Adopted in the UK

The life of a UK adoptee

Posts Tagged ‘7rinstory

A picture of 7rinness

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Once upon a time, long long(ish) ago, Daughter created a chibi avatar of me for me at my request.

Despite me being artistically retarded, I actually really really like the picture that she created and’ve been using it for my 子rin page pretty much since the day she created it.

I’ve had my Trinity Gravatar that I’ve been using around for almost as long as that picture’s been available as an image. It’s a picture that’s stood me in good stead, but has slowly been creeping beyond its sell-by date for a little while now.

Today I had an(other) epiphany. Thus I printed out an A4 copy of the original chibi that Daughter had created (that actually printed pretty nicely), then tore it in half like I did to create the Adoptee Awareness picture, and then stuck it back together with a single strip of Sellotape ‘n’ scanned it back in.

7rin adoption reunion chib

I am extremely pleased with the resulting image which demonstrates that once torn apart, no matter how carefully adoptees are stuck back together, we’ll never quite be as whole as we once were.

Written by 7rin

Mon, 26 August, 2013 at 8:40 pm

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An update, of sorts

with 2 comments

My reply to a question in an adoptee group about our love for animals (or not, as the case may be) garnered the following response from me:

“I’m not a great lover of much of anything tbh.”

It’s true, I’m not. I’m not exactly enthralled by kids, animals’re just like people, I’m fine not having to live with them. Some of the are nice enough, but there’s not many I particularly enjoy spending my days around, too often.

I’ve been reflecting on that initial reply since I wrote it, and it’s true. While I do love my daughter, I do so by default because that’s what moms’re meant to do. It’s certainly not the fawning adoration that some moms inflict on their kids. Yes, I’d probably kill and/or die for her if needed, but that’s because it’s what I as a mom am s’posed to do.

The only person I do think I really love is mbro, with whom seems to be the only person on the planet I can truly really relax with. It’s horrific that I was 37 before I even knew he existed.

Anyway, yes, Life(tm) has been taking it’s usual twists and turns. Remember the Happy mothers’ day post where I said “oh woe, it’s all over”? Well, as predicted by The Reunion Textbook, it wasn’t really all over.

Me ‘n’ bro went round after she replied to my poking on my Happy fathers’ day post, and I wound up pointing out to her exactly where her reactions make the rest of us think she doesn’t care, ‘n’ so we go into don’t give a fuck mode too. So she’s taken note that the levels of contact aren’t as extremely horrific as she thinks, and has agreed to get counselling too (trauma counselling, not bmom counselling). Oh yeah, ‘n’ she wants me to go along to the counselling with her.

I am gonna have to make sure it’s not too close to my own counselling though.

Yes, I’m having counselling. Not, as I am so desperately in need of, adoptee specific counselling, though. Counselling this time is just about trying to find tools to help me manage the stress of it all, rather than dealing with the stressors. My counsellor’s willingly taken Primal Wound to read, though has cautioned he only plans to skim some ‘n’ not get engrossed. It’s an easy read though (unless you’re an adoptee, then you have to keep going to get new boxes of tissues every few pages), and so I’m hoping he might start to be able to help with some of the stuff at some stage in the future. Even if he doesn’t get there for me, he might be more aware for someone else in future.

Dad’s still confussling me some though. I *know* he loves me, and that he loves all his kids (perhaps in the same way I mentioned ^up there, who knows), and that like the rest of us, he does have a life to live. But … <sigh> … some contact ‘d be nice. Yes, I know I can go over, but … … … *waves hands around ineffectually* I was waiting until my birthday to see whether I’d hear from him before I started this post that I knew was coming at some stage to see if I’d get any contact. I did. I had a brief call (’cause I was about to drive or summat) so he could ask me to send our address so he could send a card, and I’ve had a card. Of course, now I’m left pondering if that’s ’cause Mrs Dad got it of the calendar, or whether Dad actually remembered ‘n’ thought of doing it himself.

No wonder amom says I think too much. She’s fine, if tired, ‘n’ still lovely, btw. :}

Written by 7rin

Sat, 24 August, 2013 at 1:49 am

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Adoption teaches

with 2 comments

Adoption is what you do when you can’t have kids.
Fostering is what you do when you want to help kids.

Those are two of the things I “learned” growing up as an adoptee.

I also picked up many other things too, but I’m writing about these things because they came up in my answer on one of the FB groups I’m in. The OP itself was about whether adoptees have their own kids (IF they can have their own kids) whilst still young, or whether they wait until they are older.

The following two quotes are the answers I gave within that group, and I’m sharing them here as an example of how the socialisation of adoptees happens.

{quote}
Caught at 17, had Daughter at 18. Then again, that was only ’cause me and her dad did an experiment based on the fact that I knew a’rents couldn’t have kids (which is why they had me). We went without sex for one whole month (a bloody miracle for 17 year olds ;)), had it once at an optimumly calculated time in the next month, and went without for the next month too. Mainly based on the premise that there’re people like my a’rents, and people who can (almost, it seems) get up the duff just from looking at each other across the dancefloor. Unfortunately, we don’t know whether Daughter resulting means the experiment or a failure though, since as a far more learned (at the time) friend pointed out, we didn’t have a null hypothesis.

Only had the one though, and that was only because we tried. Of course, it’s far more by luck than judgement that I never wound up pregnant again, ’cause really, I come from a whole stream of moms that really should never’ve had kids.

Once we found out I was pregnant, the choice to not abort came far more from the part where I was finally gonna have someone I was related to in my life. However, whilst amom was adamant that I should’ve got an abortion (and in 20/20 hindsight I agree with her BECAUSE I love my daughter), not once was adoption ever put on the table as an option.
{/quote}

{quote}
Reading [A.N.Other Poster]’s comment reminded me of another part I missed in the decision making of whether to continue the pregnancy that resulted in Daughter.The thought I had once we found out I was pregnant was along the lines of “oh well, I’m gonna have to have one at some stage, so I may as well go with this one now it’s happening.” That perspective was based on the fact that I’d “picked up” that if we can’t have our own kids, we have to adopt if you can’t have our own (presumably picked up from a’rents having picked adoption as their second option, after all, why would anyone want someone else’s kid?) I didn’t really want/wasn’t all that interested in having kids, but had “learned” that it’s just something we do. IF ONLY I’d heard of childfree a decade earlier… <wry g>

Then came the “yay, my first relative tha I’ll know.” :)

It’s a sheer miracle I never fell pregnant again.
{/quote}

I know from discussions since with amom that she has absolutely no idea where or how I picked up the idea that if we can’t have kids then we have to adopt, and despite me trying to explain it, I still don’t think she really understands how I “learned” some of the things I came away from childhood “knowing”.

I stand by my two sentences that began this post however.

Adoption is what you do when you can’t have kids because it means you get to take someone else’s kid on “as if born unto” yourself. It means you get to pretend that you’ve got a kid of your own, who you can try to mould into some resemblance of yourself, and who you can pretend will take after you.

Fostering is what you do when you want to help kids because it means you get to give kids a solidity and stability that they may not otherwise attain. It means that you are there for them for as long as they need you, and you treasure that person as their own entity, refraining from trying to make them into copies of yourself, or pretending that there is anything other than love and care between you.

Adoption means that the kid is beholden to you for the rest of their life, no matter how your relationship goes. Fostering means that your help forge an independent spirit who comes back to see you in their happiness at having your aid during their start in life.

The fostering part is how it should be done, the adoption part is just what happens to many of us.

So beware, adopters. Despite thinking that you’re teaching the child you’ve taken on the best things in life, you have no idea what they’re really picking up – not just from you, but from the rest of the world around them.

Written by 7rin

Fri, 23 August, 2013 at 6:13 pm

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Happy fathers’ day

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And no, I still don’t put the apostrophe in the wrong place, for those who’re wondering.

This year’s Mothers’ Day post demonstrated just how little bmom’s kids actually mean to her, given that she told the two of her kids who were visiting her for Mothers’ Day that she’d told her husband not to tell any of us if anything happens to her ’cause none of us go up there to see her. Yup, go figure the logic there – I obviously get my brains from my dad’s side. :p

Fathers’ Day today seems to’ve pulled off similar, too, though.

:/

I’ve been left feeling kinda deflated, if entirely and utterly unsurprised, really.

Not that I know for sure where communications broke down yet, only that I didn’t get communicated with as promised, despite me waiting somewhere until communications were established. I gave up at nine pm -ish and came home.

Deflated.

*runs away back into hide from the world mode*

Written by 7rin

Sun, 16 June, 2013 at 11:26 pm

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Happy mothers’ day

with 6 comments

And no, I don’t put the apostrophe in the wrong place, for those who’re wondering.

*dry smiles*

And now the post.

My reunion with my my bmom is, I’m sure, over.

Yes, I walked out on her. (Shuddup with the psychobabble babble, I’m sitting amused at the predictability of it all, in a wry way; it’s what comes of being Lokean. :p). I walked out of the room from my mom having gone up to see her to say “happy mothers’ day”. The reason I walked out of the room and said no more was because she’d just said she’d told her husband (none of ours’ dads[1]) not to tell any of us (older msis, me, younger mbro) if anything happened to her. So I got up, said “no more”, and walked out. And yes, throughout it all I knew I was living the stereotypical life, serving as the textbook example of why we shouldn’t reunite with our bfams, so I want to make sure NO-ONE goes away from this post thinking that, because IT’S NOT TRUE!

We absolutely *should* meet with our families, no matter how scary they are, because in them we find us. Until we see someone with our own eyes, we’re *never* basing that judgement on our own knowledge. We *need* to know our own, on a cellular level, before we can truly relax into the world. It’s why genealogical reflection is so important, no matter how much some people seem to want to deny its importance. It makes you who you are.

I was 3 years, 6 months, 3 days (thank you God for http://www.timeanddate.com/ ;)) into reunion when *I* called it off. But I had to have the chance to find out and do that for myself. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life living with unconfirmable tales. To expect anyone to do that is cruelty beyond belief, yet that’s what’s being forced through at an increasingly faster rate by our delightful government.

Yet they don’t want to give us support through any of this. Instead they perpetuate the myth that never learning who we are is the smartest idea an adoptee can have, because look at how horrible it always goes.

But it’s not.

Even when it’s as horrific a tale as Elaine’s (I’ll link if she says I can, but many readers will know who I’m on about anyway), it’s still far far more psychologically healthy if we can learn this for ourselves.

The pain living with not knowing is far worse. And if things get out of hand, we just have to learn to step back to protect ourselves. Elaine’s one of those who taught me how (thank you! :}).

But yeah, regardless that it’s over in such a (relatively) short space of time (considering I’d been 37 almost a month before I contacted her on FB), I don’t regret doing it because it helped me learn who me was.

Doesn’t matter whether I like her or not, at least I know now who she is.

[1] Lol. Adoption can’t not have influenced my life because I have to be able to grow up conceiving plurals of everything. It’s no wonder adoptees get lost just trying to figure out how to be in the world. And yes, I know non-adoptees go through similar things too, but non-adoptees are understood to be traumatised by it, while adoptees are expected to show our gratitude for it.


Edited to add:

This post has been included on week 8 of …

Adoption Badge photo BADGE7_zps59df311c.jpg

Thank you . :}

Written by 7rin

Sun, 10 March, 2013 at 11:26 pm

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{4 of 30} Guilt, Fear & Paranoia

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I got kinda side-tracked in my last post about the stuff I was actually aiming to address. While I wanted to cover the aspect of not being able to get help, it was really intended to be far more of a personal post about my own coping – or, more specifically, my own lack of coping – with dealing with living life as a post-reunion adoptee. So this post, my post that should’ve been today’s only post but isn’t ’cause I’m something of a failure at even managing to write something daily for a week, let alone a month, is going to be my attempt to cover some of my more personal experiences of living post-reunion.

Some of the guilt part is probably the easiest bit to understand – especially given that so many adoptees are berated for even contemplating accessing THEIR OWN birth records, let alone entering reunion (e.g. the comment Pip refers to in this Y!A question). I get it both ways though; I feel guilty because I don’t go ‘n’ see amom anywhere near often enough, but that’s because I feel guilty when I do go ‘n’ see her too. It’s not because I’ve needed to hide the fact I’m in reunion or anything like that from her, but because of how weird it feels now that I am in reunion. Now that I know who I’m from, and so am slowly starting to learn who I am because I’m being able to unravel the nature/nurture parts, I’m feeling like crap because – like the bad adoptee I am – I’m not grateful enough. Don’t get me wrong, I’m extremely grateful that I got the afam. that I did get, but that’s because they’re a lovely bunch of caring, wonderful people – not because I’m adopted.

I also feel guilty because I know my amom loves me like a mom should love her kid, and I know that when I go down to see her, it hurts her to see that I’m hurting – and I am hurting, so very very badly, which is part of why I’m striving to fight so hard to be able to get some adoptee-specific psych-therapy into my life. Yet the biggest proportion of the hurt has hit since getting into reunion, because no matter how prepared anyone is for reunion, it’s just about the biggest mindfuck on the planet short of being abandoned in the first place. I feel guilty because if I hadn’t hit reunion, I might be outwardly less hurt, and so she wouldn’t see it so much, and so wouldn’t hurt for me so much, when she’s already got enough crap in her own life without what’s going on in my life adding to it.

So I avoid going to see her so she doesn’t have to see me this hurt, which hurts her because I don’t go, which adds on to my not being able to go because then I feel worse because I haven’t gone. I know the answer to it is to go see her more, but then she gets hurt because she sees how much I hurt no matter how much I try to hide it. Welcome to vicious circle number one.

On a similar theme of vicious circle guilt is how I feel for not going to see the bfam’s. With them, it’s less that I’m worried they’ll see how much I hurt, as I’m not sure they can necessarily read me quite as well as amom can – after all, despite all the genetic similarities, we’ve only known each other barely over three years, and those three years haven’t exactly been filled with weekly, nor even monthly visits. It’s part and parcel of the same kind of thing though, only with this side it’s more that I’m scared (hence the fear part of the title) I’m gonna put my foot in it and say something one of ’em won’t particularly like all that much, and bam, there goes my reunion. So I don’t go because I’m not convinced I’m always gonna be able to keep my big trap shut if we get on to the subject – yet all we’re doing is skating around the subject, walking on eggshells because we don’t know how the other’s gonna react. Of course, doing the walking on eggshells, I have absolutely no clue if they also feel lie they’re walking on eggshells because we don’t really broach the subject all that deeply. I’d really really like to because there’s so very much I want to be able to say, but is there really any point in saying any of it anyway? After all, they all already know I’m not exactly over-joyed at being abandoned to adoption, but at the same time, I’m also not sure that they have a clue how much I love them *just because* they actually are MY family. Heck, even the stroppy little sis. who’s decided she doesn’t even want to acknowledge my existence is loved, because she is MY little sis, and that’s what you do – you love your family. Ok, you may not always like your family, and your family may contain utter arseholes, but they’re still YOUR family, and so get loved just because of that fact.

This family stuff’s also part of the paranoia part – especially the bit where I perpetually feel left out, yet have too much fear of saying anything about it just in case I nark them too much and again, bang will go the reunion. I do though. Not on the maternal side. I fit in with that bunch of reprobates without a problem at all. We’re all as fecked up as one another, and all have such similar personalities that it really was just like going home when I met them. The paternal side though, that’s all kinds of weirdness abound. More so when everyone seems to interact so happily together, and I’m left sitting on the side-lines, wondering how I fit in, where I fit, if I even CAN fit in anywhere. They all seem so close, and are always all over each others’ Facebooks and seeming to be going to this party, or that wedding, or even just saying “happy birthday” to each other on FB. All except me. The one who wasn’t there with them growing up, so they think they don’t know me, so they leave me out because they’re just not used to including me, so then I just end up feeling even more left out than usual because I don’t KNOW how to interject myself into their lives without being something they ain’t gonna wanna know. I just sit on the sidelines watching as they talk to each other, and feel like I’m intruding every time I do finally get the balls up to say anything to any of them, and so wind up slinking away again with my tail decidedly and firmly between my legs. And it does hurt, enough that I’ve gotta stop typing now ’cause I’m having trouble seeing through the tears that’re once again falling, because all I wanna do is see them and know them and have them know me, and know how to interact with them, but I don’t. I grew up an only child, in a house of three, and I have no idea how to be around them, because I have no idea who they really are, because I don’t know how to get in to get to know them, because I feel so wrong among them.

Vicious circles for the lose.

Yay for siblings. The one who don’t wanna know me aside, I can – at least sorta – talk to them without too much fear.

Written by 7rin

Mon, 5 November, 2012 at 12:17 am

Happy Gotcha Day to me

with 4 comments

As I posted on FakeBlkag:

Celebrating 39 years of being severed from my own everything – to the day.

‘Twas a Saturday she was taken
Away from all that she knew
To be severed from all that she was
So they could mould her to try to make someone new.

 

 

I have no idea what I am going to do with this day.

To be truthful, all I really want to do is go back to bed and pull my lovely, warm duck feather and down quilt up over my head, and be oblivious to it all. It’s the Saturday between Dead Friday and Zombie Sunday though (in 1973, these came two weeks later), which means that if we want to have anything in the house before Tuesday, then it needs getting today.

Wonder if any of my parents even remember what date it was that I lost everything.

Written by 7rin

Sat, 7 April, 2012 at 12:15 pm

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Screaming

with 3 comments

… frothing with incoherent rage that I can not – by myself – control.

And I feel utterly impotent.

I can not obtain the ‘professional help’ that my detractors over at Y!A Adoption insist I am so thoroughly in need of because my local doctors’ practice, which is supported by the local health authority, does not consider my needs for specialist help to be important enough.

It’s not for the want of trying.

When I was at uni. doing the civ.eng degree (I failed), I saw a counsellor, but I knew a lot less about me then, and so just utterly confused her. I was beyond her level of help.

I managed to get myself in to see a psychsomething meeting (after going through interviews with both the doctor and a Community Psychiatric Nurse), only to be told that I’m pagan because I’m rebelling, and I’m polyamorous because I like being walked over. I’m not sure I’d’ve even let her near my adoption.

She told me the only thing she could do for me was recommend I read some books on how to be a happy-clappy rainbow puker, because I was too intelligent for her to be dealing with. I declined, and told her I’d already found enough of my own reading material to know that she didn’t have a clue.

During reunion, I saw the college counsellor, but I’m not someone she could deal with. We mutually parted company.

And then there was Chase Wellbeing (after another round of doc/cpn interviews). Oh that was a joy. That’s where I encountered a professional telling me that I should just be grateful to be adopted, because things could’ve been worse if I hadn’t been. I told her point blank to never ever ever try to counsel an adoptee ever again because she’s too dangerous.

I offered her reading material, but she declined.

I’ve since tried to get funding to get help off Adoption Support, but the doctor and LHA won’t fund it. So I tried calling After Adoption, who said all they can do is tell me to call Adoption Support, as that’s the organisation that deals with my area.

I’ve even asked the local council’s adoption worker that I saw when trying to get records of my adoption if she can help get me any help, but she didn’t/wouldn’t/couldn’t.

So I’m left here still cracking up whilst trying to hold it together enough in life to be able to do something. Anything.

I did post, a while back, that I could take the fight to get help to the media, but tbh, I’m not all that sure they’d listen. Adoptees are expected to be screwed up, but *yours* will /never/ grow up to feel like that. Bullshit. But I’m too tired, and too busy concentrating on trying to get through living the life I’ve got, to have time, headspace, and energy to try to fight the world.

I’m raging at the moon, and no-one gives a shit because it’s not important enough.

Of course, if I became an alcoholic, then I’d get no end of help, but I currently can’t afford to do stuff like that.

Written by 7rin

Fri, 31 December, 2010 at 1:22 am

Some history

with 16 comments

I am writing this for me. I am writing this for us. I am writing this so I can try to help the world see why this adoption lark is so traumatic for us.

1:53am is probably not the best time to start writing such a lengthy exposition, however, it’s been sat here under my fingernails, in the depths of my soul, for far too long now. I have been in reunion for over a year now, and =for me= I need to try to start writing it down again.

The story started way back in 1971, when my biological parents got together for a short time – as youth are prone to do – the end result of which became me.

Born in August 1972, I was my mom’s second child, and my dad’s first. Unfortunately (for me), my mom wasn’t the best in the world at being a mom, and by the time I was seven months old, my mom had lost the plot enough that Social Services were wanting to put me into foster care. Luckily (sort of) for me, my mom didn’t want me to wind up trapped within the foster care system, and so word went out on the local grapevine that there was a seven month old kid up for grabs (and this is where the luckily for me part came into it), and the couple that became my adoptive parents turned up at the door to collect me (much like when there are puppies or kittens up for grabs).

Unlike many kids who were adopted, I was lucky enough to be taken on by a deeply loving and giving family that immediately set about attempting to make me entirely at home amongst their clan.

Like most kids, I was deeply interested in the story of how I came to be, and I spent many many hours stood at the side of the bath while my (now a)mom told me – yet again – my story, which went something along the lines of how much my (a)parents wanted a kid, but couldn’t have one, while my (b)mom had a kid that she couldn’t look after properly, and so after some hasty telephone calls, my (a)parents turned up at my (b)mom’s and whisked me away to this lovely new life that I was living.

I was lucky because my adoption was never hidden from me, however, it is only in very recent years that I have come to realise quite how much being adopted impacted upon the life that I lived – and I don’t mean the simple fact of being moved from one family to another, either.

Growing up, I struggled to understand how the world worked. I was a bright(ish), intelligent(ish) child whose favourite questions were “why?” and “how?” Why was the sun hot and the moon cold? I asked my (a)mom. “How does electricity travel through wires?” I also asked. “Where is my other mom?” I wanted to know more than anything though, along with “why couldn’t she (my bmom) look after me?”

Turns out, my aparents thought my bmom had moved away from the area, and my bmom thought my aparents had moved away from the area – but, as I was often told as a child, you know what thought did, they all thought wrong.

Adoption was never a taboo subject in our house, nor even in our extended family, however, I was given some weird (and plainly wrong) stories along the way; like my adad’s mom telling me that I was black and blue when they (my aparents) got me home. I wasn’t, but it’s what I grew up believing, because after all, why ever would I think my nan would lie to me.

I struggled though, in trying to figure out how the world worked. Of course, since I’ve become an adult and delved into the world of the impact of adoption on kids, I’ve discovered that the difficulties I faced lay within the lack of genetic mirroring that I experienced, which in turn led to hyper-vigilence because I HAD TO watch and learn everything from scratch. I’ve also since discovered that the loss of my mom is likely the main reason I ended up being a promiscuous child, having to search for love and acceptance because I could never find that part of me that was missing. Having to HAVE TO be able to love everyone, just in case someone was a someone I was related to.

I hid much of my life away from my aparents. Oh, they knew that I wasn’t the most chaste teen on the planet, but I’m not sure they were (or even are) aware of quite how early I was unchaste though. In fact, I’m pretty certain they weren’t aware of quite how unchaste I was as a child (and yes, I mean a young child, not even half way to ten), otherwise, I sincerely doubt they would have allowed me the freedom to “go out and play” quite as much as they did.

Much as I loved my aparents though, I could not – did not (until adulthood) – ‘attach’ to either of them. I was too wilfully independent to allow myself to rely on them. Much as I loved them, they weren’t my ‘real’ parents.

In my young head, my ‘real’ parents were famous film stars, or famous musicians, or royalty, or fantastic scientists, who were simply allowing my adoptive family to raise me until they had time to come back to fetch me, which could happen at any time, and so I always always always had to be ready to be able to leave my life behind at a moment’s notice.

It never happened however, and so instead I used to try to get to know everyone, just in case the woman on the bus was my ‘real’ mom, or just in case the woman walking down the high street was her, or just in case the annoying kid in my class was really my brother, or just in case the guy driving that gorgeous looking Mack truck was my dad.

I spent my entire childhood living in a fantasy world that only I, as an adopted child, could get away with. While other kids were screaming at their parents and wishing they weren’t their parents, I was watching every person in the world other than my (a)parents just in case they really were my parents, or my siblings, or my aunts or uncles or cousins or grandparents.

I really was very very lonely though. My ‘real’ parents obviously couldn’t love me very much because they never turned up to claim me back from these substitute parents, and so I was never going to be good enough because if even my own mom didn’t want me, then I must be a real bad case. This assumption, whilst based on the twisted logic of a kid who doesn’t really understand what’s happened, nor why, was unsubtlety reinforced by the kids at school, who used to tell me that I was obviously horrible because not even my own mom wanted me.

Lack of self-worth aside, I did continue to grow though. By the age of six, I knew that I wanted a sex-change operation because I was not – under any circumstances – a girl, and so while I was waiting for that to happen, I made myself a strap-on penis from a piece of elastic and a cut-out egg box (personally, I blame that one on too much Blue Peter). By the age of seven, I wanted to be the first woman in the S.A.S. At eight however, I was back to being too busy fantasising about being taken away by my ‘real’ parents to have aspirations of my own. At nine, I wanted to be a stunt man for films like Hooper, and Smokey and the Bandit. By the time I was ten, I was lost; my ‘real’ parents hadn’t turned up for me, and I still didn’t know my own place in the world – all I did know was that I must be this terrible entity, because otherwise, why would they have not come for me by now.

I got by though, and eventually made it to adulthood, whereupon I met my daughter’s dad, and settled down to raise my daughter. Well, I say settled down, but not much in my life had changed. I still scoured the faces of everyone who walked down the road, hoping to be able to recognise some likeness in someone else which would mean that I had at last finally found someone I was related to that I hadn’t given birth to. Nor had my promiscuity abated – indeed, coupled with the necessity of having to be able to love everyone I ever met just in case we were related, it instead became epidemic, leading me into many volatile and risky situations that most people with half a brain would have run a mile from.

And then I found the Internet, which eventually led not only to a marriage (that has since irrecoverably broken down), but also to the knowledge that much of my life was not much more than reacting to my original loss, and finally reunion.

There’s so much more that I want to say – need to say, however it’s now gone 3am, and so instead I’m going to be at least vaguely sensible and go to bed to get some sleep instead.

Written by 7rin

Tue, 28 September, 2010 at 3:08 am

Posted in 7rin

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The situation of 7rin

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I recently FB friended an author whose work I admire, and have gained much from.

When I FB friend someone I don’t already know, I do attempt to be courteous and so send a message with the request whenever the option’s available. It’s a randomly generated “accept if you wanna, don’t if you don’t wanna” note, because seriously, I’m so not interested in getting into FB friends dramas.

I was pleased to get a reply to my introductory message, and was asked in the message, what my situation is.

Since I’m pretty new – at least in the adoption blogging sphere, despite growing up lurking around the uk.people.adoption newsgroups (don’t like alt., it’s insanity at large), and being relatively vocal over on LiveJournal, I thought I’d use the question in an attempt to find some cohesion for myself, since today has been a fucking WEIRD day to be adopted.

For those who’re impatient, the short version goes:

Abandoned to adoption at 7mths old. I didn’t have a bad adoption – my afamily are the best I could ever have chosen… but if I’d been able to choose, and I’d known then what I know now, I’d’ve chosen to be aborted before birth instead, ’cause at least that way the lifetime of agony I’ve gone through would’ve been over in minutes, instead of the decades that I’ve been suffering for now.

I’ve been in reunion several months wow, a year! now, and even that’s (still) agonising.

This is how the adoption industry finds out how to convince people to abandon their kids: http://www.divinecaroline.com/22095/39676-national-council-adoption–mothers–money-

Abandoned early 1973. Reunited late 2009.

The slightly longer version is that I’m currently sat on the chair in the back garden at 00:36, with a stinking head cold. Earlier this evening, I dropped the partner I live with off at work, after spending half the afternoon with the brother and the cousin that I met last year, on me bmom’s side.

And at anyone who’s about to go off on one about me using bmom – don’t bother. I’m a lazy typer, and I’ll minimise certain things, if it’s possible whilst still making sense. Typing ‘biological mom’ takes too long, much the same as typing ‘adoptive mom’, thus, they are amom and bmom, because those’re logical, accurate descriptions. They’re not fancy fluttery words because they don’t need to be; all they need to be able to do is differentially indicate which of my TWO moms I’m referring to when it’s not obvious by context. I don’t use first, because how many doesn’t matter – they all count. I don’t use natural because my amom’s much more of a ‘natural’ mom (in that being a mom comes naturally to her) than either me or my bmom.

I have met IRL both living siblings on my mom’s side, as well as two cousins (though with one we didn’t know we were cousins until after the fact), and five of my six nephews. On my dad’s side, I’ve met my dad and his partner, my nan, and my cousin and her family. I am deeply looking forward to meeting my brother on my dad’s side, because it’s easy to tell how awesome he is. :D However, we just don’t have lives that’re gonna intersect all that easily due to distance and commitments, and thus, I suspect, it may be still yet a while before I get to meet my brother.

… *has a thought* *goes to pm brother* Of course, if we’re not even suggesting whens, we’ll never work out when we can, so I’ve started the suggestions of when. :)

My sister (still dad’s side) doesn’t want to know me. I think it’s pretty much bugger all to do with me existing as a me, tbh though, and much more an extension of her pisssed offedness at our dad. Luckily, she’s my little sister, so I can get to stomp my big sister foot harder and louder than she can stomp her little sister foot. I’ve been given the message that she wants me to take her (unlinked) name off my FB sibling list. I did give the request serious thought, but honestly? Just no. It’s a list of my siblings, it’s a statement of fact, and facts aren’t there to be liked or disliked, the just are – and so it’s staying.

In deference to my sister, a.k.a. because I’m not really a total bitch, despite any appearances to the contrary, I have limited the viewing of that section back down to a less ‘sharing’ level, but I’ve rarely censored myself before, and I don’t plan on starting now – especially not for my petulant, childish little sister (who, let’s face it, doesn’t sound massively different from her petulant big sister). :}

In other live stuff, I’m about to start a degree in Social Policy & Sociology, with an aim to do something to help change some of the wrongnesses in adoption as it currently stands – unfortunately, I’m still battling enough adoptee-head demons (along with apathy) that I’m still battling with getting my Student Loan sorted.

I hate authority, but can’t seem to live my life without it. From the age of seven, I joined the local marching jazz band, graduating on to diving (snorkelling then S.C.U.B.A.) from 11 – 14, and then in the Air Training Corp (i.e. the Air force cadet service) from 14-16. Growing up in the ’70s, I wanted to be the first woman in the S.A.S., and created myself a strap-on penis at the age of six using a cut-up egg box, and a piece of elastic threaded and knotted through holes in the sides of the ‘penis’ (cut-up egg box) – though I do put some of the blame for the on the TV series Blue Peter. ;)

I’ve been online (prolifically) since 2000, and usually exist under names on the 7rin theme (tequilatrinity and trin being the most usual). I started out on the newsgroup uk.religion.pagan, dispersed across some of the uk.people. groups, and finally ended up ‘defecting’ to LJ and thus aiding the slow decline of Usenet. Since then, I’ve been vocal in the polyamorous and Lokean communities, before ending up fighting adoption crap on the Yahoo! Answers adoption section, as well as trying to turn Adopted in the UK – UK Adoptees into the Britcentric version of AAAFC. I’m now fighting on FB too, though that’s stranger because I have non-academically related people’s feelings to consider on there (e.g. I don’t even know if my younger (adoptive) cousins even knew I was adopted until they saw the stuff I post to my wall).

I self-describe as both and neither and polyeverything, and am somewhat infamous for being unrepentantly brutally honest, with the best descriptions of me to be found by nosing down the quotes about me listed on my WP profile page.

Alongside starting uni. this year and completing the Access course last year, I’ve been battling with issues that’ve been thrown up by hitting reunion a year ago (Sept. ’09) and trying to get myself some appropriate post-adoption counselling. I knew I was going to have to fight anyway (hence my earlier Let the battle commence post, but today (yesterday, technically) I suffered the major blow of finding out that the counselling service I was hoping to use because of their adoptee specific knowledge is falling apart rapidly due to government cuts, which means I now need to be prepared to fight not just for my own sanity, but for the sanity of those adoptees who are following behind me.

I explain my anti-adoption stance in earlier posts on this blog, with What would 7rin do? pointing out that – contrary to popular opinion – I’m not anti-child protection, and Adoption Essentials following-up by explaining the one thing that I would prevent MANY the current complaints from “angry adoptees” (of course we’re angry, you’d be angry too if you lost everything), and that’s adequate and appropriate documentation, the same as everything and everyone else gets.

I’m currently at my most vocal over on the Y!A Adoption section, but I’ve also started ‘touring’ happy AP blogs, happy beemommy blogs, and all adoptee blogs.

And that is a brief rundown of who I am and where I’m at. I’m now going to go to bed, because not only is it late and I need to be up to pick my partner up from work early (for me) tomorrow morning, but I also need to pack (tomorrow, or after sleep, at least) for my weekend away at Mercian Gathering.

Oh yeah, and the brother and cousin I went to see today are both moving away in the near future, so I’m prolly not gonna be seeing quite so much of my bfam. as I have been doing. I’m already missing my brother anyway because having live here for six months meant we both know each other better than we would normally do for how long we’ve known each other – they are both aware that they could live on the moon for all I care, so long as they keep in touch occasionally. FB and LJ et al are useful for the whole keeping in touch lark (well, LJ’d be more useful if I spent less time faffing on FB … and yes, I’m going to bed. Now.

Yay! 1500+ words that might even vaguely make sense, in 4’n’alf hours. I may actually make it through uni. yet. :}

‘Night peeps.

Written by 7rin

Thu, 2 September, 2010 at 4:31 am

Posted in Explanations

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