Filling the void

Though I was born in 1965, I feel my story starts on 25 November 1954. That day both my natural parents and my adoptive parents got married and the often hard to explain who is who of my life story was formed. The short version would be, my natural father's sister and her husband adopted me, turning my aunt and uncle into my mother and father, my father into my uncle and my mother into the ex-wife of my uncle. On top of that it turned my brother and sister into cousins.

Those are just the technicalities involved and once I tell something about myself I usually get the deer in headlights look around here. Never mind, I have two half-sisters from my father and one half-sister from my mother, who respectively are first cousins and someone who is not legally related. I am not going to complicate it any further.

One set of grand parents were a beacon of stability in all this, having always been my grand parents. Ironically they were pivotal in all developments leading to the complicated family arrangements made around me. With her 5 foot, my grand mother was very much the mater familias, The one whose mood had to be pleased. To achieve that she used a strict divide and conquer strategy, that not only with her own children, but with her grand-children too.

For some reason, I was one of her favorites and as such was always welcome, but cousins of mine she wouldn't let in. Of course that would make me less liked by some of my cousins. Especially my female cousins would resent my grand mother's preferences, since my grand mother didn't like girls at all. Something she had proven raising her own children. Having three sons and one daughter, she had managed to make certain her preference for one above the other. Her eldest son was the smartest of the lot and did well in school. Later on he had a more or less successful career all that making him one of her two favorites. The fact he is a very rigid, dominant man with a moody temper didn't change that at all. Her other favorite was son #2, who became a painter and had his fair share of success.

The other two children my grand mother had, the two most important in my life, were not among her favorites and she would always make clear that was the case. Each had a very different strategy dealing with that. My natural father probably gave up altogether at an early age, while my adoptive mother kept trying to no avail to please my grand mother.

Where my natural father and my adoptive mother grew up in a traditionally dysfunctional family, full of power struggles and manipulation, my adoptive father grew up without much of a family life to speak of. His parents had a bar in downtown The Hague. I never got to know his parents personally, his mother died before I was born and his father when I was three. My adoptive father would tell bits and pieces over the years and most of it was sad. His mother was very much the business woman, always working in the bar, not spending much if time at all with her two sons. Legend has it, his father was physically a very strong man with a weakness for alcohol.

My adoptive father's childhood revolved very much around work. Being considered a good boy when working for his parents and being used by them doing so, he grew up a man with a mind preoccupied with work and making money. His entire life he worried not making enough, spending too much, worrying about losing his job, not being able to pay the bills.

Very befitting, my adoptive parents met at work, where my adoptive father was working as a foreman of a repair shop and my adoptive mother was a secretary. On the rebound of a broken-off relationship my adoptive mother fell for my adoptive father, who already had had a crush on her for some time.

In the mean time, my natural father had, according to my grand mother's pacifistic demands, refused draft and was doing alternative civil service in a mental hospital in another part of the country. No longer under his mother's wings he had the chance to develop a relationship with my natural mother.

Much more than this I don't know about the onset of the dual marriage that took place in 1954. I do know my natural parents eventually were living in the house next to my grand parents, while my adoptive parents lived in with my grand parents for years. The two favorite sons my grand mother lived much further away, though one of them had his wives mother live in for as long as the old lady lived (which was long).

While my natural parents had a son in their first year of marriage, followed by a daughter five years later, my adoptive parents stayed without children. I know from both my adoptive parents, my father had asked my adoptive mother not to have children and she had agreed. The reasoning was rather vague and only got some clarity years after my adoptive father had died, but by then he was no longer around for verification.

Around the mid 1960's both marriages were not faring well. My natural parents got caught in the experiment of open marriage, which eventually lead to their break up and my natural father's second marriage. Just before their breakup, they had one final act of patching things up, resulting in my conception. Soon after my natural father left, to start a "new life", leaving my natural mother behind to take care of me. My brother and sister moved in with my natural father, though not for all that long, since my natural father's new wife soon developed evil stepmother traits.

My adoptive parents marriage wasn't going all that well either. Both brought their own set of issues into the marriage and together they weren't able to resolve them. My father very  much wanted to bury the past, keeping a lid on it at all expense. That way he kept much of himself dead. When in role, being at work, or at family obligations, he was able to release some of his vitality. At home he was more "himself", a silent, withdrawn man, desperately trying to keep his past from ruining his present and future. My adoptive mother came with her own set of phobes and fears. Being much overlooked as the girl among boys, not being liked by her mother, she needed much attention and affirmation. That my adoptive father would do, but it made him automatically switch into his role as consoler, leaving his personal self behind. Of course his consolations wouldn't work, they only maintained the situation, because they didn't address the deeper issue: my adoptive mother's insatiable need for love and my adoptive father's inability to show much at all. So they assumed the position, maintaining the notion of my adoptive father as the stable, strong but silent man and my adoptive mother as the hysterical housewife.

On 9 September 1965 I was born, though I was very much present at the event, I don't know much about it. The same is true for the first year of my life. I was told my natural mother was not taking care of me well, while going through post partum and post divorce at the same time. After almost a year my natural mother asked my adoptive parents to temporarily take care of me, for her to get her life back up order.

It's easy to do predictions in retrospect, but it looks so predictable how it all unraveled. My adoptive parents took care of me for nearly a year, when somehow the decision was made I should be adopted. My natural mother, I never saw again and she never really got her life back up order either. Last year she died, living in a nursing home, where she was admitted the year before. Over the years I would hear about her, either through my adoptive parents or from other family members who had stayed in touch with her. Most of what I heard reflected a state of chaos, being homeless, being broke. She did get one more child, ten years after I was born, a half sister of mine, I have never met. I know she has two children, who live with my sister, being their guardian.

My adoptive father I would see every now and then until the age of six, so I have vague memories of him. He broke off the contact with my adoptive parents for some twelve years. In a letter he had written, which I found years later, he didn't want to be confronted anymore by my adoptive parents showing off how well they were doing with me. At the time I read it, I could understand his point of view, now I have a much harder time accepting that as the right thing to do.

About my actual adoption, which took place when I was four, I don't recall much. More than going to a photographer to have my pictures taken and cards being sent out, I don't remember of the event. At the time it probably didn't mean anything to me, but that was soon to change.

By the time I was seven I had already moved five times, first to my adoptive parents and then with them four times in five years. At the time that had more of an impact on me than the entire issue of being adopted. Little did I realize how related those were. It prepared me to be always ready to move on. So, when at the age seven we moved for the fourth time, something in me snapped. Before that, I guess for the first time in my life, I was starting to ground, only to be taken away and planted yet somewhere else. I believe it was then I gave up making friends, starting to see it would only be temporary. At the same time, I was starting to feel things were not alright. There was something not okay in the house I lived, even though we were supposed to be the perfect happy family.

It became apparent to me my adoptive mother was a nervous wreck, taking Librium to calm her down. I also started to feel she wanted more of me than I was willing to give. Her need for love and attention had found its perfect substitute in me. I started to dislike to touch her and became more and more distant, making her only needier. I guess my adoptive father was happy he was off the hook and  distracted even more, becoming the man who would always be reading the new paper, when in the house. He would spend a lot of time in the garage, though, busy doing what ever men seem to be doing in a garage. I would join him every now and then and though I would help him out building things, we somehow didn't get along all that well. My adoptive father never had a childhood himself, so he had very little idea of what goes on in a child's mind. He would very much treat me as a grown up, a business partner, rather than a child. While helping out, we would always end up in a fight, always following the same pattern. I would try to figure out how to get something done, my father would grab the tools from my hand, I would get upset not being allowed to do things my own way and he would send me off to do it himself.

At the age of fourteen, and two addresses later, things really went down the spiral. Up till then I would be able to keep the role of the ideal child, but that year I could no longer. Insecure and having to adjust to yet another school, I ended up becoming the least liked kid in school, to the point even some teachers joined in on the bullying. At the same time, my adoptive mother was going through a serious phase of hypochondria, needing constant affirmation she wasn't having cancer, needing to have her throat (where her fear of cancer was focusing upon at the time) checked several times a day. I would refuse to look, telling her I wasn't a doctor and if she needed affirmation, she should see one. She would nag, beg and scream till I would bend. Most often I was able to withstand her pleas till the time my adoptive father would come home. He would look and say it was nothing and I knew that was maintaining the situation, next day everything would be forgotten and start all over again.

My adoptive father at the time was having pressure at work, a hysterical wife to return to and I was being constantly bullied while reaching puberty at the same time. That was too much for him, so he started to show a temper. Whenever it became too much for him, he would unleash and hit me. It never hurt physically, but it taught me to keep my mouth shut and swallow my misery.

From then on I would spend most of my time in my room. At school things eventually worked out. I never became popular, never really made any friends, but after a year of serious bullying, I somehow learned how to divert the negative attention. With my parents things stayed the same for years. My adoptive mother stayed in her state of hypochondria, my adoptive father would try to keep his sanity by maintaining a constant state of detachment. At the age of seventeen he hit me for the last time. By then I was much bigger and stronger and for a moment I realized I could punch him. I didn't. Instead I felt so sorry for him, not being able to hold his temper. Somehow it showed, he stopped, shriveled and never touched me again.

A year later I met my natural father and my brother. My natural father acted as if nothing had ever happened and his posture was such that I never addressed our relationship. My brother, though never having been around when I grew up, still had fond memories of my adoptive parents, who had been a nice aunt and uncle to him when he was younger. I could understand that from his part, but he wasn't willing to imagine it would be completely different growing up with them. I guess he envied me having been so lucky being adopted, instead of being ping-ponged between our parents. He had had a hard time growing up and wasn't willing to see, things hadn't been all that peachy for me either.

Eventually I managed to escape the madness at the age of twenty-three. Finally I was able to find room for my own madness instead of someone else's.


Quick Question...

because I'm really curious...

Given all the details you DO know, do you happen to know who was with your mother when she gave birth to you?  Who was her support-system back then?  Any idea?

Slow Answer

I don't know all that much about my birth. My father was still living with my mother when I was born, so he has probably been around. At the time they were living next to my father's mother. So my mother's "support-system" consisted mainly of in-laws. Her family lived 80 miles down south, so they were not around much. Given the matriarchic nature of my grand mother, she must have had her hand in lack of support given and my subsequent placement.

The musical chairs of the ungrounded child

My heart ached while reading this, Niels, and my dissociative identity disorder took me back with every
Being the surprise in old age, biological child of wanderers makes me so in tune with each of your words and how a
precious child gets lost.  Never was I able to call a place home, for long.  Never tried to have a friend
after the 10th move and the fifth school.  There were five moves after that but I quit school before my
Sophomore year; I had no social skills, no friends, so was married off at age 15 by my mother.
In looking back, Niels, can you think of one move that made sense and was the place, had you stayed,
that would have made the better difference in your life?


Ignorance was bliss once

Though my rational mind tells me not to get too involved in what-if scenarios, the past cannot be altered and had not happened what happened I wouldn't be the person I am now, my subconscious mind has certainly tried to undo some of the moving around. For the last 19 years I have lived in a town that is only a few miles from where I lived from age of 5 to 7. It was there that I felt my childhood was safest and most uncomplicated and I believe that influenced my decision to move to where I live now.

I am not sure if things had been better had my parents not moved when I was 7. It would have changed things, no doubt about that. The moving around didn't do me much good in getting grounded, but on the other hand the make-up of my family was such that what unfolded later on would have unfolded anyway. Maybe if we had not moved so much I would have had more of an escape from my home environment, though I am afraid my parents would have prevented me from doing so anyway.

Much of what made the place I lived from 5 to 7 so Idyllic has probably to do with my own ignorance at the time. I knew I was adopted when I was almost 6, but at the time it didn't resonate. I "knew" it and was able to formulate the sentence "I am adopted", but it would still take a couple years to really grasp the concept. So whatever my sentiments are towards that particular place has much to do with that particular time. It was the age I started to become aware enough to make the world and interesting place and I was ignorant enough to not know of many of the ugliness abound.

The Safe Place

If we didn't have a memory of a time when we felt safe and right, could we ever search for another?  I think not.
My place was also Idyllic:  Lake of the Woods swimming and recreation; small town and nice people; and we
stayed there for three years.  The script was still the same, "we're moving," but this time it hurt the most.  I had
no say then or any time over anything in my life.  I always like to think that "if" we had stayed, I could look back
and call that place home.
I am in contact with my friend from school during those three years.  I have her tell me what happened to every
one I can remember.  She lived my life for me; her memories are supposed to have been mine.  I cherish her but
don't know how to love her; she just fills in the details of what I lost.


Always Moving

I had the opposite childhood experience -- we never moved, and rarely went places, too.  We had "family vacations", but they were always JUST Family, with minimal socialization with outsiders.

There was never an escape, so became too afraid to try.

The first time I "moved", I was 17 leaving my parent's prison for college.

That first weekend on campus I drank enough alcohol to make my heart stop.

That first semester I became addicted to drugs and knew ("confidently") sex with strangers was no big deal.

I learned there was no safe place in this very large, lonely world.  I learned every stranger feeds the same lines, and people,( by nature), are liars.

If we didn't have a memory of a time when we felt safe and right, could we ever search for another? 

I pray every day I find another memory to replace all I have grown to know.  Surely, there must be more to life than moving to more misery.



Knowing there is ALWAYS more misery for me, I've learned to sit very still and watch it take place.  The world of misery
surrounds me and is active, but I don't react; maybe it won't see me. 
I have no life.  I watch life in others as a movie.  No popcorn, just sitting still, wondering if they even see me.  Dissociation
is a friend my therapist says I shouldn't have, but when all the misery from 58 years comes rushing at me and triggers
all the rage, it is best to have such a friend.


Facing The Demons

I think there's a difference between knowing the misery, and accepting The Demons as the only company worth keeping.

There's comfort in familiarity... which for many victims of abuse... this can become the single-path of living that's very twisted and wrong in its sense of safety and security.

I require solitary alone time; it's when I am safest with my thoughts.  I simply fear dying "all alone".  Could there be a worse feeling?



Knowing the misery, for me, is facing it head-on but not letting the demons be my company.  My dissociation does not
allow demons, just me.  I think being detached is different from dissociation in that the detached does me no good and
I can still feel the pain; dissociation, for me, is being all alone in the safety of my own familiarity.
My solitary alone time is a treasured gift.  My problem is keeping myself from wanting only alone time.  I was headed for
a big wrong with my children not too long ago when I was spending more time with me than them.  They were here, but
I wasn't there for them in the one-on-one they needed; and I didn't realize how distanced I was even in the same
room.  My goal is the middle; staying away from the extremes.
Dying all alone on the inside is different than having no trusted companion by your side while you physically die.  I truly
want someone by my side when I die.  Who would you pick to be there?

Dying wish

Dying all alone on the inside is different than having no trusted companion by your side while you physically die.  I truly
want someone by my side when I die.  Who would you pick to be there?

<Hmmm....>  That's an interesting question, because I wouldn't want any of my children to see me die... in fact, I laugh as I write this because it's my children who keep my will to live alive.

I don't think I would want anyone I know with me when I actually die.  I think in a way, I think of it as my birth; no one I know was there when I was brought into the world, poetic justice says I should leave this world the same way.   Dying alone and dying with loneliness are indeed two different things, and when I was in the clinical setting, those lonely deaths were by far the longest and saddest.

As far as the picture-perfect death wish for myself, I would have to admit my deepest disire is to know I was loved like no other by someone who could never have enough of me.

As I type this, I think of  my Bride Story... and I sob at such bittersweetness love can bring a girl who dares to dream.

I will never leave thee nor forsake thee

"As far as the picture-perfect death wish for myself, I would have to admit my deepest disire is to know I was loved like no other by someone who could never have enough of me."

Yes, Kerry, that would fill the void for me as I closed my eyes in death, alone but content.

What is your Bride Story?


The Bride

Perhaps one of my favorite love-stories comes from a couple I met in the hospital many MANY lifetimes ago, when I was working on the Oncology floor during the summer of 1990.  The female-patient had uterine cancer, and was dying a slow, painful death.  Her husband, a really cute, sweet adorable little old man was by her side each & every day, and he took meticulous care of "his bride" without complaint.  She had moments of lucidity, but more often than not, she was in a drug-induced coma-state.  Her silence didn't distract or deter him from being by her side every moment he could while she was in the hospital. 
After a few times of seeing him during my rounds to his wife's room, I asked him how he was doing.  I told him how much I was impressed and in awe of the loving, doting care he was always giving his wife, and how uncommon it was to see such care and concern given by a family member.  He seemed to have a strength and love that was unlike anything I had ever witnessed before.  We spoke about how unfortunate that was.
He seemed to really appreciate my observations, and took a seat, next to his wife.  He started to stroke her hair, and face, and started to tell me Their Love Story.  I don't recall much of what he said, as much as I recall the tears, the love, the pure passion that still lived in an 80+yr old man.  I do remember him saying, as much as they both wanted children, they could not have them because she "always had problems".  Despite the sadness that brought them, they also took it as a sign to turn to each other, and love one another even MORE, because all they HAD was each other.  He claimed, not once was he ever disappointed in her.  Instead, they found a way to work together towards a common-good, and they found themselves doing work for the USO.  I remember him saying, "She loved those boys like they were our own".
Now, me, being me, and being the only way I know how to be, (I was 21 at the time), I was deeply disturbed how this man spoke and thought and expressed this overwhelming physical attraction and passion towards this "beautiful bride".  She was a woman who was old, white as the sheets, wrinkled, and smelled like Death itself.  But I remember having chills and a wave of Hope and Happiness, thinking, "YES! there IS love like this!  It is possible!  It CAN be attained, and when it's Right, and when it's God in Heaven, there is NOTHING that True Love couldn't do."  Anything was possible, and it shook me to the core.
I left the room with him still stroking her wrinkled flaccid face, whispering, (I'm sure), sweet nothings, and kissing her forehead.  I shut the door behind me, and stood against the wall, and I wept.... not for them, but for myself.
Later, that evening, he had his coat & hat on, and was leaving for the night.  He stopped by the Nurse's Station to speak to me for a minute.  The other nurses were quite surprised, because apparently, the man didn't speak to ANYONE during his long visits.  He was very much like a watch-dog, barking at the nurses who rushed in with minimal care or attention given to his wife.  The nursing staff, therefore, saw him as a man who would command the staff to do more, not request a conversation off the floor.
So, as he stood at the desk, waiting for me to come out of the med-room, he took his hat off, held it in front of him, with slightly shaking, wrinkled, arthritic hands, and quietly said, "thank you for asking me about ______(whatever her 1st name was).  You are the first person who saw her as a person, and me as her husband.  You took the time to ask about us as a couple, and you listened to what I believe is the Greatest Love Story that could ever be told.  You asked how I keep my strength & willingness to come here each day?  She is Me, and I am Her.  We live for and through each other, and I wouldn't have it any other way.  I'm grateful she has you to watch over her tonight. She knows I trust you and I can rest well knowing that.  Thank you."  He walked away, putting his hat back on, and shuffled to the elevator doors.  I watched him leave with such sadness in myself.
That night, after midnight, his Bride took her last breath. I was there.  Just like he wanted me to be.  Strange, how timing is...  I waited a while, (a moment or two as a gesture of respect for the dead), then I did the Tag, Bag and Drag routine we always did before a body was sent to the morgue. THIS time, the meaning of the routine for me was different.  I felt like I was truly preparing her body for a restfull sleep in peace.  I knew, she knew she was loved by a groom who didn't need children to prove their love... they had each other, and that was more than enough to fill the life they shared in undivided devotion.

To Know How To Ask

"I knew, she knew she was loved by a groom who didn't need children to prove their love... they had each other, and that was more than enough to fill the life they share."

Do any of us know how to ask for what we need?   You saw what we all need; it must exist. 


didn't need children to prove their love...

Kerry wrote:
"I knew, she knew she was loved by a groom who didn't need children to prove their love... they had each other, and that was more than enough to fill the life they shared in undivided devotion."

I had a father like that.  My father had a father like that.  Both were extremely devoted to their brides and cared for them in their last days.  My grandmother...     and my mom.

They didn't have children to prove their love.  They had children because they wanted to give their love away.  Or, maybe they were just horney.  Gawd forbid your parents were ever physically attracted to each other, much less your grandparents.   Ewwww.

Their love wasn't somehow dimished by their having children.

And while I also don't diminish his childless union, I'm also thinking that your 80+ year old groom would have made an excellent father.

Big D

My first-time exposure

I never had real-life examples of adoring love.  I had rules of obligation that were dictated to me, so seeing true love in a man's eyes, and sweetness in his touch for the woman that he loved -- it simply broke my frozen heart.

My favorite part of the story was how they used their desire to nurture children through the USO.  They shared their love with people of a younger generation, and they went to places [military bases] where kids were missing their parents and home... so in a way, this couple adopted a new-form of adaptation to multiple parenting.  In other words, they didn't need to own a person to help fulfill their need to nurture others.

they didn't need to own a person...

Kerry wrote:
In other words, they didn't need to own a person to help fulfill their need to nurture others.

Own a person?

Interesting choice of words.  Do you view all children (including your own) in terms of ownership?  Or does the term ownership apply exclusively to adopted children?

I'm not picking a fight, nor am I asking in a condescending tone.  Perhaps more than anyone else here, you've been very kind and welcoming to me. 


I will let the raw-side answer that...

I view my past as one that was purchased by people who wanted a child and bought one through a selling-agent.  Everything of "mine" was replaced and what remained was used to please the wants and needs of adults who wanted things from me I just didn't have (or want to give).   Every time I voiced a need that was very real to me, I got ignored, dismissed or told I should know better (or "don't expect so much").  In my case, I was finally discarded because I was no longer wanted or needed by those who wanted The Perfect Happy Daughter.

I was a possession, not a person.    Only in performance was I "the best".

Appropriate words

For me, "own a person" is an appropriate words.

The way my adoptive parents got me to build a family together was not different of the way people purchase a product.
And they way I was sent to them (by God, by destiny, by an adoption agency or by whatever else) was not different than the way a company send a product to a purchaser.

They shopped for a child
They found a store (adoption agency)
They ordered a child
They paid for a child. They bought one.
They made a contract.
The adoption agency sent them the child.
They became an owner of a child.

They didn't talk about return policy but they should have.

the difference

we here who are parents have seen both sides of this question.  we have been owned as children and (hopefully) we have not owned our own children.

when i became a parent, this was not a question to grapple with, because i was dealing with the basics - being an organism that reproduced and having something be dependent upon me.
i was not desperate for its love, i didn't even know what love was. how many people do?  i did not choose to have the child, so i was not (she was not) burdened by those expectations or desires.

as the thing became a person, i realized you can not own people.  that is the fundamental thing about person-ness.  it is entirely individual and owned by them alone.  all i could do was provide the basics, guidance, friendship, support, and protection.  and give it room to grow into itself.  i did not expect her to love me.  that she does, i believe, is out of the respect she has for me respecting her as an individual. 

ownership does not apply exclusively to adopted parents.  too many parents in the world view their children in the unfortunate terms of something from which to derive love, something which to further define themselves, and as an outlet for them to project their own unsatisfied needs upon. needing to give love is immediately suspect...  their parental insecurities impose ownership upon their children, dictating the direction their children are allowed to grow in order to facilitate satisfaction for the parent.  which is disrespectful of them as individuals, and which confines the children and limits their growth. 

it appears to be the rule, however, that adoptive parents appear to enter into parenthood with an exaggerated agenda of needs, further exacerbating this ownership model, often to an extreme degree. a degree so extreme they would purchase another human being.

as a person who respects children, i object to the notion of children being asked or forced to assume any role of filling their parents needs:

  • i believe this is psychological enslavement, because the child has no freedom to choose otherwise. 
  • i object to the unnatural acquisition of children to accomplish this. 
  • i believe this servitude is extremely damaging to little people.  though its effects can not yet be measured, we can at this time listen to the now mature twentieth century adoptees as we tell our stories and share our insights. 

i read somewhere that the term, "putting up for adoption" came from the early practice of putting orphans on a raised dias as they were displayed for something like auction.  has this practice really changed much?  we are still humans being sold in the most demeaning, impersonal, and disrespectful way.  we are still being bought and owned and forced to serve our owners by satisfying their emotional needs.  that we don't all recognize this is only a matter of time.  despite whether some of these ownerships are an improvement or not, it does not negate the barbarism of this practice and how it is facilitated.

thank you

i could write off my college experience as merely an exercise in stamina and a total waste of time.  until i heard ONE STORY that made my four years there all worthwhile.

this is such a story. 


thank you for sharing it was us.

I fear dying all alone too.

I fear dying all alone too. Do any of you think that you'll not end up with somebody you can truly trust and love?? Or just feel really really scared of this?? I do!

I used to feel VERY afraid

Back when I was closed-off to everyone around me, I feared death's slow painful process.  In my heart of hearts I knew no one really knew the real me, and the one most knew, even I didn't like!

I've been working really hard to reveal the inner-parts of me to those who show consistent acceptance.  It's not easy, but I am far less likely to believe I will be forced to suffer alone anymore.

life in vain

i do not fear death.  in fact, i embrace it.

what i fear is a life lived in vain. 

The one thing I have learned

The one thing I have learned here, recently, is to not require my kids to be my happiness.  This is so odd to me, yet I thank
all of you for showing this to me.  To let go and feel loneliness is showing me that there could be something more "out there."
It took me two years to see that 30 years of a damaged marriage had kept me in bondage and there really was NO ME...

"what i fear is a life lived in vain. "  Your words, almost_human, sum up my own fears right now.  When we have lived a life where it is demanded of us to be someone else's happiness; and then we can see how easy it would be to demand that same thing from another, it is time to think differently.  At one time my kids were my life and I lived life through their accomplishments.  One by one things have been taken from me.  I'm still alive.  I do not want to live the rest of my life in vain.

I've learned so much here and I'm so grateful for all the raw truth that helps me see.


thank you, teddy

it's really heartwarming to hear a parent here listening and absorbing and getting the intended message. 

all this time the past few weeks has not been in vain.
you make it all worth while.

Pound Pup Legacy