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Thread: waiting for the whoosh - badgergirl's journal page 22

  1. #211
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    As for "not to mention I chose to have a husband and a child and I do need to hold it together for their benefit",
    That scenario is deadborn sista..
    Hiding behind the apostrophe banality like that does not do a honor to a thinking woman.

  2. #212
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    one of two

    B: yoghurt, mixed nuts, coffee
    L: beef chili, half avo
    D: husband has promised to take me out and show me a good time - if small boy goes on his sleepover - we'll see

    and here's what the stewpot holds today...
    Quote Originally Posted by ezk View Post
    Strange. The man i love and who is my husband since 6 years was adopted.
    He is also one of of the brightest and troubled human being i have ever layed my eyes on.
    But so much for coincidences.
    Uhh, i will go straight. i guess that you are aware that naming your intellect a kink, difference or else is
    useless form of self protection. You are very intelligent and while taking a lot of hidden pride in it,
    somehow you are falling in the usual trap. Which you also might be aware of.
    Being on the opposite side, my work is tremendous thing for me, i live rather bohemian life
    all while having a ten years old daughter, i do understand and i have to admit that sometimes i secretly
    crave the joys and the pains of the life you are living. But this appeals to a part of me i rather let dormant.
    trouble is that you dont let go of an intelect which condemns you to fragility.
    Alcohol and food, they are
    just a messengers of how far you are underexiting or overcharging your spirit.
    in any case the news is that there is no peace.
    nor on your side , neither on mine.
    But a bit of a willed pain pays
    better then fultified prayers..
    Two interesting points here – the conflation of sex and perversion with creativity; and adoption fucks you up.

    I’m suspicious of writing about this full stop. And I’m incredibly suspicious of writing about it in a public forum. I’m extra, extra suspicious of writing about it in a public forum where – I’ve decided to moniker him ‘bacon man’ (all sizzle and no satisfaction; the promise of pork, but a mouthful of salt) might still be lurking. It strikes me as a form of exhibitionism/masochism: here, come fuck my stigmata.

    There’s a degree of spinning involved – the transmutation of soiled straw into golden (hopefully) prose. The same materials get spun again and again; the narrative threads get twisted together for new purposes. No, it’s both more and less than that: the mythology of selfhood is already to a degree woven, integrated. The seams get unpicked, the fabric patched up, refashioned – spread out and cut up for you (and me) to examine, but I cannot now reduce it to single threads. The warp is too tightly connected to the weft.

    Despite the fear and self-questioning of motive, I’m going to do it. Why? Because I never back down from a dare. And this feels like a dare. It’s an intellectual challenge. Can I take the bloodstained, screwed up dirty, dirty laundry and upcycle it into something worth admiring. Perhaps I can. Perhaps I can put the pieces together in a new pattern and see a fresh symmetry. As I said on another thread, don’t knock crowd-sourced therapy.

    Before we start, a word on terminology. My mother, father and brother are my adopted family. I feel no need – indeed an active dislike – to term them my adopted mother, adopted father and so on. My family are my family. These are job titles and they do the job. So, for the genetic relations, I will preface them with ‘birth’ – birth mother, birth grandparents. I prefer this to the word ‘biological’ because I am not a washing powder and neither are they. The words ‘natural’ and ‘real’ are very fraught and loaded in this regard. I avoid them. Other adopted people might well have other preferences; these are mine and I stick to them.

    I’m very open about the fact that I am adopted. That’s easy. And when asked I will say that while my brother’s adoption was straightforward, mine was rather more complicated. When eyebrows get raised I explain that I was fostered for a few months and then at, 13 months, fostered by my parents before being adopted at the age of four. My adoption was contested by my birth mother, who chose to represent herself in court and therefore got to see all the paperwork and so on, including my parents’ address. There was sporadic contact – phone calls – and the fear that I would be abducted was a constant phantom companion of my primary school years.

    I unpack this further on occasion, but with emotional distance. Babies do not get adopted for no reason and in my case there were reasons. Birth mother originally called social services in, and I give her credit for that, but they wouldn’t have removed me if there wasn’t sufficient cause.

    Here things break down into medical records and the stories my body and mind tell me. I have no trusted witnesses. Scars. Interestingly, all of these scars disappeared in puberty – hello, Freud! One on my shoulder. The suspicion was I was thrown against a wall – or did she admit that in the submission reports? My mythology says I landed on a bed, but where did this fragment come from? Signs of neglect. The timeframe breaks here too, as my mother was disparaging of the foster care I received before I reached them: left all night in dirty nappies, locked in a nursery as the foster carer’s husband didn’t like babies. These things were discussed in my childhood, but once I reached teenage years I shut down those topics of conversation and stopped looking at the records – actually, I might have destroyed them as a child. We’re in creation myth territory here; memories of memories. More scars – small raised rings. Severe nappy rash or genital warts? There was inconclusive discussion. They are not there now, but I remember them. I remember the feel of them under my fingers.

    I fear we’re in When Rabbit Howls territory here (Rabbit was her first voice – all Rabbit could do is howl. I’ve not read the book, but my mother told me about it – thanks, mum!). I fear that there is damage buried in me that cannot be unearthed or clearly identified that shapes who I am. I read They F*** You Up (I've read the poem, too, obviously) and I see the earlier these things happen the more profound the effect. What am I supposed to do with this? I’m fully aware of the ‘child abuse equals adult love of BDSM’ school of thought, but ultimately I like what I like and I try not to add new images or ideas to the imaginative library of pain and degradation. Some things are safer as fantasy; some impulses should not be allowed to see the light of day. Some ideas I’d really rather not have. Self-respect and self-preservation win.

    The mental well-being nurse telling me that she could clearly see I’d been sexually abused (bear in mind this would definitely have been before the age of 13 months). That really did a number on me. Not the fact that I had – still, I believe, debatable; if only because the mind recoils at the horror of baby rape – but the idea that I’m unwittingly walking around wearing a sandwich board proclaiming it.

    Unfortunately, there’s more – birth mother, birth grandparents, total absence of birth father (a blank on my birth certificate). More on their stories and how they intersect, painfully, with my own. The madwoman in my attic is my birth mother. I fear that just as I wear her face – and I do – her fate will be my fate. I rebel against this, choosing to model myself on my mother instead, to a degree at least. Oh, the things that mum says come naturally to her – mothering, home-making, craft – those are her real skills, these things are what real women do. Sadly, my relationship with my family is enough on its own to send me to therapy. All the usual psychodramas of a loving family, with an inheritance of Catholic guilt, parental death and abandonment on my mother’s side. Her internal mythology was inescapable: she’s not an academic or an urban career woman, like her older and younger sisters – the younger a mother who my mum judged lacking (albeit she had a natural birth of all three); the older who never had children. Yes, natural and real are very difficult words. Who’s to judge what is natural and what is real. I distrust my feelings on this. I will not talk to my mum about it now that I am a birth mother myself, to do so would only cause her incalculable pain.

    Yes. I value my ability to pass. I wear my corsetry and restraints under my skin. I keep my mind chained. I chose a calm, gentle husband – the only man who stood unflinching when I threw my tidal storms at him. A cliff face I could pound against and know I was safe. A beach I could break on. Sea metaphors, rivers, canals – my writing is full of water, blood, death, memory, bone – these motifs recur. What can I say? I have water on the brain.
    My journal: http://www.marksdailyapple.com/forum/thread60211.html Into RPG table top games? Check out FateStorm!

  3. #213
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    two of two

    So. Together with abuse and adoption we have, I have, hydrocephalus. What does that mean? Nothing much these days. Nothing much and, in terms of founding myths, an awful lot.

    Mum tells me I had a fear of men wearing white as a toddler. The man who came to fix the boiler, wearing overalls, triggered screams. Doctors were her justification. I find myself wondering now. So much of my story was given to me by her and she is not a reliable narrator.

    I spent time in hospital – immediately after birth (presumably) and again at two years old – having brain surgery to treat hydrocephalus. For those not in the know, a valve (or shunt) is inserted in the skull that allows the excess fluid to drain, in my case into my heart. Yes, this makes great symbolic copy, doesn’t it? Actually, it drains into my neck or somewhere now – if it’s even active – as I never needed further revisions and, since the age of seven, it’s been thought that the shunt is redundant hardware. Although there was talk of it saving me when I got hit by a car - another story for another time.

    I just recently met my first fellow hydro-normal – we’re a rare, rare breed. The condition is unusual and when it occurs often presents with spina bifida. The treatment is high-risk in and of itself and the revision rate is high (as I understand it). Usually these days they plumb the shunt so that it drains into the gut, but for whatever reason mine went to my heart. I have two scars on my throat and what feels like a small spine – I am Borg! – behind my right ear. I met a non-normal-hydro as a child at my father’s work Christmas party. He was much younger than me. His dad called him stereo as he had a shunt on each side. He was in a wheelchair, spina bifida, and there wasn’t much of him left. I never saw him again. Survivor’s guilt and sadness for the family that didn’t share our successful outcome. And, I cannot explain this, a feeling of deep revulsion. That is not an acceptable response. At middle school, as part of learning about the second world war, we watched a brief bit of Nazi propaganda. It was a film designed to repulse so that people would support condemning defectives to the gas chamber. Yes, the clip focused on a hydrocephalic infant – deformed, suffering, grotesque. I would have sent him – me – to the gas chamber. No question.

    So. My preternaturally high pain threshold? Probably a gift given by exposure to pain at a very, very young age, but what pain? My desire to write? This is intimately connected to sex and procreation for me. Libido and creative drive are on some levels the same – do I write or fuck the pain away? And, if I do either (both!) am I safe? Am I going to go mad? Am I already my birth mother masquerading as a pale imitation of my mother? What is it to be a real or natural mother? Am I one, but not the other? What is it to be a good woman? I reject the intellect/home dichotomy as false, but I can't entirely escape all the patterning I was given.

    I cherish the concept of home. I want that for myself and my son.

    I don’t want to drown in myself. Mostly. Sometimes I do. My neuroses can be as delicious and intoxicating as wine. Creativity is auto-erotica. I can get off on writing, I can get off on the strip-tease of intimate exposure – yes bacon man, I’m looking at you. I distrust that desire. More so now than ever.

    Finally, let’s look at bingeing. This is something I have always done – from at least the age of four, if not earlier. It took until the age of 19 to learn how to purge. When I arrived at 13 months I was already drinking sweetened milk, something my mum put a stop to, and sweetened tea (truly, the mind boggles) which she also stopped – the sugar, not the milk or tea. Drinking – drinking to get drunk – started at a young age too, after a funeral where I stared into the grave (nightmares followed). Consensual sex (and it’s sad I have to specify) began at 15. All three: eating, drinking, getting screwed (but not making love – there is a difference) are about being filled. But some holes remain unfillable, some gaps are unbridgeable. With writing, I can spin webs to cross the chasms, but they bear no weight and quickly degrade.
    My journal: http://www.marksdailyapple.com/forum/thread60211.html Into RPG table top games? Check out FateStorm!

  4. #214
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    Aha. Massive destruction. You got me pitifully unprepeared, me&morning espresso.
    I need to think. And bravo.

  5. #215
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    Quote Originally Posted by ezk View Post
    Aha. Massive destruction. You got me pitifully unprepeared
    Yes. I do that to people. Sorry!
    My journal: http://www.marksdailyapple.com/forum/thread60211.html Into RPG table top games? Check out FateStorm!

  6. #216
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    You hurled a big hairy ball of info, it take some time to digest. Not a gram of self pity in it, good.
    A story for a story.
    I was born and raised in a small country of the eastern block.
    My childhood was soft and uneventful. Great parents, lots of love, most of which i had probably returned.
    I was a quiet child, living in and for the books.
    Adolescence was my postcoming into this world. Alcohol, sex and rest, conduct rather then the goal itself.
    While in university i had a proposition to go and live in paris.
    I did , it was an elegant and very cowardly way to leave behind a tangled bunch of relationships, loves and one way roads.
    21 years old and ahh.. modeling was a strict boredom, being bad at it didn't help.
    Photography came around and i knew it will stay.
    I meet my ex husband, we traveled for years, hence my knowledge of australian wine..the encounter was close.
    Back to Paris, childbirth, carrier going strong and stronger. Bohemian years, separation and beginning of wild life.
    After leaving my husband i did had a beautiful and strange affair with much, much older man. I call it the time break of my life.
    He called me an extremely civilized animal and for the sake of my life i cant decide if it was a compliment or an insult, still and nonetheless he did listen carefully and answered any serious or random question i had accumulated and no, not a father figure.
    Just a man of extreme kindness that come to some of us with the years. It did pour some cement in my convictions and prepare me on a way for the future.
    Then i met the man whom i fell in love with. Indecently bright and beautiful. Love like the one i had read in books and heard in songs.
    Idem for him.
    We were both very successful in what we were doing for living while loving it, ready to live the good life . to the full.together.
    And we did. Then the curtain went down.
    Excessiveness, extreme jealousy, violence in state of non sobriety. It kept on getting harder till one day i raised my hand and hit back. Sweet violence. It didn't change much except my status of a beaten woman. It did though open the box for me too.
    Years went by. The man was sliding down, pills were the news, it helped for a while, then all got mixed and ambulances, police and hospitals were there,everyday. I couldn't leave, not simply the strongly embedded loyalty that came with my family education, but love ,for the windows of sanity were there ,with the remains of his soul.
    Then one day it was the last ambulance. I remember writing a letter ,leaving it on his stretcher , saying that i love him. That whatever happen, i will stay.
    after i went to pick up his son from school. Same night i was home with
    the boy, my ex was having my daughter for a week. The bell rung, i opened the door, there he was , saying it was over. The nightmare .
    Over it was for him. It wasn't over for me . I kept on hitting, i started drinking hard and went into pills. Funny, life.. As all mirror dance goes it also went to an end. And we started to rebuild. And as love goes i have a haunch that this will be the only one i will have..
    He is not an ordinary man by any criteria you might use, sexuality and rest. I take it. And i kind of give back. Fantasies, bare honesty, love.
    Few thoughts on things you have mentioned.
    BdSM, creation, lust.. You can make what you want of it. You can flush it down the drain.. and will be a pity.
    Last edited by ezk; 12-14-2012 at 01:25 PM.

  7. #217
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    I was going to post the Pythons 'bring out your dead' skit as a bit of light relief, but on a day of murdered children it seems impossible to laugh.

    Thank you for your story. I have thoughts (I *always* have thoughts!) and would like to respond, but I'm not sure if you wanted a response. So, I'm checking first.
    My journal: http://www.marksdailyapple.com/forum/thread60211.html Into RPG table top games? Check out FateStorm!

  8. #218
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    I read the news today. Hard to comment.
    I also reread my yesterday "bottle beside the fire place" post.
    Aha. Some gushing has
    taken a place. I have a slight headache to prove it. Fellow plea, shoot ,
    but do not comment on the sugary stuff at the end.

  9. #219
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    last night's D: beef penang curry; half a bottle of cab sav; two double brandies
    B: yoghurt, large handful of mixed nuts, coffee
    L: kangaroo burger, wild wheat (yes, I know) - freekeh or somesuch salad, beetroot and goat cheese salad; cheeses; two glasses shiraz
    D: I made scrambled eggs, but the small boy ate them instead. Two teaspoons of pnut butter (yes, I know). Small lump of mature cheddar, brandy and juice (yes, I know)

    Small boy had his sleepover. Husband and I reconnected - on a few levels, which was nice. Today I made cake for a customer and then met coworkers for lunch in the city.

    The upcoming week features four meals out - two of them barbeques. God love the Aussies.
    Last edited by badgergirl; 12-15-2012 at 01:19 PM.
    My journal: http://www.marksdailyapple.com/forum/thread60211.html Into RPG table top games? Check out FateStorm!

  10. #220
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    Hey badger!

    Just wanted to tell you that I am still following here. I have been thinking good thoughts of you, hope you feel a glimmer of that way over there. I can understand a lot - I have an abuse background, too, but mine was long-term, so I definitely have memories. What I don't have is the adoption issues - but my SIL does, and she was recently told that her adoption issues can be resolved, it just will take a good counselor and some time. At some point, my SIL will figure out that she is worth it and actually do it, but one of her major problems is apathy, although she is reading good books about it.

    For what this is worth - I decided to make as much lemonade as I could out of my life lemons. I actually had to "decide" some things, and they kind of went like this: I am not a leper for having been forced through these experiences. Nobody can "see" anything on me unless I act weird. I will put the blame squarely on the person who did this, as opposed to "what did I do to make this happen to me", and I will convert this awful thing into something positive by being supportive of anybody who comes into my sphere with a similar background (and Heaven knows abuse is so shockingly widespread) - and they are always shocked that someone else shares their travails because you always feel so very alone in a situation like this.

    Not that you should "be like me" or anything like that - just telling you a little about me.

    BBQ sounds great - and doing it in Australia sounds really exotic for this American. I would LOVE to see a photo of Australia - is there anywhere in Melbourne, just an everyday destination like a grocery store or something, that you could post here and not give away your neighborhood? Everything I know about Australia is the Sydney Opera house, Ayers Rock, underwater pics of the Great Barrier Reef, and scenes from Crocodile Dundee...

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