I finally allowed myself to remember what my brother had done to me. I know it might sound odd that throughout the time from when I was 8 years old to the time I was 13 years old I “forgot” my brother had molested me, but I did.

I can recall clearly the moment I actually allowed myself to remember. I was sitting on the floor in the cafeteria with two friends during lunch. Lunch itself was over, and the rest of the kids were outside letting off steam when my friends and I were sitting there. I remember haltingly relating minor details to them, my mind not allowing me to dig deeper yet. From then on, I never forgot again, and I’ve never been shy about sharing that information. What was done to me was wrong, and I was in no way to be ashamed of it. I guess I think that if I tell enough people, I will finally, someday, believe that.

I never told my parents that I had forgotten, or that I’d remembered. I had a whole world to make sure didn’t come crashing down, didn’t I? My family’s happiness was paramount, and if I said anything, the family wouldn’t be happy anymore. So much responsibility for a child to bear, but I did it. I took the weight and responsibility of four people onto my shoulders, because I alone had the secret that would destroy everything and since I am adopted, and my real mother didn’t want me, where else could I go?

So? Does being adopted lend you to molestation, incestuous or otherwise? Probably not. There are far too many cases of both types to point the finger at merely being adopted. Does my father’s philandering ways have any part in my molestation? Perhaps; perhaps my brother’s witness to the significant male role model in the home having sexual contact with an inappropriate female might have had an impact on a quickly maturing young boy. (I do not believe that my brother witnessed any sexual act by my father, merely the knowledge that daddy wasn’t living with mommy anymore and was with this other woman.) I believed that particular theory for a very long time; basically blaming my father for my brother’s behavior. What I think more likely, however, is what I’ve learned though the years; that children who molest have been molested themselves and are merely acting out their own trauma in the only way they can. And while I was never truly close to my other molesters, never close enough to speculate, I can only assume that they had been similarly molested themselves.

I can happily say that, while tempted at one very specific point in my life to continue the cycle and abuse another child, I never did. I can look back in my memory and see a little boy, perhaps 7 or 8, and have the feeling of gut wrenching relief that I did nothing to spoil this child. That is probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever communicated with anyone; there’s only one other person in this world that I’ve told that particular dirty little secret to. And to this day, this very minute, I can only feel revulsion and nausea at myself for even contemplating it.

This incident happened when I was about 18. I don’t know if those horrible, molester thoughts would have occurred to me if my brother hadn’t taken up molesting me again when I was 16. I won’t go into detail what he did, but I can at least say that it wasn’t to the extreme that it was when I was 7. However, I have dealt with deep, nauseating self loathing ever since because I wasn’t strong enough to say no to what he wanted to do. The time frame is significantly smaller than when I was a small child. My brother was off to college already, and the molesting started to take place when he was home for the summer. The only thing I can say that was fortunate was that during the summer, he worked a job that kept him away from the house for 4 days out of 7. My birthday is in July, and he’d begun shortly after my 16th birthday. I don’t think most teenagers look forward to the beginning of school, but that summer, I did because that would mean that HE would be gone.

I never told anyone about it that year. I tried desperately to forget it. I had a boyfriend by the time homecoming came around. I had a best friend that was loyal and wonderful. I had a margin of freedom that I’d never experienced before. Life seemed to be looking up for me. Why ruin it with thoughts of the previous summer when there was nothing I could do about it?

To Dan, I lost my virginity; not my real virginity, because that had been stripped away from me at 7 years old. But he was my first sexual partner that I count, my first love, the first person that I wanted to have sex with. With Dan, I felt that I could be myself for the first time, no hiding, no obfuscation. I was caught up in the rush and glow of first love. I could be reckless, carefree and feel like who I always thought I should be, someone my parents didn’t understand or want me to be. For me, it seemed like I finally found someone that wanted to know ME. In reality, he was probably mostly just looking to get into my pants, but it didn’t matter at the time. Did I delude myself into thinking that I was worth something if someone wanted to have sex with me? Did I realize it at the time that that’s exactly what I was doing to myself? Resoundingly NO! But then, most teens aren’t as self aware as they profess to be, either. Did I realize that with Dan I would start a long string of boys, guys, men that I would give my body to in order to self validate? Of course not, because this was (say it with me) true love.

I can take two views of my relationship with Dan; the jaundiced and the candy coated. The jaundiced view is the older, cynical me realizing that we were just two kids playing at grown up games. We were playing with fire, and didn’t care if we got burned. Dan IS the person who introduced to me the movie Highlander, and (I think deliberately) instilled in me the belief of the line, “it’s better to burn out than fade away”.

The older, romantic me can take the long view, the candy coated view that it was a time of innocence, of exploration, of giving into those incredible hormonal urges that Mother Nature pours into us in the middle of puberty in order to procreate. That with Dan, I had no cares, I could laugh freely, and he would laugh with me. We could scorn our parents and find a confidante in one another that neither had ever had.

The reality is that my relationship with my first boyfriend was probably all this and more. While Dan wasn’t who I would have chosen as my first love, and the relationship wasn’t an after school special of romance, it was what it was, and has helped to shape who I am today.

Our anniversary was December 19th. He officially asked me to be his girlfriend the last day of school before Christmas vacation. I’m not sure I’ll ever forget that date; I was an all powerful junior, I didn’t have the responsibility of a senior, I was able to get out from under my parents watchful eye for what seemed the first time ever, and I had a boyfriend! Not only that, but it turned my prospect of a dull 2 weeks from school, with only Christmas day and sleeping in to look forward to, to something thrilling and exciting. Part of Dan’s attraction was the fact that he had older friends; yes, friends who were over 21 years old, friends with access to alcohol and parent free places, and some even had cool cars.
We were together before then, “hanging out” in today’s parlance, but it wasn’t official yet. I even still have the bracelet that he gave me that day.

Christmas was fun that year, again. We went to some parties, made out in the backseat of the car, unbuckled with me sitting across his lap as our friends drove from one event to the next. We exchanged kisses under the mistletoe and gifts and vows of undying love.

Back at school, we held hands in the halls and exchanged public kisses between periods. We were totally wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the world. We made plans for weekends, for after school, for whenever we could get a chance to get away from parents; mostly mine, though his father was, according to Dan at the time, a hardcase. I only found him to be rather stoic and self contained, but then again, I didn’t live with the man, either.

Valentine’s Day was celebrated, though I don’t remember now, how.

And then the Sadie Hawkin’s Dance rolled around.

I don’t know if I’m the best judge of popularity in this instance, but I wonder how many people knew that I was leading the committee our junior year for the Sadie Hawkin’s Dance, for both my junior and senior year. At the time, I probably would have just said the people in our journalism class (the class responsible for putting on that particular dance), but judging from recent events on an international networking site, I’m beginning to think that more and more people knew who I was in high school than I thought at the time. I would never say I was popular, however, more people remember me than I thought ever would. That’s rather gratifying, and alters how I look back on my high school years. So, I owe a thank you to those people who have spoken well of me recently. It means far more than I can say. Thank you.

In any event, my boyfriend and I attended the Sadie Hawkins dance that year. I can’t remember much about the dance specifically, but since I’d always loved to dance, I do remember that I had a good time. Almost too good a time. After the dance, Dan and I walked to the football field and there conceived my first child. I was young, and stupid, and immortal (aren’t we all at 16?) and nothing bad could happen to me. That wasn’t the first time I’d had sex (willingly), and I do remember that we sporadically used birth control. On this night we didn’t.

I don’t think that I knew right away I was pregnant. I always was a little concerned when we had unprotected sex, and would keep an eye on the calendar, but it really didn’t dawn on me that I could get pregnant. As I said, young and stupid.

It didn’t take me long to find out I was pregnant, though. Dan wasn’t the first person I told; that would be Melisa. I told her at my locker just before first period. I don’t remember what she said, or what I said, but I knew that I had to have an abortion. Not only did I not want to be a teenage mother, I knew that it would have been one of the largest mistakes I could make if I kept that baby. It simply wasn’t an option to me to continue the pregnancy.

Dan found out from Melisa a day or so later. She knew Dan knew my locker combination, and asked if he would open it for her because she wanted to put something in there. Dan was suspicious and wore her down to the point of telling him. It never crossed my mind to not tell him. I was fully planning to tell him, but I think I wanted some information from Planned Parenthood, and Melisa, having a driver’s license while I didn’t, was able to pick up some information; and that’s what she was dropping off in my locker.

I don’t recall the inevitable “so, you’re pregnant” conversation, but it did happen. While I did tell Dan that I acknowledged his say in the situation, I also told him that I was planning on having an abortion. He agreed with me; at 16 pending parenthood is probably one of the most frightening prospects there is.

Now, prior to this, I was a very staunch Pro-Lifer. I firmly believed that it was WRONG to have an abortion. In my heart, I KNEW that the life inside was a person, and that abortion was murder, and in no circumstance should anyone get an abortion.

And then I got pregnant at 16 years old. Suddenly, everything in my world, and in my philosophy, changed. I wasn’t so self righteous anymore. I divorced myself from the idea that THIS life in me was a human being, only something “to be taken care of”. It was a self preservation mechanism in order to do what had to be done.

That time is a blur for me; I remember going to Planned Parenthood and finding the information I needed. I was offered the option of adoption, should I wish to carry the pregnancy to term, but I was horrified by that idea. Not because of adoption, but because I was not prepared to go to term with the pregnancy. I was told much information I already knew, such as abortions in the state of California would only be done up to 12 weeks (or in the first trimester). Should a woman choose to have an abortion after that first trimester she would need to go to a clinic in Oakland in order to obtain one. I knew I could get away from my parents for a day, but had no idea if I could even get to Oakland should the need arise. I knew that I could get out of the house for the duration of a day, but that’s about it.

I never told my parents about it; at least not at the time. Looking back, I think I probably could have told them, but I simply didn’t trust them. While I didn’t really believe that my parents would kill me for getting pregnant (and yes, that phrase did pop out of my mouth on more than one occasion), I’d talked myself into the mind frame that it was my responsibility to deal with the problem at hand, and that they should never know. Looking back, I think mostly I just wanted to avoid the repercussions of my actions. In short, I didn’t want to be put on restriction. I valued my freedom too much to confide to the people who I should have told first.

I also remember that I didn’t have the money to pay for an abortion. My parents believed that school was my job, and we didn’t need the extra income, so I didn’t work. By this time I didn’t have an allowance, either. If I needed money, I usually just asked my parents. Typically, I didn’t really need money. For the most part, if I was to go out, I was on a date, and Dan paid my way. Occasionally I would ask for money so that I could get something beyond what Dan could afford. I also didn’t want to have to rely on my boyfriend solely. I won’t go into detail as to how I paid for the abortion because it’s illegal what we ended up doing. Nevertheless, it WAS paid for in full. Though it took time, and I was running out of that.

Finally, I was able to make an appointment for the procedure. It had to be on a Saturday because there was no way that I could get out of school in order to do it.

When the day arrived, there was a perfect, sad excuse to use. It was Dan’s birthday. Naturally there would be some kind of celebration. I remember using the excuse that we were going to go miniature golfing, and that a whole big party was going to go on.

But when Dan was late in picking me up, I began to worry. He had a car of his own, though it wasn’t exactly reliable. And this is why he was late. I don’t know what was wrong, but the car konked out. Eventually, Dan showed up with his father driving. It was the plan for Dan’s parents to not know either, but when his car turned belly up, he had to tell his folks. I was horrified, but there was nothing I could do. I HAD to get to the clinic, and Dan’s father ended up driving us. Yes, us. Dan stayed by my side through the whole thing. He was honorable that way.

I don’t remember when we left my house, or when we arrived at the clinic, but I do remember that I was there for 7 hours; and Dan’s father stayed in the car the entire time.

I checked in and was told that there were more women there than they originally had anticipated, and I was the last one on the list. So we waited.

The waiting room was a small affair, perhaps a dozen chairs, but I think it was less. The mood was subdued. No one addressed anyone else. No one spoke above a loud whisper. I don’t think there were any other men there, just a whole lot of resigned women and girls waiting their turn. I was very glad to have Dan’s support. I think that was the only thing that kept me sane that day. I felt so bad that it was his birthday and the most I could give him was the peace of mind that comes from not being a prospective father can give.

Occasionally someone would be called back and we wouldn’t see that person again for several hours. I do recall a few women walking out of the clinic, but not many. Not to say that they were killed or anything heinous, merely that the procedure and recovery time meant that by the time my name was called much time had passed and these other women must have left after I was called in.

Dan couldn’t come with me, so what little support I had was taken away. I was offered one last chance to change my mind before I signed the papers. Adoption was discussed, and I listened politely to the lady doing her job, but my mind was made up. There was no way I was going to have this baby. I wasn’t going to be a mother before I graduated high school.

I signed the papers authorizing the procedure, given a pregnancy test to verify that I was, indeed, pregnant, and was shown into an exam room. I was directed to remove my clothes and don the hospital gown that I was handed. I did as I was told, and sat on the examination table, and waited. And waited…and waited. There was no clock in the room, so I have no idea how long I waited. If I had to guess now, I’d say it was about an hour. When the doctor finally arrived he was cordial, introducing himself and told me what would happen.

Thinking back now, I may have been given something for the abortion to reduce pain, but I can’t recall. It would make sense, especially considering how long I ended up waiting.

I was instructed to lie back and place my feet in the stirrups. The doctor did a pelvic exam to further verify the pregnancy. A nurse was in the room and stayed with me through the procedure, the abortion. She stayed at the head of the exam table and held my hand while I stared fixedly, determinedly at the cute little rainbow decal stuck to the ceiling paneling directly above me. I can still recall the feeling of my cervix being forcibly opened and held in place. I can remember the tugging sensation inside of me, a pulling, pushing poking, and yanking feeling. And regardless of any medication I may have been given, I remember pain, horrible pain. Tears streamed out of my eyes and into my ears as I clutched the nurse’s hand. Shortly, I heard the sound of suction; it lasted what seemed an incredibly long time. Finally, the machine that made the suctioning sound stopped, the devise holding open my cervix was released and removed and a sense of relief filled my body; the pain was gone.

It was over.

I was told I could get dressed and leave when I was ready. I was told how long I should bleed, and to see a doctor if it didn’t stop in the proscribed time. Signs and symptoms of infection were provided and I was enjoined to seek medical attention should I experience any of these.

Eventually, I got dressed, slowly, painfully. I left the room and met up with Dan in the waiting room.

We walked quietly together to the car, his father still waiting. The drive was also silent. I shed no tears then, but my heart was heavy.

When we returned to Dan’s house, his mother hugged me and we both cried a little. She murmured words of understanding, making those gentle sounds women use for each other when comfort is needed, knowing that nothing could erase the pain of lost possibilities. What saddens me now, more than ever, was this was the only child that her only son would ever conceive. But there was no way to know at the time that Dan had less than 4 years of life left.

Ironically, there was cake waiting for us. It was Dan’s birthday, after all. While there was no celebration, we did eat the cake. I don’t remember now what kind it was, or if it was any good. I’m not sure why Dan’s mother had the cake ready. I think perhaps she needed some kind of reminder of the continuation of life, regardless of the day’s events. I never asked.

I think that for the most part, life went on as “normal”. I went home and lied to my parents about how good the party was, but then I’d been lying to my parents for years and was very good at it. It disconcerts my father that I can lie to him straight faced, looking him in the eye and he doesn’t know. He knows I’ve lied to him in the past, but I suspect that even to this day, he doesn’t really know what to believe from me.

I think I professed exhaustion from the birthday outing, and spent the rest of the evening in my room. Beyond that, I don’t remember much about that night.

As I said, life returned to its routine. I shoved the “incident” out of my head, for the most part, during the day at least. I even managed to blot out the memory at night during the week. I’ve always enjoyed reading, but I think that’s when I learned to read to truly escape; to read til exhaustion overtook my body, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. And even if my brain was still awake a little, then I would just run over in my head what I’d just read, and spin out how the story might continue. I learned my coping mechanisms well.

But there were the nights, usually on the weekend, that I’d cry myself to sleep, quietly raging at my life, my stupidity. I grew up in a fairly conservative home where guns were available and accessible, and I knew exactly where a .45 magnum lay; an easy way out. Was the pain not enough for me to actually commit suicide? No, the pain was enough, but I believed my punishment lie in living through the agony of what I’d done. You see, my opinions of the fate of a fetus never really changed, only my opinions on the self determination of women and the reproductive rights of our bodies. In my heart I KNEW I’d killed a child, a potential and I would have to live with that for the rest of my life. Though never again would I tell a woman she was wrong for choosing abortion or pronounce judgment on someone for that difficult decision. Because while I was firm in my decision and for me it was right at the time, it was still a difficult decision to make; especially with my beliefs that human life begins at conception. I don’t think I ever actually wavered in that decision, but it tore me apart, tore at me to the point of actually considering suicide. But my death wouldn’t bring back the life I knowingly, willingly took.

So, that’s the way my life went for a while; I put on a happy face, what other’s expected, meanwhile living in a hell that I’d created for myself. The fact that I’d tossed away the only person that was related to me in a way that wasn’t a mere legality also had a huge impact on me. After years of wondering who my “real” parents were, if I had any brothers or sisters and what they were doing, if they ever thought of me, I made the mistake of thinking “it couldn’t happen to me” and got pregnant; obviously a blood tie that is undeniable.

I eventually got over the mind crippling pain, and was able to breathe again a full breath without feeling like sobbing at the end of it. Dan and I broke up in our senior year, shortly before December and our first anniversary. Considering the normal tempestuous nature of teenage relationships, nearly a year long relationship with the agonizing decision we had to make at such a young age ain’t half bad.
Looking back on it, I think I buried my pain instead of dealing with it in a healthy manner; but in my defense, we didn’t exactly have the awareness of therapy or knowledge that a “good support system” would help grief. You were just expected to “deal with it” and “get over it”. Besides, who did I have to turn to? Dan couldn’t help; he was too far into this with me to have been any real help. My best friend just didn’t understand, though she tried, and most of my few other friends didn’t know. I couldn’t turn to my parents; THEY certainly wouldn’t understand, and I really didn’t feel comfortable with going to Dan’s parents. They were good people, but it was just awkward being around them by that time.

Besides, like a good little adoptee, I learned not to complain about anything to anyone. Everything was just fine, and we don’t want anything to rock to boat, right? Right? Right. Just like everything else, ignore it and it’ll go away; you’ll be fine.

So, this is my blog

Why, you ask, did she name it Script For a Jester's Tear? First, it's the name of one of my favorite Marillion songs. This stanza always hit me particularly hard;

"The fool escaped from paradise will look over his shoulder and cry
Sit and chew on daffodils and struggle to answer why?
As you grow up and leave the playground
Where you kissed your prince and found your frog
Remember the jester that showed you tears, the script for tears "

I'm not really sure why, except perhaps I think I always felt like that fool that escaped from paradise. Maybe struggling to answer why I am who I am, or why me, even.

Aside from that, the title of my blog is sort of symbolic; script = the writing part, Jester's tear = the fool I've been, and the pain I've experienced in my life, sometimes by my own hand. And so, these will be my musings, thoughts, and opinions on life, my script.