We’re having the kind of rain that hurts. Hurts my head. Hurts my mood. Hurts my productivity. Wish I could send some to all of you in drought states. It’s the kind of day that I hate anybody who acts happy or perky.
It’s the kind of day where I want to give up on all ambition and just move. I don’t want to take Advil, not because I enjoy suffering, but because I have reached a place called “worry about the side affects.” I’m tired of worrying. I’m tired of not enjoying every day to the fullest. I’m just tired of many things.
In adoption, as with any type of child abuse, there are survivors at one end of the scale who are quite happy with or adjusted to their lives, while at the other end of the scale there is an over-representation of adoptees in America’s mental institutions and prisons.
My book is about me and my parents. Not overtly. It’s about me, boys, sex, drug, rock & roll, my parents and adoption. Honestly I didn’t think often about adoption in those years. He-who-has-played-every-role in my life was fascinated by my being so matter of fact about being adopted.
It was a fact of my life. The last thing I wanted to think about in the late 60’s-early 70’s when I was in my late teens was my parents. Why would I want to think about adoption? It happened and was a good thing.
I knew my parents were special people. I knew that most girls didn’t have the freedoms that I had, and the semi-wise parents to lean on when needed.
My parents let me explore life. I did things that drove them crazy, and they let me know it. But finding an ounce of pot in your teenage daughter’s room….and then later accidentally finding her near her boyfriend’s apartment in the East Village when she was supposed to be in school….those things might have set me off later.
The later was very accidental. If my Mom wasn’t going to Cooper Union Museum and if idiot, me, hadn’t spotted her and screamed: “mommy, mommy…” Thing was I was eighteen and really needed my mommy that day.
It was hard to be a parent of a rebellious teenager in the late 60’s. The rules had been thrown out with no new ones. I was a sweet girl but not a good one.
The next year Dr. Spock asked if he could have lunch with my boyfriend and I, during a lull in a rally. Could he? I was beyond flattered.
I told him that my Mom had worn out two copies of Baby and Child Care and that I would love to tell her about meeting him, but partially because of his teachings, I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.
He laughed. He heard that one often.
In many ways Dr. Spock was a bigger influence on my childhood than being adopted ever was.
Dr. Spock began the parenting revolution and my parents were 50’s early adopters.
My book and now my re-uniting with people I went to junior and senior high with has caused me to reaxamine everything.
I don’t enjoy being introspective. I was overly-analytical for too many years and became sick of that.
I am about the age my parents were when this all happened. I do see it through there eyes. Plus I know too many people who didn’t live to see 25. I know many damaged people.
I am a survivor. I owe it to my parents. So I won’t attempt to answer people who think all adoptees suffered child abuse.
Doctors, except Dr Spock and a few other great ones were too quick to blame having been adopted for too many problems. My real problems might have come to light.
I still would have rebelled. I loved most of my experiences. Thing was I had two built in safety meters. One was something strong in me that was probably imparted by my parents, a basic sense of self-respect. The second was my parents themselves.
I never got into real, real trouble in any sense. If I had, i could have gone to them. But I lived with that strong shield they helped me develop.
I don’t understand why we’re so quick to place blame on our parents without examining ourselves first.
There could be many reasons for the over representation in mental hospitals and prisons that become obvious if you think about a population of people who have been typed since infancy or childhood. There are many other reasons that I won’t attempt to discuss. They’re biased variables.