I am currently overwhelmed.
Two days ago I talked to Bmum on the phone again. Which was lovely. She is kind. The thing I hoped for the most. Do not get me wrong. I haven’t put her in a pedestal. I am sure she can be a pain in the rear-end at times but she is Kind and for me that is the most wonderful trait in anyone :).
As she patiently answered my scattered questions I discovered just how many lies Dawn, my mother via adoption, told me to crush me from the age of two to the last time I spoke to her. The level of cruel intent in these lies leaves me breathless and…oh dear I am very very angry.
For the last 25 or so years the only details I share about Dawn, (except to those very close to me) is that she wasn’t nice to me and from twelve I was living in state ‘care’.
Not because it is painful to talk about but rather it makes others very uncomfortable. Then they say things that make me uncomfortable and hence I choose not share any childhood stories even if I totally appreciate some of the black humour. In reference to here, the above facts are enough too.
Once understanding Dawn was damaged not me, I tried to have an adult relationship with her. It failed. Her last words to me were 18 years ago. “I don’t have a daughter”. I accepted. After all, when a person only causes you pain, you are an adult and you have tried your very best it is time to quit.
Moreover, it was a good decision. She never stopped hating me and no longer hearing that was a very cool thing. She could still hurt me just because she was so bloody vicious. However, I felt no more anger at her. I understood that she had allowed rage and bitterness to consume her.
Indeed after my brother rang me to say she had died on Xmas day 2013 I wrote some stuff about her. The following is part of it:
Dawn was born in the 1930’s and lived for 23 years in country Australia.
Dawn grew to be attractive, selfish and obsessed with Hollywood, particularly Elizabeth Taylor, and was equally obsessed with the Queen. Furthermore she was not at all clever.
In her defence, she used to tell the story of the hours spent at boarding school practicing walking with an encyclopaedia on her head and a raw egg trembling on the end of a desert spoon, the handle of which was delicately placed in her mouth. Neither encyclopaedia nor egg must fall. One can logically conclude I think that she was never taught to think, or more importantly, to question.
After Dawn left high school, she got the most joy out of her life I think. She sang and danced in Gilbert and Sullivan musicals, worked for radio announcers and was adored by several young men. She was extraordinarily happy and perhaps had hopes of celebrity in her heart. I don’t know that for sure but I do know from her stories and the stories of the young men who dated her and were still friends with her sixty years later (though none of the women were) my mother was extraordinarily happy, vivacious and I guess living her dream between leaving school and getting married.
At twenty-three she married because woman where meant to marry. Unfortunately, she believed in the Hollywood images of romance followed by marriage followed by motherhood to be a true reflection of real life. Elizabeth Taylor married, Queen Elizabeth married and it was all glorious. Dawn, with several suitors chasing her, finally chose the man most devoted who would willingly sacrifice anything she asked for the honour of her hand in marriage. With delicate lace the perfect wedding was held and, to kiss it with bliss, the actual Queen of England and her husband drove past the church as Dawn and —– exited on their wedding day.
Then it all went to hell.
With childbirth came physical problems, the death of her second child, her daughter, and neither the Queen nor Ms Taylor were there.
Instead her parents were stiff upper lip and get on with it kinda folks. The Priest spoke of Eve’s punishment and a God that takes kids through death because he wants them beside him.
And my dad. My dearest dad. A husband who somehow thought if he said ‘yes dear’ to absolutely everything and thanked her/praised her continuously and gave her every single thing she demanded and…
You can see why she wasn’t actually helped by any of this ignorance. And she wasn’t a good thinker. Nor most sadly I think for her, she never ever had someone emotionally tougher and more mature than her who could shout her down and help her. She should never have married. I truly think she would have had a much happier life that way.
On top of her hatred and consequential abuse of me she was also viciously racist, hated children and all females and was an intense hypochondriac. Most of all nobody but nobody suffered as she did.
She hated her life and we all were silent witnesses to her multitudinous expressions of this hatred and how she suffered. However, despite the unpleasantness of her personality there is much scope for understanding as to how she came to be my personal tornado in barbwire. Not to mention she didn’t vow to hate her adopted daughter on her wedding day. Life happens. Some of us manage some of us don’t. I was the only one of us she hated but that was simply because I was female and not her dead daughter. Any girl would have coped the same
But now. Now when I discover that every single thing she told me about my beginnings from my ugliness to who my Bmum was to; oh stuff that’s super personal; was just lie upon lie upon lie and all for what? To ensure that a little girl child hated herself so much that she was ashamed to be breathing.
Dearest reader finding my birth mum is wonderful. But the turbulence of what it has raised right now? Crikey!