All About Me

Memoirs of an Adoptee

Angry Adoptee

I feel used.

I’ve been mad millions of times; lately I’ve had a culmination of anger. I wasn’t exactly sure why. It was constant ruminating. I didn’t know what to do with all of the things in my head. Writing helps, but there’s so much of it, and writing requires energy and focus. I wanted answers.

Yesterday, I spewed it all out onto one gracious person, and she listened. I needed help in figuring this out. Then she said it, “You feel used.” 

That was the lightbulb. That is why I am so angry. 

Thinking and talking about my past adoptive experience takes me back to many of the feelings that I had as I child. It’s like I am reliving things over and over in my mind. I’m  vulnerable, as I resist the feelings of guilt and shame that were instilled in me all those years ago. I hadn’t been allowed to be angry back then. It was exhausting expressing all of that emotion.

I’d been thinking of seeing a therapist to help me resolve the turmoil I was experiencing. Anti-anxiety/depressants have also been suggested. I think I need to feel all of the anger, and the grief. It’s a very difficult whirlwind process that I must go through, so I can move on. It won’t be permanent.  Now I have at least one answer. It was like a gift to me. 

I feel used, and I give myself permission to feel that way. No one can tell me that I’m wrong; I’m not going to let them. I’m actually a little bit relieved now, and I’m thinking everything is going to be alright ūüėä

 

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Folding Socks

The other night I was folding clothes on our bed, while my husband and I were watching Netflix. We’ve been spending our time in the evening watching episode after episode of various television series. 
Anyway, whenever I see a pile of socks to fold, I am reminded of my first live in boyfriend, and how he’d barked at me for the way I was folding his socks. I was in my early twenties; doing my best at domestic housekeeping. My confidence was low, and I was easily manipulated. Still, I thought he could have been nicer about the sock folding. Instead of yelling about how the elastic would get stretched out from folding the cuffs over, he could have nicely suggested, or even asked that I folded them differently. I would have happily obliged. There wasn’t anything kind about him. His goal seemed to be to keep me in a place of misery. It was one of the lowest points in my life. Although I knew that I didn’t deserve to be treated badly by him, I had the protensity of not giving up on people. That relationship lasted a total of two years.

As I was folding the pile of socks on my bed, cuff over cuff, I smiled, and asked my husband, ” You don’t care how I fold your socks, do you?” “No”, he said, “Just as long as you fold them.” 

“How would you prefer to have your socks folded?” 

“I prefer to have them folded that way.”, he said, motioning to the already folded pile of clothes.

“You’re just happy to have someone to fold your socks, aren’t you?” I said, whimsically. I do most of the laundry, and he does it sometimes. Our marriage is a partnership.

I couldn’t help but to think about that old boyfriend of a time passed. It’s been about twenty-five years. Last I knew, he had been locked up after having been busted for drinking and driving for the seventh time. He is sitting in a jail cell now, with no one to fold his socks for him.

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Sensitivity 

My adoptive mother thought that I was too sensitive. She told me this many, many times. My sensitivity was an inconvenience to her. It was a character flaw; something that I needed to change about myself. Something that she didn’t  understand. At all.

Other than keeping me alive for a few years,  causing me to feel bad about myself was all that my adoptive mother accomplished with me. It was subtle cruelty, in that she denied me the freedom to be myself, and to feel good about who I am. 

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