Primal Wound
In my never ending quest for self-awareness and understanding, I’ve been going back to the issue of adoption. I stumbled across an email I was not supposed to see between some of my in-laws. In it, they were pondering the sources of my pain and wondering how far back my problem went and did it even start before I self-mutilated in college. The fact that too many people are discussing subjects that shouldn’t concern them is a topic for another discussion…so let me pretend that this email was okay and move on with the “source of my pain” discussion.
My first reaction was, “Geesh, of course my ‘issues’ go back further than just college, or high school…there had to be something within me to even give me a propensity towards inflicting violent pain on myself.” I went backward through the years and thought about milestones in my life…mostly negative ones as those are the ones that tend to shape anyone’s “issues” and/or “depression.” It led me back to the very beginning when I was separated immediately from my birth mother. The entire first month of my life was spent in a foster home. While I’m sure this person was a loving person (or at least I like to think so), it wasn’t my mother. As soon as I was born, I was taken. I’m not sure if she even got to hold me. I haven’t asked her that question. Then after being put into a foster person’s arms, one month later I was given to the people I now call my parents. Three rather traumatic events happened to me within the first month of my life. 1. Birth 2. Initial separation and foster care, and 3. another move into my parent’s home.
I was lamenting to a friend the other day after viewing hundreds (yes, hundreds) of pictures of their baby that I have no pictures of me prior to one month old. Well, I take that back, I think the foster mother took a couple of pictures of me to give to my parents. But I have never seen a picture of my natural mother pregnant with me. I never saw a picture of her in the hospital. I’ve never seen a newborn picture of me. And really, nothing until my parents took me home two days before Christmas.
I suppose many people who might be reading this are thinking, “For crying out loud! Talk about trying to find something to blame.” Let me address that. I read an interesting article about the “Primal Wound” or the initial separation between a mother and her baby. I came across an article with this commentary…
“Many people worry that the notion of the primal would fosters victim status in birthparents and adoptees. I propose that it simply acknowledges an existing condition through which we often already feel like victims! This same misperception is seen in adoptive parents’ worries about how traumatic the telling about his or her adoption might be to their child, without any consideration given to the fact that the adoptee was there, and felt it when it happened! (If you have any doubts as to what babies—even before birth—feel, sense and know, there is plenty of research available.) To try and pick oneself up by the bootstraps and ‘get on with it’ before having the chance to lick one’s wounds, to even see one’s wounds, that is when one’s life vitality is siphoned off, by any of myriad defensive coping mechanisms, by over-whelming feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, depression, and sometimes by thoughts—or more than thoughts—of suicide.”
Another article I read had this to say…
"The adoptee is often given very little information about her relinquishment. She is expected to leave the past behind and concentrate on her present and future. Out of respect for the adoptive parents, she will often not ask questions or talk about her adoption if it is an uncomfortable subject in her home. She will wonder about her relinquishment and her birth mother. To attempt to fill in the gaps she will create fantasies of acceptable scenarios of the circumstances of her conception, birth and relinquishment, that she can emotionally handle.”
I have often had a problem with the “chosen” child story. My well-meaning parents often said things like that or another common one “You were born from my heart.” I never quite knew why and in some respects still don’t, but to hear the word “chosen” on the other end means rejected. Not only that, but what does chosen in this context really mean? And really, that in and of itself is a misnomer. They didn’t get to pick me really. I was given to them.
As a result, I think I developed a perfectionism attitude that I need to live up to my “special status.” For a very long time, I played the part well. I grew up in a nice, Christian home where certain values were encouraged and enforced. I remember often feeling very guilty growing up. My mother took it as a personal affront to her as a mother if I misbehaved or acted outside the realm of what was behaviorally acceptable. I remember one time she asked, “What did I do wrong?” So, I began going out of my way to hide any infractions. I was “special” and I was “chosen” and my mom was personally devastated by my mistakes. I also felt guilty if I displayed a personality different from my parents or acted in ways they did not, or had talents neither of them understood. My mom likes to tell me how similar we are and that we are “on the same page.” She has especially taken to this recently. In reality, we are not similar. This is not something to be frowned on, but celebrated. I have thought for a long time that I get along with my parents better than most people get along with theirs because I AM adopted. I do not have the same genetic make-up and therefore can come at them and relate to them in friendship as opposed to a forced genetic connection. I love my parents out of choice, not because I have to. I think that is a beautiful thing…
Anyway, going back to what started this discussion in the first place… I am just now, at 26 years of age, grieving what happened to me when I was born and coming to grips with the issues that have been an undercurrent throughout my life: feelings of not belonging, perfectionism, a propensity towards self-blame and harm, difficulty identifying and communicating negative emotions and fear of truly being myself. I think that despite the well-intentioned people in my lives from start to finish, I have never felt free to just be myself. I have a different genetic make-up than the family who raised me, yet I have felt the need to conform to their social, familial and social structure and therefore denying some of my natural tendencies. Deep rooted feelings of abandonment paralyze moving forward to true emotional intimacy. Fear of rejection causes me to hide a lot of myself from people. And finally, a constant drive to be perfect nearly sending me over the edge and has left me traumatized.
I don’t know if any of this is necessarily makes sense. Maybe it sounds hokey… But I think there are a lot of things that happen to people and leave emotional scars that are never acknowledged and therefore, continue to be a problem throughout life with no understanding as to why. I see exploring this not as a blame game to continue destructiveness towards self or others, but as a way to recognize all parts of my life and experiences that have made me who I am so I can make progress towards healing and making lasting changes.
My first reaction was, “Geesh, of course my ‘issues’ go back further than just college, or high school…there had to be something within me to even give me a propensity towards inflicting violent pain on myself.” I went backward through the years and thought about milestones in my life…mostly negative ones as those are the ones that tend to shape anyone’s “issues” and/or “depression.” It led me back to the very beginning when I was separated immediately from my birth mother. The entire first month of my life was spent in a foster home. While I’m sure this person was a loving person (or at least I like to think so), it wasn’t my mother. As soon as I was born, I was taken. I’m not sure if she even got to hold me. I haven’t asked her that question. Then after being put into a foster person’s arms, one month later I was given to the people I now call my parents. Three rather traumatic events happened to me within the first month of my life. 1. Birth 2. Initial separation and foster care, and 3. another move into my parent’s home.
I was lamenting to a friend the other day after viewing hundreds (yes, hundreds) of pictures of their baby that I have no pictures of me prior to one month old. Well, I take that back, I think the foster mother took a couple of pictures of me to give to my parents. But I have never seen a picture of my natural mother pregnant with me. I never saw a picture of her in the hospital. I’ve never seen a newborn picture of me. And really, nothing until my parents took me home two days before Christmas.
I suppose many people who might be reading this are thinking, “For crying out loud! Talk about trying to find something to blame.” Let me address that. I read an interesting article about the “Primal Wound” or the initial separation between a mother and her baby. I came across an article with this commentary…
“Many people worry that the notion of the primal would fosters victim status in birthparents and adoptees. I propose that it simply acknowledges an existing condition through which we often already feel like victims! This same misperception is seen in adoptive parents’ worries about how traumatic the telling about his or her adoption might be to their child, without any consideration given to the fact that the adoptee was there, and felt it when it happened! (If you have any doubts as to what babies—even before birth—feel, sense and know, there is plenty of research available.) To try and pick oneself up by the bootstraps and ‘get on with it’ before having the chance to lick one’s wounds, to even see one’s wounds, that is when one’s life vitality is siphoned off, by any of myriad defensive coping mechanisms, by over-whelming feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, depression, and sometimes by thoughts—or more than thoughts—of suicide.”
Another article I read had this to say…
"The adoptee is often given very little information about her relinquishment. She is expected to leave the past behind and concentrate on her present and future. Out of respect for the adoptive parents, she will often not ask questions or talk about her adoption if it is an uncomfortable subject in her home. She will wonder about her relinquishment and her birth mother. To attempt to fill in the gaps she will create fantasies of acceptable scenarios of the circumstances of her conception, birth and relinquishment, that she can emotionally handle.”
I have often had a problem with the “chosen” child story. My well-meaning parents often said things like that or another common one “You were born from my heart.” I never quite knew why and in some respects still don’t, but to hear the word “chosen” on the other end means rejected. Not only that, but what does chosen in this context really mean? And really, that in and of itself is a misnomer. They didn’t get to pick me really. I was given to them.
As a result, I think I developed a perfectionism attitude that I need to live up to my “special status.” For a very long time, I played the part well. I grew up in a nice, Christian home where certain values were encouraged and enforced. I remember often feeling very guilty growing up. My mother took it as a personal affront to her as a mother if I misbehaved or acted outside the realm of what was behaviorally acceptable. I remember one time she asked, “What did I do wrong?” So, I began going out of my way to hide any infractions. I was “special” and I was “chosen” and my mom was personally devastated by my mistakes. I also felt guilty if I displayed a personality different from my parents or acted in ways they did not, or had talents neither of them understood. My mom likes to tell me how similar we are and that we are “on the same page.” She has especially taken to this recently. In reality, we are not similar. This is not something to be frowned on, but celebrated. I have thought for a long time that I get along with my parents better than most people get along with theirs because I AM adopted. I do not have the same genetic make-up and therefore can come at them and relate to them in friendship as opposed to a forced genetic connection. I love my parents out of choice, not because I have to. I think that is a beautiful thing…
Anyway, going back to what started this discussion in the first place… I am just now, at 26 years of age, grieving what happened to me when I was born and coming to grips with the issues that have been an undercurrent throughout my life: feelings of not belonging, perfectionism, a propensity towards self-blame and harm, difficulty identifying and communicating negative emotions and fear of truly being myself. I think that despite the well-intentioned people in my lives from start to finish, I have never felt free to just be myself. I have a different genetic make-up than the family who raised me, yet I have felt the need to conform to their social, familial and social structure and therefore denying some of my natural tendencies. Deep rooted feelings of abandonment paralyze moving forward to true emotional intimacy. Fear of rejection causes me to hide a lot of myself from people. And finally, a constant drive to be perfect nearly sending me over the edge and has left me traumatized.
I don’t know if any of this is necessarily makes sense. Maybe it sounds hokey… But I think there are a lot of things that happen to people and leave emotional scars that are never acknowledged and therefore, continue to be a problem throughout life with no understanding as to why. I see exploring this not as a blame game to continue destructiveness towards self or others, but as a way to recognize all parts of my life and experiences that have made me who I am so I can make progress towards healing and making lasting changes.
posted by Self Therapy | 7:20 AM
2 Comments:
And I totally agree with your conclusion in this post. It is a process of self-discovery and in some cases re-creation. You have every right to the feelings you expressed. If I didn't know better, I'd say you raised Catholic too! You would be an interesting person to dialogue with over the adoption subject. I am also going to bet that your aparents were a "hands off" kind of parents. That is not a lot of hugs and kisses, but I could be wrong.
Actually, my parents were incredibly affectionate. I really don't know where I get some of my guilt complex. Well, I suppose it could be some from being raised in a more fundamentalist religious environment. Either that or perfectionism is in the genes...
Interesting enough, both of my biological half-sisters have similar issues. The older one was anorexic and the younger had problems with cutting.
Post a Comment
<< Home