Emotions Confused

So, yes, I have a bit of an anger problem. When I'm scared, I get angry. When I'm sad, I get angry. And when I'm angry, well... I get angry. The question is , why so much anger? Why do I and other survivors, turn those other emotions into anger? For myself I have found that it was a survival technique that worked well in the past but now has become maladaptive to my life. It was necessary at one point in my life to show no weakness. So instead of tears I became aggressive. Not violent mind you, but tough.
I wish I could shed the tough "skin" that I had to grow. I wish I were gentle and sensitive in a way that makes others want to reach out to me, not back away and shut me out. People have a natural tendency to respond to anger with anger. I don't want to be part of that.

Current Drama - C-section birth

My son (M) was born via cesarean section in December of 09. It was an unexpected traumatic event that went from cervical ripening to induction to 9 hours of labor and ended in needing to have my babe cut from my belly because I wasn't progressing and his heart began to decelerate. During the surgery I could feel some of what they were doing and needed sedation. It was a bad time, one of the scariest and worst things I've ever been through (and that's saying something!).

My husband (B) was also in a bit of shock after and while he may have been physically in the hospital room with the baby and I, his mind was out the window. He just wasn't helpful. My mother in law ((K) came back to visit with my daughter (E) two days after my son was born. And all hell broke loose. Seeing my husband and I in the states we were in (specifically me), she went to the nurses and complained that there was something "wrong" with me and I needed help. In other words, I'm sure, she was afraid I was having a wicked mood swing. Which I wasn't. I was simply recovering from surgery, on a ton of pain meds, trying to take care of a baby while my husband just sat.
After my daughter told me what K told the nurses, I confronted K who promptly called E a liar.

A very short time later my mother in law told my daughter to go with her, they were leaving but E refused. K told my daughter that she would leave her in the hospital if she didn't go then. My momma bear welled up inside of me and told K that if she didn't take my daughter she wouldn't be seeing my son for a while either. At that, K told me that I couldn't use my son against her. Proceeded to tell me that while my husband is easy to love, I make it very difficult for people to love me. And proclaimed that women have c-sections every day (as if that made my c-section so much easier to bear). During this she's shaking her finger at me slowly walking closer and closer to my hospital bed as I ask her repeatedly to leave, telling her that her words are hurting me and as my husband just sat on the bed and watched. She finally left after I hit the nurse button.

So the situation (cesarean) was made so much worse and my therapy has been sidetracked to deal with this. I cannot find it in me to forgive her. It was all a terrible betrayal and the timing was so awful.

Fast Food

The topic of this particular blog post is not actually about fast food itself, but about two oddly coincidental incidents that happened at fast food restaurants.

One of my earliest memories is of the day I was adopted. I vaguely recall the adoption proceedings themselves but I do remember what happened afterward. I was three and a half and to celebrate my adoption my new parents took me out to eat. It was a fast food restaurant a few blocks from the courthouse in Riverside, Ca. I had a milk shake and fries. I was so happy, I had a mommy and daddy. Wasn't this how all children got their mommies and daddies? By being adopted?
Fast forward thirteen years later, and after being in the system for four years. The courts had finally had enough of my constant running away. It was time for me to make a decision, become emancipated or go home with my adoptive parents. I chose the latter.
Back at Hillcrest Receiving Home, I gathered what belongings I had and waited in anxious anticipation. When they arrived, I was told I would not be needing my belongings so I left them behind and went with my adoptive parents. We made quick stop at McDonald's for soda and coffee. After a brief conversation my adoptive parents excused themselves to the bathrooms and asked me to watch their coffee cups. Several minutes later they emerged from the restrooms and promptly walked out the back door of the restaurant heading to their car. I quickly abandoned the coffee and followed. As my mom got in the car I heard my dad say, "Get in and lock it". The car door slammed, the clicking of the lock sounded, and they drove away into the night.
Ironic isn't it?

Crystal Meth

My first encounter with meth was when I was about fourteen. I was on AWOL (absent without leave)from one of my group homes and had found some "good people" to stay with. It was a comfortable group living in an apartment in San Diego. It was one of those places where you don't really know who lives there, just a flow of people coming and going, staying a few nights and then leaving. So I stayed, more than a few nights. The only person who's name I remember was Kat. She and some of the guys staying there would offer me meth every few days and I would just say, "No thanks". At that point I really wasn't interested. Eventually I made my way back to Hillcrest Receiving Home then on to the next group home.
Periodically, being the chronic run away I had become, I would take off from whatever current placement I was in and head on back to the "apartment". There was a guy living in the garage. He had electricity and all he needed and would just come in to eat and use the pot. Eventually, still saying no to the offers of "do you wanna line?" I began scraping bags when no one was around. I'd seen it done many times, just cut the little zip lock baggie open and take a razor to scrape the left overs out. I'd find them just laying around or on top of the trash in the trash can. Curiosity had gotten the best of me. I didn't get much out of the little baggies I found, but enough to get a fifteen year old high. I would clean and get chatty and, at the time, I loved the extra energy.
So began my love/ hate relationship with meth. Once an addict, always an addict. As they say, curiosity killed the cat. I'm lucky I'm alive, not on drugs and living the blessed life I am.

Hollywood - Stevie and Slo

I met Stevie and Slo in Hollywood. The darker side of Hollywood that no one really talks about much, but most know it's there. The side that keeps the tourists in their hotel rooms late at night. I was about 16/ 17, they were a bit older. Stevie and Slo were one of the more well known couples at the time. Pretty rough and no bullshit type people. I had a love for Stevie, more agape than anything, but when Slo went to jail for a few months, Stevie and I started hanging out more. I jokingly called her my girlfriend but nothing more. I thought it was harmless, Slo didn't. When he got out, he made it clear how he felt, by kicking me in the side of my head as he had Stevie hold me down. It's one of those snapshot memories in which you almost feel like you're reliving it. The shock, the fear, the broken tooth on my tongue and Stevie crying, saying how sorry she was.

Self defense

I went to a self defense seminar with my sister the other day. As the speaker was talking, all kinds of memories flooded my mind. I was wondering if yelling "Stop" and throwing my hand in front of myself would have helped when I was essentially kidnapped by 3 black-masked men at knife point. Or if yelling "BACK OFF" would have worked better than prayer and telling him that he wasn't a rapist as one man struggled with me to pull down my pants, as I pushed my knees further apart to prevent the pants from going lower. Evidently when a gun was pointed in my face in demand for sex, I did the right thing to just walk away... maybe I shouldn't have been so bold to say "Shoot me". Or how could I have known that my ex would pick me up be my throat and pin me against the wall?
The question comes to mind... How did I survive all of this and more? How is it, with at least four attempted rapes, I was never raped? Does it seem odd that I'm not sure how many times things like that happened? I suppose that without much thought it may, but when taking into consideration that I was witness to such violence or threat of violence so frequently that over time it became just another fact of life... who knows what memories I've yet to uncover.
How did I survive? And how did my life become what it is today?

Looking over your shoulder

I can't believe how things have changed. I can't believe that was my life. As I sit here in my warm house with walls surrounding me, shielding out the cold and the danger, it's hard to imagine the cold, the hunger, the fear. But it's not necessary to imagine it because once, it was all too real. I was sixteen when I ended up a street "rat".
I know what it really means to need to watch your back. What it means to walk down the middle of a dark alley listening to the street sounds for any unexpected footsteps that might mean someone is following. And I know what it's like to grab a slice of pizza from the nearly empty pizza box sitting on top of the dumpster because you are that hungry and there is no food, no money and no place to call home. No one to call family... no one to call period. I understand the great appreciation for those mobile units that park on the streets of Hollywood in the darkness of night. The ones with the cup of noodle soups and the large thermoses of hot water bringing food to people who aren't quite sure when their last meal had been.
Yes, I remember those days and it's hard to believe that I was really that girl out there and that now, I sit here in the still, safe silence of my home as my baby sleeps and my daughter plays quietly in her room.

Possible Trigger Post - Cutting

Recently I learned that my youngest sister, who is still a teen, has begun cutting herself. The news is disturbing but I'm not as alarmed as others are. Maybe I should be but as I look into my experience with cutting as a teen, I see it not as a suicide attempt or even a true threat of suicide, but more as a desperate cry for help. A plea, to anyone who cares enough to look hard enough or even ask, for support and attention.
My cutting was discreet, small cuts, to the tips of my fingers. The tiny scars have long since healed and disappeared. I look back and know that I not only cut to be heard but I also cut to feel. I've read that this is true with many cutters.
I wonder what pain my sister is trying to express. This past year, she has experienced the suicides of two friends. I understand that that is definitely part of it. I also know that it took much more for me to start cutting. I can only hope that her pain isn't deeper than we know.

Emotional IQ

There is a book about emotional intelligence that I read several years ago. It was recommended by my boss, evidently he had read it and found it helpful. Now, I know that I have the emotional IQ of a five year old. I will cry inconsolably at the worst times about things other people can probably just hold in.
Like the other day when I found out my company had removed my title as supervisor when I returned from maternity leave. It was ridiculous and unprofessional but I couldn't help it. I sat in the office trying to make my point and they trying to make theirs, and in the end I had to excuse myself not only from the meeting but from work because I was crying. My eyes were red, nose puffy, I just couldn't help myself. Thank goodness it was close to the end of the day.
My temper is not much better. It used to be so bad that I would just loose my temper not even knowing that I was nearly that upset. Over time I've learned the signs, such as slightly racing heart, holding my breath a little longer before exhales, clenching my teeth and the end all sensation that my head is about to explode and things go dark for a split second. It is at that point there is no going back.
And love... when I give it it is given with reckless abandon. Yes, I have huge trust issues and don't let people get close often but when I do I frequently think that person is Gods gift to earth, unable to do wrong. Somehow time after time I find myself hurt by these people, Gods gifts to earth.
Now, the true Gods gifts to earth... my babies.

In the child protective system

I was with my adoptive parents from the age of three and a half until once again the state took me away because of child abuse at the age of twelve. Throughout the next four years I moved in and out of foster homes, group homes, two mental health facilities and juvenile hall. I had quickly mastered the art of running away. I was constantly AWOL. Running away became a sort of sport. I was taking control of my life and having fun outsmarting the parents or staff I was placed with. The courts, of course, did not like this little game. Which is why I wound up in juvenile hall repeatedly.
Nobody visited me, not in juvi, not in my group homes and not in the foster homes. Most of the other kids would go home on weekend passes or at least have frequent visits. After a while I got used to it. Used to birthdays coming and going like any other day. No one to depend on, no one depending on me... I found myself... free.

Loss

In my life I've lost many people. Yet only one person have I lost to death. My earliest losses, of course, were that of my biological parents. Followed by my adoptive parents and brother, then the many friends and foster parents I grew close to while I was in the system. I'm still struggling to understand how this has effected me, this life of loss. I know that I have become controlling, distrusting and always holding back. Very few people know "the real me". Others see me as aloof and distant. Perhaps they believe that I think I'm better than them. It's only a shield. And I'm trying to take it down. I long for friendships like the ones I had as a child, yet I'm afraid to have them. Because, in my mind, everybody leaves someday.
Eventually I hope to prove myself wrong. I still have my husband and I know he loves me. Just as I know my daughter does and my son is learning to. Other family (the biological family I reunited with at the age of eighteen) still stands by me. I want to believe that they will not go away but lingering in my mind is the knowledge that, even if they don't choose to leave, we all die someday.

Adopted

How can a mother let go of one child with no remorse, seemingly no regret? How can she let the courts take not one but two of her children away from her, one several years after the other?

In the name of forsaking all but god, the god of her cult, that is what my mother did. Rather than change her lifestyle and find a permanent home, she let the courts take me. It's hard for me to understand the brainwashing that it takes to make a mother turn off that part of her brain and in her heart that screams of longing for her child. The part that would make her walk through fire to keep them from harm. There is a chemical connection that bonds a mother to her child as it grows within her womb. How is the influence of a cult so strong that it could sever that bond?

My story in a nut shell.

Born in southern California to two cult members, I quickly became a ward of the courts and was adopted by the time I was three and a half. When the adoption failed due to abuse, I found myself once again in the "system" bouncing from foster home to foster home, in and out of group homes and juvenile hall until the age of sixteen. At that point I was returned to my adoptive parents and abandoned to the streets within the same day. Eventually I became one of Hollywood's many homeless youth. And, as many of the kids in LA, I ended up addicted to meth.

I find myself today, sitting in my home, in a cold state far away. A home I bought with my husband two years ago. A home that shelters the heads of my two beautiful children (one of whom is only two months old this week). I find my self blessed. I graduated college about five years ago and have a great job. In the next few months I plan on staying home with my baby for as long as possible. He's beautiful just like his sister who will turn twelve this year.