- A Question of Trust
- Intro: The Birth of a Blog
- You and Me Could Write a Bad Romance: Part I
- Bad Romance, Part II: The Couch
- Bastard Package #1
- Hallelujah
- Born This Way
- Baby Girl X
- Another Victim of Love
- True Life
- The Girls Who Went Away
- Love and Other Drugs
- 11 Things Adoptees Love to Hear
- Uh, Never Mind
- Adoptee Kid Lit
- Bastard Princess and the Search for the Holy Grail
- MYOFB
- Awkwardness
- Baby Steps
- Faith, Hope, and Catholic Charities
- Special Delivery
- Green-eyed Monster
- !@#$
- Pandora
- Fantasyland
- Adoptees You May Have Heard Of
- Big MAC Attack
- Material Girl
- VISA and Mastercard Accepted
- Don't Hold Your Breath
- Our Love is Like a Constipated Cat
- A Question of Trust
- Adoption, Hollywood Style
- All in the Family
~!@#
Over the past couple of days, I’ve been especially frustrated with six-year-old Alex, whom I absolutely adore. I’m not sure whether his issue is simple cabin fever or something else. On a good day, his naughtiness usually consists of ad nauseam harassment of his older sisters, the birthright of all little brothers. Yesterday he cut a chunk out of our family-room rug to conceal his Sharpie accident, and this morning he broke a lamp. I’m ashamed at the way I lashed out at him; I apologized shortly thereafter. He seems fine and said he’s forgiven me (at the very least, he’ll pay me back someday in therapy). Later on, I discovered crayonlike streaks of nailpolish ruboff on my freshly painted kitchen cabinets (from the girls climbing onto the counter to retrieve the bread from atop the fridge) and exploded yet again, as I wondered whether I might literally blow an aneurysm.
I recently learned that one of the traits shared by adoptees is a low threshold for frustration. It’s rooted in a deep sense of anger at our abandonment and loss of control. Check. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a hairtrigger temper. For example, as a teenager, I angrily punched my fist through a plate-glass window after my younger brother locked me out of the house .W hen we lived in Chicagoland, choking back road rage was a daily occurrence. You can use your imagination regarding what came out of my mouth the day a horse I was riding screeched to a halt in front of a jump and hilariously dumped me on my ass in the mud puddle on the other side. My ever-combative kids are usually first in my line of fire; I can’t count the number of times I’ve stomped on the brakes of my minivan to turn around and scream at them.
I laugh whenever I recall the story of late Cubs great Ron Santo’s first radio broadcast—he spilled hot coffee on himself just as they went live—his first utterance over the airwaves was “GODDAMMIT!” I can totally relate. I, myself, have a freewheeling potty mouth and can drop a well-placed F bomb as handily as the next Catholic mother with a graduate degree and a minor in English. Why the hell am I like this?
Believe it or not, I truly try to live my life with positive energy, projecting it outward so that it will be returned to me multiplied. I try to act with love for others--even strangers--but some days it just feels like the world’s conspiring against me. I’m sure we all have days like that. As Mark describes me, I’m a “-/-“ (minus/minus); that is, I’m beaten down, with a pessimistic, untrusting outlook on myself (the first minus) and the world in general (the second minus). Our goal is to get me to “+/+;” it’s going to take a hell of a lot of work.
I’ve read that we adoptees tend to carry around a lot of frustration and anger because of our often-buried feelings of powerlessness and rage at our imperfect beginnings and resulting lifelong sense of rejection. It would explain a hell of a lot about me. Some adoptees have trouble repressing this angst—not necessarily a bad thing, as any kind of repression is destructive--which eventually manifests as acting out: socially inappropriate behavior including lying, stealing, violence, promiscuity, and difficulty in school. People who have been abandoned by a parent—especially a father--in some way can have similar issues. I'm not making excuses for my childish behavior, just acknowledging it for what it is. Being aware of it is a start; now I have to learn how to respond appropriately--no easy task after a lifetime of mismanagement and chemical numbing.
Now that I’m quitting antidepressants, I’ve even more of a live wire. Maybe this is the “raw” me coming out? Jeremy laughs that my untainted bitchiness isn’t all that different from the drugged version of me. Who is this crazy bitch, and who is the real me? I'm afraid we might be the same person.
I recently learned that one of the traits shared by adoptees is a low threshold for frustration. It’s rooted in a deep sense of anger at our abandonment and loss of control. Check. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a hairtrigger temper. For example, as a teenager, I angrily punched my fist through a plate-glass window after my younger brother locked me out of the house .W hen we lived in Chicagoland, choking back road rage was a daily occurrence. You can use your imagination regarding what came out of my mouth the day a horse I was riding screeched to a halt in front of a jump and hilariously dumped me on my ass in the mud puddle on the other side. My ever-combative kids are usually first in my line of fire; I can’t count the number of times I’ve stomped on the brakes of my minivan to turn around and scream at them.
I laugh whenever I recall the story of late Cubs great Ron Santo’s first radio broadcast—he spilled hot coffee on himself just as they went live—his first utterance over the airwaves was “GODDAMMIT!” I can totally relate. I, myself, have a freewheeling potty mouth and can drop a well-placed F bomb as handily as the next Catholic mother with a graduate degree and a minor in English. Why the hell am I like this?
Believe it or not, I truly try to live my life with positive energy, projecting it outward so that it will be returned to me multiplied. I try to act with love for others--even strangers--but some days it just feels like the world’s conspiring against me. I’m sure we all have days like that. As Mark describes me, I’m a “-/-“ (minus/minus); that is, I’m beaten down, with a pessimistic, untrusting outlook on myself (the first minus) and the world in general (the second minus). Our goal is to get me to “+/+;” it’s going to take a hell of a lot of work.
I’ve read that we adoptees tend to carry around a lot of frustration and anger because of our often-buried feelings of powerlessness and rage at our imperfect beginnings and resulting lifelong sense of rejection. It would explain a hell of a lot about me. Some adoptees have trouble repressing this angst—not necessarily a bad thing, as any kind of repression is destructive--which eventually manifests as acting out: socially inappropriate behavior including lying, stealing, violence, promiscuity, and difficulty in school. People who have been abandoned by a parent—especially a father--in some way can have similar issues. I'm not making excuses for my childish behavior, just acknowledging it for what it is. Being aware of it is a start; now I have to learn how to respond appropriately--no easy task after a lifetime of mismanagement and chemical numbing.
Now that I’m quitting antidepressants, I’ve even more of a live wire. Maybe this is the “raw” me coming out? Jeremy laughs that my untainted bitchiness isn’t all that different from the drugged version of me. Who is this crazy bitch, and who is the real me? I'm afraid we might be the same person.