Can anybody find me?

I'd like to think there was a point in my life where I could go back to and say 'that was me', that is who I miss, and that is who I aspire to be again, but I can't, because I don't really know who I am. Where do you start in the search for yourself?

As the song goes, lets start at the very beginning. The sun shone brightly on the day I was born, the sky was blue and a gentel breeze rustled the leaves of the great oaks outside the bedroom window. The gentle song of the birds was broken by the sounds of a baby's cry ..... yeah right! Actually I don't know what the weather was like on the day I was born, or even if it was light or dark. I've never met anyone who could tell me as I was adopted out by my birth mother, and that was that.

Adoptions in the 50's - 60's were locked securely, I could rave for hours about the cruelness to both mother and child, but that will not help in my search for me, so I'll move on.

My new family exsisted of a father in his 40's, a mother in her 30's and a brother, adopted 16 months prior.
My plunket book describes me as a quiet and contented child until the age of 2 1/2. From that age onwards I had constant urinary infections and a 'angry' rash around my private parts, which was painted with gentian violet, to heal. (The imagery still makes me laugh). By the age of 5 I was covered in eczema, wet my bed at nights, bit my nails to quick, and developed a habit of pulling my own hair.

I remeber starting school, I loved learning and had a big quest for knowledge, but school wasn't easy for me. I didn't know how to talk or play with the other children. Everyone felt different to me, I felt like a little ailien and wasn't sure way, so would try even harder to get on. Sometimes this involved stealing things to give to other children to 'buy' friendship, I would do and say anything I could to try and be accepted. Telling lies became so easy, despite usually getting caught and punished, it didn't matter to me, just to have a friend for a short time made it worthwhile.

There was one girl, Sandra, she lived in the same street as I did, and although we never seemed to go to each others houses, we would often 'play' in the school ground together. Like me, she loved to draw, and so we would spend our time drawing our favourite things, body parts, especially the penis, soft or hard, it didn't matter, inserted in a vagina or in a mouth. There were just so many ways for we two little six year olds to draw these things.

Oh, we were often caught and punished for being rude. But no one ever stopped to ask just how a six year old would know so much about the sexual acts depicted in these childhood scribblings.

I often wonder where Sandra is now, and wonder why she was 'like' me, back then. Maybe these play times with here were what helped me to think my life was normal, they certainly helped ease any suggestion that what my home life was like, was wrong.

Looking back it was easy to see my mother had mental problems. She cleaned the house none stop, would fly into violent rages for little reason, and was often away receiving treatment from the local hospital . My brother and I were the targets of her anger. We received many bruises and scars from her outbursts, and yet, as a small child, I understood she never really meant to hurt us. She had so much to cope with, my bedwetting, as she reminded me caused never ending work, my brother was always fighting with other children, and a handful to care for, and then there was my father. A man that demanded the best from his wife, although quiet and a solitary figure at home, he could also be the life of a party in a crowd.

Dad spent most of his time in his bedroom with the door closed, or in the garage/workshop. His one parenting job with me was to place me on the toilet late at night (in the hopes of preventing a wet bed). I loved it when my Dad paid me attention, he would say really nice things, and tell me how pretty I was, sometimes he would call me his 'princess' and even give me chocolate fish, if I was good. Both he and my mother loved me visiting him in his workshop. Mum would often dress me in my party frock and send me down to play.

The games Dad and I would play were a secret, and as he said, special. I didn't mind what he did or where he touched me, sometimes it hurt a bit, but it never frightened me, because in my small mind this was love, the kind of love a parent gives their child, each time it happened, to me, in my lonely little world, it showed me someone cared. Dad loved to make me laugh, and smile, and I learned very quickly how to act and make him smile. I learned how to be a 'daddy's girl' for the price of a chocolate fish and a hug.

I was always confused by the violent punishment I would get from my mother after playing with my Dad. Even though she had sent me to see him, she seemed to always find some reason or other to hit me afterwards. usually she had found an item out of place in my immaculate bedroom, or discovered some lie I had told, money I had stolen and sometimes, there just seemed to be no reason at all. I would go to bed and cry and cry, and pray hard to 'god' to send my real mummy to get me, I was so sure she would be out there somewhere, looking for me, but until then I had my Dad, and he loved me so much.

One day when I was 11 it all stopped. My brother who was then 12, almost 13 had tried twice to kill himself by taking large amounts of mums pills. I guess the visits from Child Welfare had something to do with it, I don't really know, no one ever saw fit to tell me anything. All I know is, whatever happened, I blamed myself. If I hadn't wet my bed, my Mum wouldn't have had so much work to do, she wouldn't have got tired and beat my brother, who wouldn't have wanted to die. For me, it was all that simple, I was bad, born bad as my mother would often remind me in her rages. Bad to the bone and born that way .... and still I had the rest of my life to live.

Skipping my teenage years would be easy, but they are part of it, so I guess I need to record those incase there is a hint of 'me' in there.

To sum them up, my teenage years were a great big search, I was lost. At least as a child I had a place, a reason, no matter how wrong or disgusting it was, I had a reason to 'be'.

As a teenager I used the only skill I felt I had to try and find that reason again. I couldn't develop normal friendly relationships, but boy was I good at sexual relationships. For me it was the only way I knew how to communicate with people. At least in the arms of someone, no matter how superficial, it still felt like some sort of love.

At 19 I met a guy that was happy to hold me a little longer than the rest, he offered 'love', and when I got pregnant, he offered a gold ring. For me the chance to have my own family and be loved, felt like heaven. I over looked my husbands excessive drinking, his verbal and physical put downs (they felt like 'old times' I was used to them) There was a familiar feeling to this new relationship.

I struggled with motherhood. I had no real example to follow, and was determined to NEVER put my children through anything I had suffered.

Motherhood also bought a type of awakening to me. For the first time a realisation of what I had been submitted to as an child was wrong. The implications of my very existence, my adoption, the sexual abuse, the beatings, everything I had just absorbed before, suddenly started to hurt, with a kind of pain that just seemed to get bigger and bigger each day. The worse part was, it was just the beginning.

Bella, I don't have much to say but I send you a million hugs. I can't even start to imagine the things that you have been through

much love xx

lil_miss_haley wrote:Bella, I don't have much to say but I send you a million hugs. I can't even start to imagine the things that you have been through

much love xx

Thank you haley, I've never really written it all down before, I'm hoping by time I finish writing, I'll be able to know where to begin again. If you can understand what I mean.

Hi Bella, you are really brave writing your story the way you are. Like Haley, I couldn't even begin to imagine what life must have been like for you but wish you all the best the world has to offer. I look forward to interest to reading more of your story and you feel up to writing it. Lots and lots of hugs to you. Judy

Hi Bella, I hope writing your story helps the healing. Take care and huge hugs coming your way. Pam.

Hello Bella thank-you for sharing some of your life with us. I hope that writing your story helps (as you have mentioned) you find 'yourself'. Like the others that have posted here, I want to say that I am sorry that you have had to experience such abuse in your lifetime. I think that many of us can relate to some of the experiences you have had with this. I want to send you (((cyber hugs))) and please take special care of you. Becks. xx

hey Bella

Thank you for sharing the begining of finding you.

In many ways we have been through a similar tale, with different people - but the same actions.

I can empathise with what you are saying, and hope that this journal helps start the healing process as mine did for me.

Mine is still unfinished, as it takes time - but we will get there ay?

Again thank you so much for your words of encouragement.
After several years of therapy I have, ofcourse, told my story in parts many times. But never in one piece, and never without interruption from some therapist or other.

Right now I'm feeling all 'therapied' out. I'm sick of taking medications that just dull my world. I just want to be able to put it down, pick out the pieces I need to keep, and lay what remains to rest.

When I found this site, it seemed to me to be a safe place to do that, so thank you for letting me.

Hi again Bella,
I myself have been through huge amounts in my life, but I am here to tell you sweet, that you can in time put things to bed and move on, even to the point of being very happy. It can happen, takes work and courage, which you are showing you have, so keep up the soul searching and you will find peace. Sometimes we still fall, but once you have found yourself, you will be able to pick yourself up and dust yourself off, so much easier. Hugs and strenght to you. Pam.

I wanted so much to be a ‘normal’ Mum, wife, daughter etc. but I just didn’t know how. I found making friends so difficult, and keeping them was nearly impossible.
Looking back now, I was floundering in almost all aspects of my life.

I worked so hard to be normal. I volunteered for every committee that came up, worked tirelessly to support a number of causes. The busier I was at community events, the less time I had to stand and try and make conversation with people.

The only group I seemed to feel comfortable in were troubled teenagers. This difficult group I could understand.

My husband couldn’t understand me, any more than I could understand him. Married life was difficult at best and a nightmare at worst, but we muddled on. He had his own problems and I had no idea how to help him with them. Having babies seemed to provide some stability, and so we had four.

My fourth child was born with different colouring to my other children. This made me wonder about my birth family, so on a whim I decided to find out where I came from.
All my life I had imagined a mother out there somewhere, heart broken at having to give me up. I presumed she would welcome her long lost daughter with open arms, and adore the grandchildren she’d never met.

I applied for and received my original birth certificate very quickly. There was meant to be some counselling involved, but some how this was overlooked, and one day, the certificate arrived, and staring at me was the name of my mother, and her birth place… the very town I lived in.

Within an hour I knew exactly who she was, although she no longer lived in the town, her family did. I wrote to her, introducing myself, telling the good things about my life. I eagerly awaited a reply.

I didn’t have to wait long. The phone rang, a very curt and rough man introduced himself as a ‘cousin’. I was told to never write or contact my mother, she didn’t want to know me, she didn’t want to hear from me, and what’s more, if I tried to contact her, the police would be called. The reason given was that I was a product of rape, and had no right to know anything.

So that was that. To me it meant I was a total reject, I was hated from the moment of my conception. My fantasy of being conceived out of innocent love by two young lovers, were blasted to a million pieces. My dreams of a mother that had cried herself to sleep knowing that one day she would have to give up the baby growing inside her, were gone. There were no loving words said to me in the cosy warmth of the womb.
I was conceived in hate, willingly given away to anyone that would have me, to be used and abused, and rightly so, a child conceived by such a violent and hateful act could expect no more than what I had got.

One the first lessons I had learned in life was to never show your true feelings.
When life kicked you in the shins, stand straight, and for god’s sake don’t limp. Walk through the pain and soon you’ll be running, soon the bruise will disappear and no one else needs to feel the lump under your skin.

So I got on with life. Food, and excess became my friend. Lies and hidden feelings became my way of coping until the day my adoptive father died.

Dad had been ill for some time, and on this day he had phoned and asked me to visit. Something that was very rare for him to do. I can remember the day as though it had just happened, even though it was almost 20 years ago now. Since 11 years of age my father had barely spoken to me, as a family we did what we had to do to ‘keep up appearances’ but that was about it.

I sat on the sofa with Dad as his diseased lungs struggled for breath. He told me about their bank accounts, insurance policies etc, and instructions for things Mum would need to do, as he was no longer able leave the house and Mum had never done any of the family accounts. When he was finished he took my hand and looking at me, with tears in his eyes he said “ you never deserved what I did to you, I’m sorry ******* (a pet name he used for me as a little girl)”. I think I answered something like ‘it’s ok Dad’, don’t worry about it” or something similar. I was numb. I made some excuse to leave the house for a few minutes and came back to find my father had died in the short time I’d been away.

My mother, although reasonably health, died unexpectedly 8 weeks later.

I don’t remember a lot of those following months, except that I went from being a daughter, and a wife, to being a solo mother. My marriage fell apart when, for the first time I in my life, I reached out to someone for help, my husband, only to find he was unable to be there.

Being alone was a new challenge. One I didn’t mind at all. I loved being able to spend time by myself, with just my children to think of. I felt empowered by my new found freedom and made plans for my life. The first of which was to study.

I had been hopeless at school, I never did what I was told, I found it difficult to make friends, and later found it nothing but a convenient place to meet boys. I never listened in class, and spent more days wagging or in the bike shed, than in the classroom. It was a shocking surprise to everyone when I passed my school cert with flying colours. No one was more shocked than me! Obviously deep down there was some intelligence hiding and now as a single mum, I decided to tap into it.

Hello Bella, First, I need to say I'm really pleased you've found us on this site. Good on you for having the courage to tell us about yourself. Hopefully you will find coming here a good thing to do. We will be as supportive as possible (as you've already seen by the posts!)

No child should have to experience what you have. Horrendous abuse takes it's toll, epecially when a mother has colluded with the abuser.

Some of the others on TBBD will know I have found books very helpful and I see from your 'welcome' thread that you have had agoraphobia - have you read Dr Calire Weekes or Iris Barrow's books. They're very helpful. (I do know books are not for everyone!)

It seems to be very difficult to make the past BE the past, and have it not intrude on 'Today'. (From my experience!)

I'm waiting for your next installment to know what you did when you 'tapped into your intelligence' ....

Special hugs for you ....... Daze

Thank you for your kind words Daze,
Had a bad week and only just managed to find what it takes to get back in here.

Tapping the intelligence.... yep, should have been a good thing, and for most it would have been.

I have trouble with hugs, but can give you a smile. :-)

Hi Bella, sorry to hear you have had a bad week but so pleased that you have made it back. I am so looking forward to hearing the rest of your story when you feel up to continuing it. A huge smile to you if you are not comfortable with a hug. Take care.

Ok, the intelligence thing.
It felt fantastic for a while. My first essay scored an A+, and in my first year I had an average of A. How mind blowing it was.... for a while.
However, it wasn't long before the feelings of sucess felt 'strange'. My new found freedom and independence just didn't feel 'right'. Whilst on one hand I loved learning, on the other, everything seemed 'out of balance'.

I was on totally unfamiliar ground. There was no one to 'abuse' me. I had replaced my parent's abuse with inappropriate sexual behaviour as a teenager, and then with a husband who was emotionally and physically abusive.

As I moved on with my life, I thought I had changed enough to make a happy future for myself and my children.
I met a man that seemed very kind, he never yelled or called me names as my husband had. He was happy to do things for me, look after me, and give me attention, that had been lacking in my marriage. He was great with my children, quiet, and unassuming, like my Dad.

Oh boy, that alone should have rang alarm bells for me, but it didn't. Meeting him was like coming home, it felt familiar, although there was also an uneasy feeling. I was happy to have a relationship with him, but something prevented from making the move to live together, until 'fate' intervened. Thanks to some shoddy birth control I found myself pregnant. Some I most certainly did not want, but was too late to change.

It appeared my future had been determined, well, at least for a day or so, until the police came calling. My new man was taken away for questioning, and later charged with the indecent assault of two girls under the age of 12. Nine charges in total. All charges representative.

I'd like to say I felt disgust, anger, or at least something, but I didn't. I just went numb. Looking back I can see that my attraction to him was to find something familiar, I felt comfortable in his company, because I knew him, he was my father, just in a different body.

I didn't do anything, I don't really remember much about the next two years. I had the baby, he went to jail, did his time and was released on the grounds he lived with me. I still felt nothing, it was like I'd hung up a closed sign. I cooked, I cleaned, I looked after the children, but I didn't feel anything, until he was released from prison. And then I started to feel, repulsion, regret, hatred. Name a positive emotion and I felt it. All I wanted to do was escape, I couldn't stand being in the same room, let alone the same house as him. I didnt' trust him with my daughters, who despite only being 15 and 17, I sent away, so they weren't near him.

I went to work, leaving him there to look after our son. It got me out of the house for 12 hours a day. But soon that wasn't enough, so when an opportunity came to be seconded to another area, I took it. I couldn't get away fast enough.

Again, for the second time in my life I felt great. I was good at my job, which was incidently working with criminals, including sex offenders.

Sex offenders were people I could recognise. I could walk into a room and immediately know which ones they were. This helped with my career, and my career helped me ignore the fact I'd left my son where he shouldn't have been.

When my secondment ended I was faced with the possibility of having to go back. I just couldn't. I'd lost weight, I was fit, and I think I was happy. The six months I'd been gone were great, and I didn't want to give up that feeling.

An opportunity presented itself to move even further away and advance my career, so I took it. It meant I was miles away from my four oldest children, and anyone I knew, but I took the job anyway.