Birth

I was conceived on Valentine’s Day of 1966 during a romantic candlelit evening between my birth mother and birth father, or rather, ‘sperm donor’ as I like to refer to him. Cupid struck by letting his sperm hit her egg that would become me. On a day of love. The days following would be tough for my birth mother and for me.  There wasn’t much love at all going on for us.

The story of my birth mother is a good story with a great ending, but the middle sucks. Sound familiar? It’s a lot like most of our stories. We all have junk and imperfections and things we would prefer that other people not know, but it’s in the sharing that we realize that we’re all in this together. This is part of my story.

It was a closed adoption.  My birth-mother says that it was a miserable existence at the ‘home’ she was sent to for the last part of her pregnancy. I can’t even imagine.  I know her now.  And she is lovely – I hate that she had to go through what she did.  She had to give me away.  Was forced to.

I was driven home to Dallas in a big, floaty Cadillac, held in my new mother’s arms.  I’m told I got the hiccups as they drove from Ft. Worth to Dallas.  I had a nurse who took care of me as a baby.  We had a housekeeper that took care of the house.  Gardeners, hair-stylists, and makeup artists were in and out all the time.

I had an older sister.  She was/is their biological child.  Then they had trouble conceiving another baby, so they adopted me.  The next year they became pregnant with my younger sister.  I always, and will always, feel like they love them more.  I know that isn’t true though.  I have a feeling they don’t love anybody; not even themselves.  My parents were/are damaged people.  Rich, damaged people, but truly fucked up.  Someone made them that way.  It’s a cycle.  I’m breaking it.

Growing up in a certain class in the south, especially Texas, you use place mats, chargers, and sometimes runners, because your Waterford, and china look so beautiful against the wood of your table, that it should always show through.  You don’t leave the house without makeup.  You maintain a certain weight.  You attend the right parties, and schools, and church.  Even if what is happening in your home is crazy, abusive, and sick.  That was what I was taught was important.  Image management.  How things look.  And people. What the outside world sees.  Perfectionism.  As Brene Brown says, “Vulnerability is about showing up and being seen. It’s tough to do that when we’re terrified about what people might see or think.”  I’m just now learning to do this.

There are some things you can look at your whole life and never see, and there are others that you can look at for one moment and they are burned in your brain forever.

Something innate within us causes us to want to show the world who we are inside, and at the same time the world pushes back and says become like everybody else; don’t stand out, don’t make noise, don’t rock the boat. We are like zombies. We are all unique and we are all scared to show who we really are inside. We are afraid that people will shun us, or even hate us for who we are – the part we don’t show.  I learned from my parents how and what to hide, and what we would show the world.  I am now fearlessly authentic.  And getting more so every day. I am birthing myself.

My father –

In college he met the girl that would change the course of his life.  She was money on two legs, a scarf tied around her neck, short blonde hair, coiffed to perfection, and lips that smiled without showing teeth because even with all the money she had, her teeth were just a tad crooked, and she was ashamed of them.  Her vanity kept her from smiling, and eating.  She intended to be a wisp of a girl well into old-age.

They married in ’58.  He hit the jackpot. And she married a man like her abusive father.

He entered a world of business and wealth, brushing shoulders with future presidential candidates, billion dollar business owners, and all the other young upstarts making their way in Dallas in the 1960s.  The air was full of static electricity as people would pass by these men, and their wives to get a refill on their martini or Chablis (the Pinot Grigio of 1960).

Designer dresses on the ladies were worn and appraised by each woman in the room.  Cigarettes, and smoke lingered everywhere like fire mist in the air.

My parents began playing a dangerous game of wealth, sex, drugs, and hedonism.  It was the 60s.  They were rebels, and reformed hippies.  Or, maybe not so reformed.  Children were not seen, or heard.  We were barely even noticed on a day to day basis, unless it was in a way we didn’t want to be noticed.

I watched, and listened, and tried to figure out my world.  It was impossible.  I was too young to understand what their world was.  I just know it scared me.  My father became a powerful, and successful business owner, while my mother had her own money.  They kept spending, and partying like it would never end.  My sisters and I were raised by nannies and housekeepers.

I wanted to hear from my parents that I was special.  I wanted them to love me.  They didn’t.  They couldn’t.  They were too mesmerized by the social world of Big D.  I can’t say that I didn’t have everything I wanted; I did.  I had clothes, and pets, horseback riding lessons, theater and voice lessons, a country club (THE Country Club), a great allowance, the best schools, but I wasn’t loved.

I never felt extraordinary.  Or even mediocre.  I felt alone.  So, I looked for love in too many of the wrong places.  Men, drugs, stripping, driving fast, anything to give me an adrenaline rush.  I think back on my younger self and wonder how I survived.

“Extraordinary” – Ms. Liz Phair

You think that I go home at night
Take off my clothes, turn out the lights
But I burn letters that I write
To you, to make you love me Yeah, I drive naked through the park
And run the stop sign in the dark
Stand in the street, yell out my heart
To make, to make you love me I am extraordinary, if you’d ever get to know me
I am extraordinary, I am just your ordinary
Average every day sane psycho
Supergoddess
Average every day sane psycho

You may not believe in me
But I believe in you
So I still take the trash out
Does that make me too normal for you?

So dig a little deeper, cause
You still don’t get it yet
See me lickin’ my lips, need a primitive fix
And I’ll make, I’ll make you love me

I am extraordinary, if you’d ever get to know me
I am extraordinary, I am just your ordinary
Average every day sane psycho
Supergoddess
Average every day sane psycho
Supergoddess

See me jump through hoops for you
You stand there watching me performing
What exactly do you do?
Have you ever thought it’s you that’s boring?
Who the hell are you?

I am extraordinary, if you’d ever get to know me
I am extraordinary, I am just your ordinary
Average every day sane psycho
Supergoddess
Average every day sane psycho

Average every day sane psycho
Supergoddess
Average every day sane psycho

Average every day sane psycho
Supergoddess
Average every day sane psycho

Average every day sane psycho

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s