Today and tomorrow, I will be digging a little deep. Deeper than normal. Since my therapist died and I am on a waitlist for a new one - thank god I am not too crazy - but there are a lot of emotions to deal with and sort out. I was on the right path to a healthier mind, a healthier way of thinking things. Right now, I feel stagnant. Stuck. Unable to further the progress that I made for the year that I saw Dr. Mike. There are certain times that I feel so helpless - not like a victim or playing a victim but unable to breakdown how I am feeling and make sense of it. Editor's Note: this post will be extremely honest, things you may or may not want to know about me - so caution reading forward I suggest you stop now if not interested in knowing more than you should. I am willing to share today because I am in a sharing mood and extremely frustrated.
Losing weight to me is losing burden, stress, complication, comfort and giving me the ability to see who I really am, who I want to be - who I can be. It opens up possibility. It helps shed the bad. It helps me look at who I am with a microscope. Who I am under all those layers. Yes, I have built layers, not only Phat layers - but those pesky Phat layers represent what really is going on inside.
Many of you may or may not know certain things about me - about my past that I don't necessarily talk about but today I feel the need or want to. Where to start, where to start. If you are related to me by blood, or if you are a close friend reading this, then I hope you understand my need to express what I am about to say. One day I hope to write a best selling award winning book - so this could be a preview of the memoir or novel, or Oprah could read it and I could get on her show to discuss my experience and make that dream come true.
I was adopted. Yes, I have mentioned this before. I was adopted when I was two weeks old. The first two weeks of my life I have no idea where I was or who took care of me, who fed me, who changed me, who dressed me. I don't think about that too often, but it is interesting. I grew up in a home with both adoptive parents and an adopted brother who was four years older than me. The fact that I was adopted was something I always knew and always felt embarrassed about. It was always something that I never spoke to anyone about, and when my parents brought it up I felt humiliated. My parents were older, and I didn't like that. I always wondered about my real mother, my real father but was told that if I ever decided to meet them, my parents would be very disappointed, but would help me. Why would I want to disappoint my parents? I wouldn't want to hurt them. In fact, I wouldn't want to hurt anyone on purpose. I was the girl that as a child would line up every single teddy bear I owned along my entire body, top to bottom so none of them would feel left out. So that they knew they were all important to me. It may sound crazy, but it is true. I was told that I was a "love child" which embarrassed me further. My brother told his friend when I was in grade 5, and I was so scared and humiliated that his friend's sister would find out. Needless to say, she did find out and alas, I was humiliated. Being adopted was always an insult kids would use, even if they didn't fully understand what it meant. I was different. I felt different. My parents were older than most kids my age. To this day, it is very rare that I meet someone who is adopted. Not one of my close friends that I have known in my 33 years, has been adopted. We are a different breed that come with a whole different set of issues. There was one I knew of in high school and more recently, 2 years ago I found out a dear friend of a close friend was adopted and I started to cry when I found out. It just came over me. I was overwhelmed with emotions. Finally feeling a sense of relief that someone understood. Understood what it was like. Someone who shared the same thoughts and feelings to a degree. Someone who understood the unknown and understood what that empty feeling inside actually felt like. What a relief that was.
For a moment, imagine, not knowing where you come from. Why you like Peanut Butter, or who you look like. Why you seem to be so emotional? Why is there a disconnect with your parents? Why your brother hates you? Why you have the personality you have when it is unlike anyone in your home. Not having someone to identify with. Always questioning and thinking about someone every single day of your life you have never ever known, but want to. Someone out there that can rescue you from the hurt, the pain, the frustration that is your life. I used to imagine that my mother was Alannah Myles, yes, the singer who sings Black Velvet. She was around the right age to be my mother, right? Wishful thinking was that she was a celebrity, famous, rich and full of love. Waiting, just waiting to be my mother. Thinking about my dream father, I used to watch Full House and hope that my real father was exactly like Uncle Jesse. A man that would tell me everything will be alright. The cool one. Hug me when needed, stand up for me and protect me from harm and be there to tell me I am beautiful and should be with a magnificent guy who will treat me right. The one that wouldn't hurt me, ever. Always be there to protect me and my best interests. The one who would believe in everything I do and be there no matter what. Unconditional love is what I hoped for.
Nobody's home life is perfect, but for those of you who witnessed the slamming doors, the bruises, the fighting matches, the tantrums and many other situations you know that there was a reason for the unrealistic dreams above. It was more of an escape for me. To imagine a better life for myself. To imagine what unconditional love really felt like.
The reality I wanted to escape from was being punched in the face by the man I wanted to protect me while my mother egged him on, or yanked up the front stairs by my hair and thrown in my room - looking in the mirror and pulling out clumps of hair as I cried wondering why my father would do this to me. What did I do that was so awful? Told every week that if they die it will be my fault, if they got into a car accident it would be my fault. Turning off the water (well water) when I was in the shower. Turning off the power in my room. Giving me a phone in my room to only take it away over and over and over again. Throwing me through doors. Beating me until I couldn't move and then getting grounded for making them do it. Hit at the dinner table if I cut my meat incorrectly or showed poor table manners. If I spoke during dinner. Forced to eat food I hated (brussel sprouts) and told I couldn't leave the table until it was all done. I used to sit there for hours, alone in the kitchen with the doors around me closed. I used to get threats of being sent to a group home or a foster home or an orphanage. My mother used to pretend to pack her bags and tell me she was leaving because I was so awful. She never did leave, but the fear lived inside of me everyday.
Humiliated at Christmas dinners when there were guests. Guests I would hope that would stick up for me. That would speak for me and say, "what are you doing to her you asshole?". Brought to the police station one night to have me questioned if I was on drugs or not. I didn't speak to my father for two months after that one. When we arrived I was so upset, so scared. I learned to become strong at that point. I was strong in front of my father as he stood there and told the police that I was at a party at the Knights of Columbus and he believed I was on drugs. I didn't cry. I learned that after years at the dinner table. So many times I sat and ate with tears in my eyes. I couldn't even see my food clearly. After years and years of this, it became my goal to not cry. To prove that it didn't effect me. Oh it did though. Even when my mouth was washed out with Palmolive. Anyway, I remember going into the room with the police officer who just happened to be my friends Uncle - telling me "you seem like a sweet girl, and I don't know why your father brought you here. Even if you were on drugs, there is nothing I could do about it". This man, this kind man could see immediately that I was a nice girl - I wondered why my father never could. I wasn't on drugs but let me tell you the first time I tried them years later, I thought of him with spite. Whenever my parents would go out to their friends house and a babysitter would come - if I ate incorrectly or said something wrong, they would call their friend and tell them that I was bad, that I ruined their night and they wouldn't be able to go over anymore because of me. I learned over time, the phone calls were fake. The receiver was off the hook, but their hand was holding down the hang up button. Nothing but mind games because they made it seem that they were really talking to someone and I had actually ruined their night.
My Mother, Father and Brother were all in on it. Who was suppose to protect me? My father was a cop - who told me numerous times that noone would believe a little bitch like me. My brother would say the same thing. My mother, the woman who should be the loving and caring one, was in on it too and ignored it and cheered it on at times. I don't play the victim, looking back I never knew it was abuse and I thought it the way it was suppose to be. To think of it now, as a matter of fact, I was indeed a victim. I was a young girl, helpless, trapped in this home full of anger, frustration, mind games and abuse and only wanted to be loved so desperately. Why wouldn't I wonder about what it would be like to be with my real family? One day when I was 16 my father brought me somewhere because they decided that they didn't want me anymore. That is where I learned that I was adopted through Children's Aid. I didn't know that before and I knew at that moment it was very important information that I would use later.
I used to write letters to Oprah. I used to watch on Oprah and Donahue with these reunions with long lost relatives. Adopted people reunited with their real father, their real mother, their sister, their brother. The hugs, the tears - the opportunity. The happily ever after was what I wanted. I felt guilty about wanting it, but secretly I hoped so much that I would find relief that way. I still have the first letter I wrote to Oprah asking her to help me find them. I still have it because I was too scared to send it. I have numerous letters like that actually. As I got older, I became more open with my close and best friends with the fact that I was adopted. A dear friend of mine Andrea used to be so excited at the thought of me meeting my real mother. She made me think that it was actually possible to do. "What if she shops at the grocery store you work at?" or "What if she is looking for you?" and "Don't you want to meet her?" She used to wonder more than I did what my real mother was like. To be honest I became bitter toward my birth mother over time. It is amazing what emotional and physical abuse can do. What mind games can do to a person. My attitude was she gave me up, she didn't want me so why should I want to meet her? She lost her chance at getting to know me. Again, I was trying to prove I was strong. Andrea helped me lower my defenses over time and think about what knowledge and hope could bring. No wonder her middle name is Hope. Perhaps to spread hope to people she knows and cares for. She certainly did that and lived up to her name for me.
To be continued......if you want to know more that is.
I told you, I am in a venting and sharing mood and perhaps this will help shed some of the pain that I have lived through and give me relief I need to remain focused to shed some pounds enabling me to get closer to my goal. Perhaps by sharing this, someone else who has gone through something similar can relate and know that they aren't alone.
I am sorry if you feel it is too personal and I understand if you no longer want to read my blog - but this is my journey and this may be a mistake to share, but today, this is what I needed to do.
Blog Soon,
PFF
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