{"id":1816,"date":"2006-06-30T09:09:29","date_gmt":"2006-06-30T14:09:29","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/moss-place.stblogs.org\/?p=1816"},"modified":"2006-06-30T09:09:29","modified_gmt":"2006-06-30T14:09:29","slug":"time-to-tell-a-1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/moss-place.stblogs.org\/index.php\/2006\/06\/time-to-tell-a-1\/","title":{"rendered":"Time To Tell A Story Part II"},"content":{"rendered":"

In the comments box below, in my post Time To Tell A Story (I’m Still Judgemental)<\/a>, a woman named “Jane” tells a story that many years ago, she too was an unmarried pregnant 16-year old:<\/p>\n

If you were a woman of my generation and became pregnant as a teen (I, too, was 16), your baby was taken away without you ever seeing or holding him or her. You had no “choice” to “give” your baby up for adoption. Your baby was taken, you were told to shut up and never say a word about it and act like it never happened, and you were treated like a pariah by your family forever. This was standard operating procedure for Catholic homes for “unwed mothers”.
\nAnd that’s why I’m pro-choice.
\nBecause I know what it is not to have a choice. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

A debate between she and I followed because of my lack of understanding what being pro-choice has to do with the circumstances of the adoption. During that debate, Jane states:<\/p>\n

The reason you say what you say about knowing your child is still alive and with a family and how it’s one big Hallmark Channel three-hanky Movie of the Week is because you had a choice. I wonder how you’d feel if you’d never been allowed to lay eyes on your child or hold your child? You would see that family as the enemy. As thieves who stole your child and destroyed you in order to snatch undeserved happiness for themselves. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Her words made me unearth some thoughts about my experience, and made me think my story was somewhat incomplete.
\nThis is all very strange to me, because like I mentioned in one of the comments I haven’t really talked<\/i> about this in 15 years, and I don’t know what is compelling me to talk about it now. Like I said, I have not kept it a deep dark secret or anything. But I certainly don’t advertise it and I try hard not to think about it. Part of me thinks that I have tried to be this good, Catholic mother, and good, Catholic mothers do not have stories about getting pregnant out-of-wedlock at 15. The other part is much of these events are too painful to dwell on, and dwelling does nothing to help me get by day to day.
\nLately, another part of is starting to understand that this series of events really affected why I feel and do so many of things I do today.
\nFact is, in my retelling of the story, I did not mean to gloss over adopting out a child as easy because it was right and we all were so happy in the end. I was not happy in the end, but I think I made the best choice for my son, and that keeps me refelcting on it in a positive light rather than a negative one.
\nAfter I delivered my son, I got to spend three days with him at the hospital. Up until that point of my short life, they were some of the happiest I ever felt. Every friend I had came to visit me and see the baby. I had never been uncomfortable around babies because at the time my brothers were 5, 3 and 1. Baby care was second nature to me. I had a hard time listening to mothers education sessions between nurses and new Moms in other rooms as they taught the ladies how to change and burp babies. I remember wondering if the lady in the next room who was having a hard time of grasping the concept of changing a diaper without sticking the tapes to the baby knew what a blessing it was to go to a hospital, have a baby and bring that baby home. For her, the hospital stay was the start of her new life with her child and for me it was the end. I would have given anything to be in her position.
\nAfter I handed my baby over to his foster mother and went home, I never knew the an emptiness like I felt then. I was in a painful place that nothing, or anyone could make better. This was a true first for me. Things that were big deals to me before, like going out to breakfast were nothing.
\nI could have taken 6 weeks off of school, but I think I opted to go back 2 or 3 weeks later to keep busy. Life was spacey and weird. Everyone at school were still teenage high school students, and so was I, but I wasn’t. People were mulling around about proms, games, and “OH-MY-GOSH did you hear about such and such?” I could no longer relate. I think this started a trend of cynacism that has stuck with me.
\nI tried to get back into the groove, and I did to some extent, but from then on, I felt like I was in a separate reality or something. I couldn’t relate to anyone around me, and they could not relate to me.
\nI wanted to talk to people desperately about what happened, but no one wanted to talk to me about it. I remember I was working at the supermarket and a woman on my line, her husband recently died and she was telling me about her loss and her personal feelings, and I was a complete stranger. I thought she felt the same I did when I gave my son up, the need for someone to listen to you for whatever reason people need that. Well, that was how I felt at first, but no one wanted to talk about it. Everyone said “well that is done, just get on with your life” or “people don’t talk about that kind of thing”, so I swallowed it all real hard (and here we at least 15 years later).<\/p>\n


\nI received pictures of my son for the first year from his new parents. On one hand I thought they were terrific people, on the other, I was jealous. We lost touch after a year, and I was glad for it. I was hungry to hear about him and see him, on the other, I would have my heart ripped open with every correspondence.
\nBefore I finished high school, we moved to the Fiji islands for my senior year of high school. For a time I was happier than I had been in a long time. If I had to take a nonreflective guess as to why I would say because Fiji was a third world country. Many of the kids my age were much more down-to-earth. Everyone was much more culturally aware which seemed familiar to me as I grew up in a multi-cultural household, and my race was not an issue with the people I made friends with. Being on a tropical island didn’t hurt either. Oh, and we became Catholic, which was very exciting. It is easy to be Catholic in Fiji. There was more logic to life there, so embracing the faith makes sense.
\nWhen I got back to the states, I was once again in that tunnel. Everyone convinced me being Catholic was stupid (not just peers, parents and teachers). Oh and since I had a baby, being Catholic was hypocritical of me. At first I was not convinced, then I figured I just won’t talk to people about it, then I just gave in. Now as a self-psycho-analyzing adult, I realize I was depressed.
\nI graduated, got jobs, went to community college all in a funk. I partied. Interestingly enough, I sought out jobs at baby stores, and volunteered at CPCs. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wanted to be around babies and baby things, but then I found that to be horrible torture.
\nI went away to school in New Orleans and loved it and hated it. I was excited about taking steps to build my future, I hated college life (I wanted to eb an OB\/Gyn). I loved being at a Historically Black Catholic School. I blended in, especially in N.O. where blacks range in every shade. I hated seeing people aged approximately 20 years old, old enough to be adults partying, and gossiping but not having real life responsibilities. And that arrogant attitude about living so vicariously, partying and sleeping around was OK because they were all going to be doctors or pharmacists one day (everyone at Xavier was pre-med).
\nI liked school better than home though. I came home for summer break and was once again lost. Who was there waiting for me like the day I got home but “Amir”. He was telling me he was so sorry about the way he treated me when I had the baby, and all the thoughts and feelings that had been going through his mind in regards to the adoption, which all sounded familiar to me. I have been beating myself up for years for falling for him again, but writing this I see how easy it was.
\nA week before I was to return to NO, I found out I was pregnant. This time when Amir started harrasing me, I got a restraining order against him. I could say that was the last I dealt with him, but the very last was when my husband adopted my daughter. My daughter was born March 29, 1993, exactly 3 years and 364 days after my son (his birthday was March 30, 1989).
\nI think having children and delving into motherhood has been some sort of therapy. At least Mother’s Days are passing and I get to acknowledge I am a mother, and that kind of thing. I am allowed to swap birth stories with other moms, whereas before I would hear the stories and just try to not let it remind me of my own.
\nIn those first few years, if someone asked me about adoption, I would have remained quiet, because I would not have recommended anyone going through that, but on the other hand, I still felt logically it was for the best. But most girls I knew were opting for abortion, or if not, keeping their babies. I was glad I never had to talk about it in a positive light.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In the comments box below, in my post Time To Tell A Story (I’m Still Judgemental), a woman named “Jane” tells a story that many years ago, she too was an unmarried pregnant 16-year old: If you were a woman of my generation and became pregnant as a teen (I, too, was 16), your baby… Continue reading Time To Tell A Story Part II<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2,9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1816","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-life-issues","category-pansyiana","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/moss-place.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1816","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/moss-place.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/moss-place.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/moss-place.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/moss-place.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1816"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/moss-place.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1816\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/moss-place.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1816"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/moss-place.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1816"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/moss-place.stblogs.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1816"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}