It's Not You, It's Me...Really, It IS Me.

You know that old break up yarn, "it's not you, it's me"? Yeah, the one where you hope this little social white lie will cover for the fact that, in reality, you'd rather scoop your eyeballs out with a dull grapefruit spoon, jab sharpened pencils into your eardrums, and happily contemplate homicide just to get away from the object of your derision. Well, in this case, I finally figured out that it really IS me. I'm the one I can't get away from fast enough. Maudlin enough for you? Perhaps a bit on the melodramatic side, but, hey, it caught your attention.

No, I'm not breaking up with anyone, I've just finally made some brutally honest realizations about myself and the close relationships I've had in my life. I think the first time I heard the phrase, "when you point a finger, you'll find three more pointing right back at you" from a Goo Goo Dolls song. I, like many others, am wonderful at pointing the finger at others in blame. As I've gotten older, I like to think that I have become more objective, and can understand my roll in any given situation, good or bad, that I can admit when I'm wrong. However, recently, I stumbled across an old e-mail that I never realized I'd received. It appears that it had gone directly into a folder with the other e-mails from this person, though, it's possible that the only other person to have access to that account moved it before I was aware of it. I have no way of knowing, as I no longer speak with that person, nor does it really have any specific bearing on this particular topic. The point being is that a relationship was adversely impacted because of the fact that I never read or even saw that communication. Because of this, I thought that person no longer wanted to have a relationship with me, and that person felt that I'd blown them off, resulting in both of us thinking that neither of us wanted anything to do with the other. I waited and waited for some kind of reply that I got three years too late. I didn't know exactly what I'd done wrong to cause this rift, but I took responsibility for the lack of response, cause, well, obviously I'd done something wrong, or that person would have remained in contact with me. So, you ask, did I try to get back into contact with said person? The fact of the matter is, I don't remember. My life was going to hell in a hand basket, and I think I did try contacting that person, but I was too busy screwing up the rest of my life to accurately recall.

I was horrified when I found that e-mail and immediately e-mailed this person from that neglected e-mail, explaining what seemed to happen. I received a reply fairly quickly. In it this person explained that they wanted to "take things very slowly". I really don't know what that means. I asked what I'd hoped to be clarifying questions, and addressed an issue that I'd hoped this person might have some insight into. That was nearly two weeks ago. I have yet to receive a reply, and I doubt I will get one, ever.

And that is exactly the point. In the grand scheme of my life, there is nothing but a string of broken relationships, and not just the romantic type. At this point in my life, there is only one person who hasn't given up on me, and frankly, I have no idea why, considering all the other relationships I've destroyed. You may think this is an exaggeration, but it truly isn't. I no longer have a relationship with my adoptive parents, with my biological parents, with two of my three children, or any other extended relatives, adopted or biological. I've been married three times, and have left each of them, whether by conscious decision that I no longer wished to be in that relationship, through poor choices that ruined the relationship or a combination thereof. Though, admittedly, entering into those marriages were also results of exceedingly poor choice making.

I used to point to two primary causes for the wreck my life is; the sexual abuse at the hands of my adoptive brother and just the fact that I'm adopted. Obviously, both of these events have had a significant impact on my life. How could they not? But there comes a point where blaming external forces only goes so far, at some point I need to take responsibility for MY choices and MY life. I guess I've just gotten tired of pointing fingers. As I recently told someone, it's time to take the training wheels off. The problem is, I don't think I'd know a good choice if it came up and smacked me in the face. I've made so many bad choices that I doubt I have the capability to recognize what a good decision is. I think the only few things I can say are good choices are that I've been able to maintain the same employment for over two and a half years; the longest job I've ever held down, (though, Lord knows I've pushed the limits of my employer's patience on more than one occasion for, yet again, more bad choices), that the few bills I have, I've actually managed to keep paying, that, for the first time in my life, I was able to actually support myself without anyone helping me out (the one and only silver lining of not having a relationship with any of my parents) and walking away from someone who was horribly toxic to my entire life (my last marriage).

I've attempted to make amends to those that count the most to me, but it seems all I'm doing is smacking my head against walls that don't wish to be breached. How much patience do I have to have? How long do I have to wait until those I love acknowledge that I'm making significant attempts to make better choices? When do I walk away? Should I? I don't know what else to do to show that I am trying. And I'm so wracked with doubt that I have no clue to the answers to these questions. I've made so many bad, horrible decisions in my life that I don't know what to do anymore.

P.S. I've been bid by my significant other to point out that my life isn't all doom and gloom, regardless of what clearly appears to me to be a pattern here. He points out that there are two sides to every story, and that I'm not to blame for everything. Which, I must admit, is something I'd say to him or to anyone else who wrote this. I say he's biased. He says so what, he's allowed to be. We do have plans, and there is forward progress. Maybe this is a serious case of missing my family. I guess I just can't chalk it all up to coincidence.

Irredeemable

I AM:

irredeemable

I AM:

a mistake

I AM:

an incubator

How many times

do I have to say

I'M SORRY?

How many times

do I have to admit

I WAS WRONG?

YOU DON'T WANT:

to hear about my pain

YOU DON'T WANT:

me to be honest

YOU DON'T WANT:

me

What DO you want

from me?

And yet, for all of this,

I will still try.

And yet, for all of this,

I still want to be a part of your life

And yet, for all of this,

I will probably accept any scraps you might throw my way

Note To Self

Note to Self:

for everything that somebody else does that annoys you, you are equally annoying to them. Seek in them that which is Godly so that they may see the same in you.

Workin' It

This isn't really an "official" blog; more of a dry run.  I just became an Amazon Associate, and the ad to the left is a Kindle "book".  Now, I don't know if I'll ever own one of these; I'm a person that just LOVES reading a real, physical book.  But who am I to get in the way of progress?  As long as there are ways to keep reading, to be able to get lost in a story, to be pulled into an adventure, to be wooed into a romance, I'll be there.

I hope my friends and family have enjoyed my blog.  I appreciate everyone's efforts at helping me get this started.

I LOVE YOU ALL!!!

The Kitties I have Known part 1

In an effort to prove to someone that I'm not all doom and gloom, that my life really doesn't revolve around adoption reform, I want to change things up a little bit.  Add some spice to my blog; I want to introduce the cats in my life.  :)

 Introducing Oscar.  He's an 11 year old tabby, with an old man attitude, a crook at the end of his tail (I think that his tail was stepped on as a kitten, but I'm not sure), and the deepest purr you've ever heard.  He's my buddy, and I'm his person.  He tells me LOUDLY when it's time for bed, and woe to me if I don't listen, or get out of bed after I'm safely tucked in.  He's the patriarch of our kitty clan, and takes no guff from anyone!  He was recently diagnosed with asthma, and has been having a difficult time of it lately.  His wheezing has been keeping me up at night, though, and there was one time I thought he'd just curled up next to me and slipped away.  Imagine his ire when I woke him up rather violently.  I think I was lucky to come away from the encounter with all my fingers in place.

This is Cleopatra, a 4 1/2 year old tabby and the matriarch of our kitty clan.  She is the Queen; you can call her Mama Patra, Auntie Patra, but just don't call her Cleo.  You'll get a paw full!  She is a definite daddy's girl; its especially funny to watch her jump on her daddy's lap and start to tread on his belly, purring up a storm an drooling all the while.

 

This is Qu'ushi, a domestic medium furred kitty.  His name is Hebrew for "little black boy"; in some ways, not very original, but Qu'ushi is a one of a kind cat.  He's a small fur kid, with a small voice, but a lot of love, and very much a daddy's boy.  He is Cleopatra's Prince Consort, even though he walks like a dandy, with a distinct swoosh to his stride.  And while he is a black cat, his time spent outside has bleached out some of his color, so he has patches of a deep mahogany brown.  If he wants something from you, he'll stand on his hind legs and stretch his forepaws up your leg and dig his claws in, meowing in a complaining voice until you figure out what it is he wants.  Typically his requests are for food, to be let outside or occasionally to be picked up.

These three cats are what I call our triumvirate.  They are the original cats that my fiance and I brought to the relationship when we moved in together.

Meet Jazz.  Beth is HER girl, and she is claimed by my daughter.  Beth is the one who found Jazz and her brother (whom we gave to some friends) on the grounds of the commercial nursery that we lived in for a year.  This 2 1/2 year old tabby quickly edged her way into our hearts.  She is named Jazz because she "sings"; her voice is melodious, for a cat, and she is a very vocal kitty.  She and Cleopatra tend to have arguments over who is dominate.  I'm not really sure if Cleopatra wins all the time, but Jazz is gracious enough to not shove it in her face every minute of the day.  Part of why Jazz thinks she's a contender for the throne is the fact that she's had several litters, and thinks that makes HER the Queen.  Which, in cat worlds, it does, but not necessarily in this household.

This handsome fellow is Pinkerton.  He was originally named Pinky because as a kitten, his fur was white, and showed a very pink skinned kitten.  At the time we thought he was a she, so Pinky would have been a perfectly acceptable name.  Boy, were we surprised!  So, his name morphed into Pinkerton; sometimes Stinky Pinky, Detective Pinkerton, and Pretty Boy.  He's about a year and a half old now, and is a short haired, tabby-Siamese mix.  We're not entirely sure where the Siamese comes from because ALL of his siblings, except for one have been either black, tabby or gray.  He's a very sweet boy, and always looking for a pet or to play.  We have an arm chair that is next to a walk way in our home; he'll jump up on the edge and either reach out a paw in play or he'll cock his neck to one side coyly asking for some love.

These are the first five of our cats...there's more to come so stay tuned.

The Brainwashing of America part 1

For several generations now there has been a huge misconception in America that pregnancy, labor and delivery are medical diseases, in need of medical management and treatment.  Look around you, it's everywhere!  In our popular culture from movies to sit coms; every pregnant woman you see is a screaming, out of control banshee, blaming the man who put her in that condition.  While it makes for a laugh, this is perpetuating a myth that began when medicine became industrialized.  In reality, it began much longer ago than that with the persecution of midwives as witches by the male dominated medical profession.

But that's for another blog.

When I had my first child, I went into labor and delivery willfully ignorant, believing that my body would know exactly what to do, and that I could just coast along for the ride.  I was sorely mistaken.  Yes, labor was painful.  Yes, labor is work.  And my mistake was that in not realizing that as a woman in an industrialized society, without the benefits of being raised around women that were either constantly giving birth, or helping someone else in labor, that my brain, and the brainwashing I'd been subtly subjected to my entire life didn't allow me to just "go with the flow".   Fairly quickly I began to request something for the pain.  Since pain medication is based upon your pre-pregnancy weight, I was given very little; my pre-pregnancy weight was maybe 115 pounds.  In the end, I had an emergency cesarean section.  Turned out, my son's umbilical cord was wrapped around his foot.  Every time he was pushed/descended into my pelvis, his cord tightened up like a knot, cutting off his oxygen and putting him into sever distress.

When I became pregnant with my next child, I made a conscious decision to be as educated as I possibly could about what was going on with my body, and how to successfully have a natural labor and delivery.  About my 20th week, I spent some time with my parents.  One day my mom and I were in a book store and I came across a book; "Husband Coached Childbirth", also known as "The Bradley Method".  My hopes, wishes and prayers were answered!  I devoured that book.  I already had this "off" opinion of the La Maze technique, but I didn't know why until I read that book.  When Dr. Bradley made a point of saying that animals pant to cool themselves off, but not humans, the light bulb went off over my head.  As a youth, growing up on a farm, Dr. Bradley had been exposed to all sorts of animals having babies.  He noted that many of these animals panted during labor, but understood as he began his medical practice that humans didn't need to do this in order to ease themselves during labor.

When he began to assist single women during their labor, he experienced a huge amount of displaced gratitude.  This spurred him to further research, and developing a technique that we can recognize now as directed meditation.  Taking long, deep breaths during contractions lessened the pain of labor, and made it more manageable.  For some women, music can help put them in a good place to concentrate on the kind of breathing needed for a smooth labor, for others it's building a "safe place" in their mind, and go there while her body is working to bring her baby into the world.

These are just a few techniques that a student of Husband Coached Childbirth learns, but the point is that he was able to give back to thousands of women the power to give birth in a dignified manner.

So, as soon as I got home, I started looking for someone in the area who taught the Bradley method.  I was blessed to find a woman who did double duty as our local Le Leche League leader and a Bradley method teacher.  My class was small, only two other couples, and we were Darlene's very first class.  It was a learning experience for all of us.  The other two expectant mothers were both due on the same date; I was due a week and a half after them.  We all ended up having girls, and they were all born on the same date!  My daughter was the youngest; which I always thought was appropriate since I was the one due last.

My testimony for the Bradley method is even more significant in that the night after my baby shower; I woke up at about 1:00 AM, no knowing which body part to put over the toilet.  I was violently ill for nearly six hours before I asked my husband to take me to the labor and delivery deck on base.  During an ultrasound, it was discovered that my daughter was only surrounded by pockets of amniotic fluid.  I was immediately put on an IV; both for hydration and a slow pitocin drip.  The plan was to have me on the drip for 24 hours to monitor my baby to see if she could tolerate the rigors of full blown labor.  If not, if she showed any sign of distress, it would be another cesarean for me.

I spent the next 24 hours worrying that my baby wouldn't be able to come into this world naturally; though I must admit that much of that time was spent trying not to get sick again.  It was the fastest flu I'd ever had, though!  By the time 24 hours rolled around, I felt fine, and my daughter was handling the contractions like a pro!

At that point, the pitocin was increased to truly start labor.  It's well known that women who have induced labor with pitocin have a much harder labor.  Their contractions, instead of slowly climbing to a natural peak, begin at the peak and last that way throughout the entire contraction.  And so my labor with my daughter was textbook, by pitocin standards.  Obviously having had another child, I had a good idea of what was to come, but I couldn't have really guessed how hard those contractions would hit me.  That's where the Bradley training came in; my husband was a miracle!  He helped me stay focused, especially when I needed it the most.  During transition, I was asking for a c-section; practically begging for it.  He used a technique that we were taught during class.  He recognized that I was in transition, and he made a deal with me; if I could hang in there for another hour, we would seriously consider a c-section, but just give it an hour.  I gave him that hour, sulking through most of it in between contractions, and then suddenly found myself in the pushing stage.

My daughter was born 4 hours later, 12 hours after the pitocin was amped up to put me into real labor.  It was shift change around the time my daughter was born, and I had an audience!  The reason?  No other mother had labored naturally through an entire pitocin induced labor at that hospital before!  And since I was the only mother giving birth at just that time, I had about 14 people in my labor and delivery room; I was completely naked.  And I didn't care!

During this entire time, I never actually screamed, or yelled, or cursed, or blamed my husband for the condition I was in.  The only time I lost my cool was during transition, and I only whined a bit.  Did labor hurt?  Definitely.  But I was able to deal with it, with the proper education, training, and guidance.

This is when the idea that America has been brainwashed truly began to take root.

For my newest blog posting, please see the link below.  Eventually I'll probably post this to my own blog, but I want to showcase Amanda's blog, too.

Amanda is an adult adoptee, who has recently started her reunion with her first Mother.  She is also an activist, being the founder of an Adoptee Rights Advocacy group in her home state, a blogger, and all around great person.

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