About how the body holds, gets scared, how trauma affects those who experience it. And how to heal it. That’s where I am going. I’ve recorded the traumas here. And I read my way, as I weed my way, from yesterday’s to today.
You could say. I’ve been triggered for a while having to mask my trauma, instead of heal my trauma. My trauma was what I masked. And my trauma masked me. Trapped inside a body that withstood the trauma of relinquishment is me trying to be seen.
When an alarm goes off we usually do something about it. In my adoption case, no one did a thing and I learned to deal with this alarm for my whole life. And now. I am doing something about an alarm that’s been sounding for years. It’s me, inside this body that is navigating me away from an old pattern that’s all I’ve ever known.
My Mama was told I would be fine. Fine is not what I have been as we can clearly read. I’m just now talking about it publicly. Showing everyone what is up with me. Reporting my own trauma the way god wants me too and not in some room with a stranger. I’m in a room with a stranger who’s reading to me about how to deal with me and my body’s response to a stimuli that’s happened so long ago and yet still reverberates still.
Relinquishment happened. And there’s was nothing I could do about it then. So I decided a long time ago that one day I would do something about it. What give me joy is to tell all in adoption and to know that adoption cake hurt me anymore. The damage is already done. My testimony will help those who haven’t gotten help yet. I talk for those who are like I was after relinquishment took away my life, and my first love. I write here for them. Because I know how they feel because I am them.
I chose to keep my original identity intakes. I hid her in between the lines of rules adoption drew around me. And. She made it. I made sure she stayed alive inside of adopted me so that one day she, could speak up for those who like me, were still reeling. Trauma is like an egg that gets scrambled and never eaten. No chicken can grow from a scrabbles egg once it’s scrabbled. This humpty dumpty unscrambled herself by never letting herself forget who she really is.
The idea that people, who say they love me, have done nothing for me is a really fierce thing to face. How could they help? It’s clear they don’t even see me? They see her. My other me that’s had to hold up a front to just survive. They actually believe that’s me? They don’t see who I see and I’ve been forced to say the lines but I don’t believe any of them. Why did I come to be adopted? Why would I support adoption?
In a way? Adoption. A harsh task master. Took care of me. Or so that’s what adoptions said. I’ll take care of her for you. Adoption said, I’ll label this one as mine and handed me a mask. Don’t worry honey. It’s will stretch as you grow. Put it on. And keep it on. Don’t take it off. You will then see what they really think of you if you do. So keep it on. And we won’t talk of this. This is your second chance at the beginning of the game. Make due. Your not the only one honey. I’m taking care of trillions of winners who came from losers. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to take the mask off. I’ll make sure you get notified. I’ll keep you alive. I’ll give you a new family. It’s up to you to make this work. Not me. I’m just labeling you and sending you on your merry way. It’s up to you to show the world what’s within, beyond the label is up to you. And god is you choose to believe.
I’d say the body does keep score. And it’s not about clearing the score by throwing it all way alone. It’s about accounting for the losses and the gains. To deny a loss is to deny its value which then shows you did not learn the lessons. Some lessons take time to learn. I’ve been learning lessons my whole life about me and mama. I see it as the child and mother reactions.
Adoption made me an enemy of my family as I see it now. Adoption is a very slick black balling friend. Psst. Pass it me me. I’ll slap an eight in it and change this game. Don’t shoot the eight ball early or it ends the game. But at the end, shoot that’s eight to win. I would be the enemy of what was in my family so mind about me. Adoption showed me this. And taught me about what to do. About this phenomenon. Once your in the adoption game you are privy to all the rules. You either see the way out or get stuck spinning around in a cesspool of ideas that are eventually found as dead ends.
Adoption is like the supreme family time out. While adoptions labels me as special. Pats me on my head and send me into a world of kept ones to do god knows what. No one told me that being me would be so upsetting to so many people. But. It seems to be true. I tested this idea. And have found that my own family is infected. I was spared from the disease. Adoption saved me. Or did adoption save me?
And the questions is: should the kept ones decide who we are?, Or if we are crazy? How can those kept know? if they themselves have never tasted what we have tasted? and then again, there is that judging thing? Who has the right to judge? Especially? If they themselves have not experienced what we uniquely experienced? If not for a story to help people taste what they have not tasted, bitter, sour, salty when they are used to sweet. They are met with tart. Is it a reminder? Judge not. The cover. The skins. Who am I really?
I am a woman. A girl who lost everything at birth with the swipe of a pen and a paper cut that would hurt. A lot. Snap! Just like that. My life. Wiped. Clean. But they forgot. About the dna forensics. Unknowingly they left the clue in the hospital, so a stranger could pick up the package and study the specimen. Is this what my daughter looks like? She does not act like me at all? What is this joke. I am the joke. Adoption played on itself.
And my body kept score so I could tell the score my body rated this experience. no one seems to be as connected to their bodies as I am with mine. How unfortunate. But my body speaks to me in ways that others don’t seem to realize that their own bodies do the same thing. And they just don’t learn to understand the bodies language. Like I have. I learned from my adoptive parents by reading their bodies too. Body language we call it but not everyone realize it is a language that can many time defy language all together. Words can’t touch what my body reads. Actions. None actions.
And it’s sad that I have felt unsafe in a world that could not at the time understand the words I speak and also the actions I display? Forced into a life of denial and lies. My body fought for me. The me that lives inside. Who is she even? A spirit? A girl? A daughter? An adoptee? Who am I? Well I know I am not you.
This book is very interesting. I’ve been listening to it while I write here. He reports a lot of traumatic stories. How people overcome say? Prostitution, PTSD, and repetitive repeating of a pattern of abuse. So what my pattern if not for adoptions holding pattern holding me where god did not put me? Am I to drive to go and see my own Mama and even get peace? Will they embrace me? Well? They have not embrace me evidently? And I do wonder why my story has got everyone so upset? I mean I’ve had to live this life? They did not.
And I do stand here waiting for a sign. Because I do read everything. God will tell me. When it’s safe if ever, to go home. But I will ask. And it’s not crazy to keep asking for something that everyone seems to think I should not ask for, even though they ask it all the time? and adoption really shows me that kept children’s bond is even stronger because most people don’t even see how connected they are to their own Mamas. She’s like an arm or a leg. While is I see her as a very key player that must be also respected for being a person. My own Mama has had lots of space from me. So respecting her privacy can’t even be accused of me. I was 30 when I found here. We’ve been reunited for 26 years now and I do not storm her doors all day.
I used to cal her a lot. I was so excited to have her to talk to now. But she did not feel the same. Nor was her brain tuned to even pick me up. I sounds like jibber. So she’s had to learn my new language. I understand her language. She’s learning mine after years of avoiding this key progression in our relationship. She never got help. She never asked for help with me. She denied herself help. So I am helping her and my children are helping me. Codependent. Chelsie thinks she’s separated. And she now realizing she’s not. While her Mama splains this here big idea so people can get it.
I waited. Grew up. So that I could account for myself publicly. So many people around me telling me how to be. So I grew up to tell all them cuz there are many people that were way off. Way off.
And I have triggered my own Mama to show her I know her tiggers. Proof. I am her daughter and an astute observer. Not for no reason. They are the reasons I can trigger her. Showing that I am the trigger holder. I am the reason she gets triggered. Our connection. Her protection. She doesn’t need anymore. While I massage her tiggers like bunions and work all that energy out so she’s ain’t triggered no more as I make her aware about how those triggers came to be. As I take the gun away that she placed to her own head and lay it down. Forever. Cuz if people think she didn’t want to die? They are crazy and very uneducated.
Six years ago I began to fully process grief which issued a change in my family dynamic. I forced a reset. Slowly. But the last six years were the most intense. Like brain surgery with no knife and just words I did my work on us both. As I stood up and pulled out my triggers it’s was like Mama saw herself in me the new mirror. Calling all her triggers out by name and verse. Angry. Because I was reading her lines I only read mine. Evidently ours are similar. Because I was triggered as all get out. People act like I am ok. And I’m not ok with my Mama acting like this. No. I’m not. It’s not ok.
If Mama doesn’t want to tell the truth then she’ll take that to the grave. But why would she do that if she truly was thinking sanely?