Finally Forgiveness

Recently I had occasion to be interviewed by my friend Erin Goodman; and in that interview we talked about a host of topics, including my childhood.  She gently inquired about what it takes to break the cycle of abuse–or at least what worked for me–in the hope of helping others.

Encouraged by this conversation and Erin’s recent blog post about her own struggles with depression, I share this with you–the tale of my childhood, of my mother, and the power of and potential for change.

Some have said I paid my dues—8,134 days’ worth of dues, to be exact—that my childhood was a sort of penance and that I should be able to relax into my adulthood, into my role as a parent.  But when you are the child of a mother who suffered from both schizophrenia and borderline personality disorder, you never quite relax into anything. 

My mother died nearly two years ago; and some have said that I should feel relief—that I should be able to walk down the street—with my children or without—and no longer fear that I will see my mother around every corner.  But when you are raised by a parent without any sort of boundaries and with a skewed sense of reality, you never can fully release your fear.

Some have said that my three beautiful sons—each of whom my husband and I adopted as infants—are my reward for two decades of suffering.  But when all you know is suffering, when your self-esteem and sense of worth have been hacked to the bone, you don’t believe in rewards—at least not for yourself. 

So how do you become the mother you want to be, the mother you would have chosen for yourself when this is your story?  How do you let love in when most of your life you saved yourself by building walls?  How do you learn to love your children when the one who was supposed to love you most only terrorized and terrified you? 

I was born in May 1968, and walked out the door of my childhood residence and away from my mother only after graduating from college, landing a full-time teaching job, and finding an apartment.  It took me more than 8,000 days to get there; but I knew once I left I would never go back. Yet though I never went back, I have never stopped looking back.   And having children, taking on the role of mother when my own first role model was so deeply deluded, has forced me to confront my own childhood in ways I could have never previously imagined. 

My oldest son was the first to ask me about my mother.  At six, he was understandably curious about what this amorphous figure of my past was all about, wanted to know why he didn’t see this particular “grandmother.”  I answered his questions in a way that I thought was honest but also laden with euphemism, tempering the harsh reality with language that would be palatable to a young child.  He listened intently, concluded that my mother was not really able to be a mother, and asked a question that had danced through my own mind throughout most of the 1970s:  Do you ever wish your mother had made an adoption plan for you?

With a single question, asked by his six-year-old self, my son helped me to release the first of my many debilitating demons—and for the first time I was able to see my mother the way he sees his own birthmother—as a woman who had a baby but wasn’t able to care for that baby, who wasn’t able to be a mother.  This monumental shift, brought on by a single ingenuous query, allowed me to let go of four decades’ worth of anger, of blame.  My birthmother—unlike his—lacked the understanding of her own limits and chose to attempt to raise her children; but her limitations were precisely that.  She didn’t choose schizophrenia and borderline personality disorder.  They were thrust upon her.  And with that acknowledgment, I could begin to forgive.

When I learned of my mother’s death, my middle son, who was five at the time, asked me if I was sad.  I told him I didn’t know if I was sad or not.  He told me—in his infinite wisdom—that it was “okay to be glad.”  He innocently reasoned that my mother was not a kind person and that maybe it was a good thing that she was gone.  But then he quickly added that maybe it was sad that she had died, that maybe she was so mean to everyone because she was hurting on the inside. 

And there were my own words brought back to me.  Again and again, I had explained to my children that sometimes people are unkind because they don’t feel good about themselves.  I used this rationale to explain the behavior of everyone from schoolyard bullies to more egregious examples they may have heard about peripherally on the news and elsewhere.  And yet, it wasn’t until my son made this connection to my mother that I was able to see her in this light—as someone who was hurting who then, in turn, hurt others.  And while none of this is an excuse, it provides an explanation—and it was an explanation I was ready to hear, delivered to me by a sweet child, my child.

Throughout my life and, specifically, for the first six years of my journey through parenthood, I believed that I was “safe” if I simply did the exact opposite of what I knew from my own mother.  My mother lied; I would be truthful.  My mother stole; I would be trustworthy.  My mother’s mind dwelled in a different reality.  I would make sure mine resided here, thank you very much.  My mother was insulting; I would work to build others’ self-esteem.  My mother coveted and bragged about her abilities; I would share my knowledge with others and remain humble in the process.  My mother had no work ethic; I would push my limits.  My mother was volatile; I would be calm.  My mother was nonsensical; I would be reasonable.  My mother hurt her children; I would be gentle.  I created a version of myself that was my mother’s inverse.   And for a very long time, I often wondered if I were precisely that—a version, albeit the antithesis, of another.  

But as I think about my children and how they have helped me re-envision my mother, I can only conclude that my children are who they are because I am who I am—my mother’s counterpoint—and that this is, in fact, the true, most authentic version of myself. 

People who know my story—even just pieces of it—have said that I am the mother I am, the person I am because I know what “not to do,” further asserting that I could never be where I am right now if I hadn’t endured my past.  I would argue that if had grown up with a supportive, loving parent or parents, I could still be precisely where I am right now—and have saved a lot of heartache along the way.   Instead of seeking out the converse, I could have simply done what others have done and do–modeled myself on what I knew.

And this is what gives me hope as a parent.  My mother did not know how to love—but thanks to sheer determination, a hearty dose of luck, the love of a considerate, devoted husband, and, now, my children, I am learning how.  I am able to be—although admittedly a constant work in progress—the role model my children deserve, the mother I want to be, the mother I wanted my own to be.

I have always maintained—as an educator and now as a parent—that children are our wisest teachers.  But little did I know that in addition to teaching me how to love, my three sons are teaching me how to forgive a person who didn’t know how to be a parent, who didn’t know how to love, a person who was cruel—to herself and those she was charged with protecting. My mother suffered.  She was pained.  She hurt others and couldn’t express any kind of healthy semblance of love or affection; but her story will not be mine.  And my story will not be my children’s. 

When my oldest son looks in my eyes and tells me he loves me, when my middle son jumps in my arms and tells me I’m “the best mother he could ever have picked,” and when my youngest son runs up to me and hugs my knees with all his might, I am beginning to believe that I am worthy of this bounty.  It took a long time to get here, but I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

I have to believe that if my mother had been well, that if she had been able to engage with her family and the world without the burden of her substantial mental health issues, that she would have chosen this path for me, her child, that this is precisely what she would have wished for me. 

And if this had been the case and I am correct, thanks to the revelations provided to me by my children, then I can honestly now say that I would have loved her for that. 

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Doing Good Work in the World

Fall, for me, has always been an invigorating month—one I pine for after the intense heat and the humidity of summer have sapped my physical energy if not occasionally my spirit.  However, fall now has a new meaning for me.  It was this time last year my son had his first seizure and was subsequently diagnosed with epilepsy.

And while the falling leaves and crisp air continue to inspire me, I cannot help but go back to last fall—to October 11, 2011—a day that, in the words of Mitch Albom, “ben[t] my life.”

Tonight I had the distinct honor to be asked to speak at the University of Rhode Island in honor of The Matty Fund’s 2012 Epilepsy Awareness Campaign in conjunction with the College of Business and the Feinstein Center for Service Learning.  The audience tonight consisted of 400 “URI 101” business students (freshmen) who will be working in groups to market and sell epilepsy awareness T-shirts on campus (and beyond) from tonight’s kick-off until early November.

With permission of The Matty Fund, I am sharing with you the speech I gave tonight.  Please share this blog post with others to spread awareness of the good work of The Matty Fund and to help all people living with epilepsy.

If you go out into the parking lot, you’ll see my car.  You can’t miss it.  Friends of mine have termed it the “advocacy-mobile,” and they would be right.  As an English teacher, I can say my bumper sticker that reads “A thesaurus is not a giant lizard,” tends to garner substantial attention.  As an adoptive parent, I have a decal encouraging adoption.  And as the parent of a child with epilepsy, I most certainly display a sticker promoting the good work of The Matty Fund.  However, there is a sticker on my car that catches my eye every morning as I drop my school bag into the passenger seat of my car.  It’s a quote from bestselling American author Mitch Albom, and it reads, “One day can bend your life.”

We know this to be true—no matter where we are on our journey in this life.  People are born; they die.  Our lives are changed; they are bent in a new and often unanticipated direction.  For me, that day was October 11, 2011.  I was at work.  My children were at their babysitter’s—a babysitter who, in seven years of caring for my children, had never once called me at work.  It was 12:30 PM.  I was cleaning up my classroom when the front office called and said our babysitter was on the phone.  My heart sank.  And as I walked down the corridor of the high school where I teach, toward the telephone where she was waiting, I felt as though I were heading toward something irrevocable, toward something profound.

I picked up the receiver and listened as she described what she just saw: Our then six-year-old energetic and exuberant son Edgar had been sitting at the table, uneventfully working on an activity, when all of a sudden his limbs became stiff; his eyes rolled back.  He was unresponsive—unconscious.  As I listened to my babysitter’s words, nothing was registering.  Nothing.  I asked, now in a stupor and completely dumbfounded, “What do you think this means?”  And she said, “I think he had a seizure.”

At this moment, on this day, my life was bent.  If you are sitting in the audience today knowing very little about epilepsy and how it affects the people who have it, the people who love them, the people who are charged with teaching them, I would have been among you.  On October 10, 2011, I did not know my son had epilepsy and knew even less about the condition itself.  And on October 11, he did, and I had to learn. 

We would like to believe that the stigma that surrounds epilepsy is abating.  But it’s not.  It remains shrouded in mystery and mystique, and there is simply only one way through the mire—education.  To say that the work of The Matty Fund is invaluable is an understatement—and a vast one at that.  They have helped our family negotiate our path—they are our guides, our mentors, or teachers, our advocates and friends.  And they are doing good work in the world—helping to lift the veil that regularly and, I would argue tragically, obscures our society’s understanding and acceptance of epilepsy. 

And they need your help. 

I often tell my children that the greatest gift you can give someone else is to teach them what you know.  As you educate yourself about what epilepsy is—and is not—please share your knowledge with others.  Teach them what you know to be true.  And know that as you spread awareness, you are helping to eradicate the blight that is placed on those who must contend with this condition.  You, like The Matty Fund, are doing good work in the world.  And as the parent of a child with epilepsy, as Edgar’s mother, my gratitude is immeasurable.

Thank you.

An Article in ADOPTIVE FAMILIES Magazine

Please take a moment to visit Adoptive Families magazine and read “What to Expect When She’s Expecting,” my most recent piece for this esteemed publication.

It’s about August’s birthmother, who at the time of the writing was six months pregnant and choosing to parent.

We met the baby last Saturday, the day the magazine arrived on our doorstep.

Fortuitous . . . like so much we’ve encountered on this beautiful journey.

A Plea for Civility

I suppose I should just let some things go.  I suppose human nature being what it is, the dissolution of manners, good taste, and respect during an election season is to be expected.  But, of course, I can’t–for so many reasons, not the least of which is my three impressionable sons who are watching this world with ever-increasing powers of observation.

We teach our children about bullying, about the dangers of name-calling.  We tell one another that someone’s negative words say more about the speaker than they do about the victim.  We remind our students that in an argument you attack the idea and not the person.

And yet twice this week I have seen the portmanteau word libtard–a combination of “liberal” and “retard.”  I’ll forgo a diatribe on what is so obviously heinous about this term and skip right to my point:  People disagree–about everything.  This isn’t going to change in the next eight weeks–or ever.  But for the sake of the children watching and listening and learning, we need to do better.  We need to employ the lessons we teach our children–no matter your political party or proclivity.

Because, really, it’s not Mitt Romney or Barack Obama–it’s the children who are our only hope for change.

 

 

Creative Editing

This morning I sat with a family of two young boys, one of whom, at three years old, was having what I would call a characteristic day.  He was contrary, full of his own opinions, and vocal.  His parents were flummoxed, if not slightly frustrated; and as I commiserated with them–because anyone who has ever parented or cared for a toddler knows these things happen . . . repeatedly and a lot–I couldn’t help but think of a little piece of advice I give to myself whenever the going gets rough:  One day my sons will be thirty years old  . . .

On this blog and in my writing I don’t tend to highlight the tough stuff of daily life with children–the temper tantrums, the altercations between brothers, the messes, the sassiness.  But it’s there, all of it and regularly.  It doesn’t need to be shared because it’s ordinary, it’s expected, it’s what every child has done and every parent endured.

In fifteen years, though, when child-rearing (I won’t say parenting because that truly never ends) is behind me, I won’t be dwelling on any of that.  It will get edited out–and it should.  Just like the photos we choose to share with others, we edit out the experiences we don’t like, the ones that don’t show us at our best, the ones of which we are less than proud.

Ten minutes after this photo was taken, Oscar poured himself a bowl of cereal and used the largest bowl we had and a half-gallon of milk (most of which landed on the table and floor), August didn’t quite make it to the bathroom on time, and Edgar screamed that I was “the meanest mother ever” because I wouldn’t let him have potato chips for breakfast.

But that’s not what I want to remember about that day.  It’s those smiles.  It’s the love.  Because nothing matters more than that.  Nothing.