Blog 5
The Ongoing Saga
The two years following that first meeting with Sarah, my birth mother were difficult to say the least. I saw a counselor for about a year to try and work through the rejection and abandonment issues that had reared their heads, the deep sadness, and the feelings of unworthiness, and the reality that even my own mother didn't love me, or even care. That was a big one. The emotions that I experienced were quite surprising, shocking almost. It was a difficult time. I was juggling being a single parent, working full-time, owning a new home, paying a mortgage and generally being responsible when all I felt like doing was crawling into a ball in a corner and just taking a 'break'. But I couldn't. My son needed me, his uniform needed to be ironed, and his lunch made, and I had to go to work because I had a mortgage to pay etc. etc. etc. I worked through it the best I could. And eventually the pain became more manageable. They say time is a healer, but maybe it just numbs the pain to a certain extent.
Now I know that this may seem ridiculous to some, but two years after meeting and being rejected by Sarah, I asked to meet with her again. Yes, I wanted to open that can of worms again. Was I brave or stupid? Probably both. I felt I needed to try and find out more, particularly about my biological father, as I knew that that was the key to finding out about my cultural heritage. I also wanted her to know that I forgave her for giving me up as a baby. After having my own son, I had gained a new respect for her and the strength that she would have needed to give her child up for adoption. I never would have been able to do that. Anyway, she agreed to meet me again and at least this time I was a bit more prepared and knew what to expect from her.
We met in a cafe and unbeknownst to her, I had brought a friend, who sat at another table. Despite knowing what I was in for, I still felt anxious and emotional and was so grateful to have his support at the time. We arrived first and the five or so minutes I waited for her to arrive felt like five hours. When she did arrive I was met with that coldness I had experienced two years prior. She sat down tentatively, as though she were about to flee, so I knew that this meeting wouldn't take long.
I got straight down to business. I wanted to know more about my father. The story she proceeded to tell me not only shocked me, but made me angry. Angry at the lengths she was going to to keep the truth about my father and my heritage from me. This time she told me that my father was Australian and that he worked at Mitsubishi in Adelaide, South Australia. She had clearly forgotten that at the time of my birth she had documented a different story and that only two years prior, she had told me another version in that he was British and in the Army. It suddenly dawned on me that she was incapable of telling me the truth. I wasn't sure if it was the trauma of giving up a child or something else. But I knew in that moment that I was never going to get the truth from this woman who felt like a complete stranger to me, totally devoid of any warmth or concern about me, her own daughter.
I proceeded to tell her that I forgave her for giving me up as a baby and that I would like to see her again. Was I a glutton for punishment?? Maybe, but I thought that she might change her mind about me one day. She didn't respond to being 'forgiven' and then she told me in no uncertain terms that this would be the last time we saw each other and left.
Thankfully, my friend was there and I was able to contain my emotions, well, at least while we were in public. The interesting thing is that my friend actually recognised Sarah and told me that he played football with her two sons. Wow! He didn't know them well but he did know them. I left the cafe that day with a feeling of defeat, knowing that my one and only chance of knowing anything about my father had just walked out the door for the last time. My mother had had three opportunities at that stage, to tell me the truth about my heritage at least, even if she didn't want me to know anything about my father, she could have at least told me where he was from, but she chose not to. She held all the power which I had absolutely no control over.
Rejection number 3.
The Ongoing Saga
The two years following that first meeting with Sarah, my birth mother were difficult to say the least. I saw a counselor for about a year to try and work through the rejection and abandonment issues that had reared their heads, the deep sadness, and the feelings of unworthiness, and the reality that even my own mother didn't love me, or even care. That was a big one. The emotions that I experienced were quite surprising, shocking almost. It was a difficult time. I was juggling being a single parent, working full-time, owning a new home, paying a mortgage and generally being responsible when all I felt like doing was crawling into a ball in a corner and just taking a 'break'. But I couldn't. My son needed me, his uniform needed to be ironed, and his lunch made, and I had to go to work because I had a mortgage to pay etc. etc. etc. I worked through it the best I could. And eventually the pain became more manageable. They say time is a healer, but maybe it just numbs the pain to a certain extent.
Now I know that this may seem ridiculous to some, but two years after meeting and being rejected by Sarah, I asked to meet with her again. Yes, I wanted to open that can of worms again. Was I brave or stupid? Probably both. I felt I needed to try and find out more, particularly about my biological father, as I knew that that was the key to finding out about my cultural heritage. I also wanted her to know that I forgave her for giving me up as a baby. After having my own son, I had gained a new respect for her and the strength that she would have needed to give her child up for adoption. I never would have been able to do that. Anyway, she agreed to meet me again and at least this time I was a bit more prepared and knew what to expect from her.
We met in a cafe and unbeknownst to her, I had brought a friend, who sat at another table. Despite knowing what I was in for, I still felt anxious and emotional and was so grateful to have his support at the time. We arrived first and the five or so minutes I waited for her to arrive felt like five hours. When she did arrive I was met with that coldness I had experienced two years prior. She sat down tentatively, as though she were about to flee, so I knew that this meeting wouldn't take long.
I got straight down to business. I wanted to know more about my father. The story she proceeded to tell me not only shocked me, but made me angry. Angry at the lengths she was going to to keep the truth about my father and my heritage from me. This time she told me that my father was Australian and that he worked at Mitsubishi in Adelaide, South Australia. She had clearly forgotten that at the time of my birth she had documented a different story and that only two years prior, she had told me another version in that he was British and in the Army. It suddenly dawned on me that she was incapable of telling me the truth. I wasn't sure if it was the trauma of giving up a child or something else. But I knew in that moment that I was never going to get the truth from this woman who felt like a complete stranger to me, totally devoid of any warmth or concern about me, her own daughter.
I proceeded to tell her that I forgave her for giving me up as a baby and that I would like to see her again. Was I a glutton for punishment?? Maybe, but I thought that she might change her mind about me one day. She didn't respond to being 'forgiven' and then she told me in no uncertain terms that this would be the last time we saw each other and left.
Thankfully, my friend was there and I was able to contain my emotions, well, at least while we were in public. The interesting thing is that my friend actually recognised Sarah and told me that he played football with her two sons. Wow! He didn't know them well but he did know them. I left the cafe that day with a feeling of defeat, knowing that my one and only chance of knowing anything about my father had just walked out the door for the last time. My mother had had three opportunities at that stage, to tell me the truth about my heritage at least, even if she didn't want me to know anything about my father, she could have at least told me where he was from, but she chose not to. She held all the power which I had absolutely no control over.
Rejection number 3.
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