While I was growing up in the midwest, I did not have much memories of life before my adoption. I was adopted when I was five years old along with my biological sister. My adoptive family felt uncomfortable talking about my "previous life" and when you are thrust into a new family, you just listen and obey. I actually began to forget. I remember at the age of eight maybe?, laying in bed and trying to remember my birth mom's face and I couldn't remember. I don't really know what my father looked like, but I remember how secure I felt when I was with him. Strange, uh? I do distinctly remember loving our younger brother. My sister would hold him on her hip (at the age of six) and hold my hand as we crossed the street. What were we doing across the street? Looking in the junk yard for stuff. One of my strongest memories that I had never forgotten was getting run over by a motorcycle. Broke my leg, but I don't remember the pain of that, I only remember the fear that I'd get beaten because I peed my pants. Some of the most secure memories were helping my dad in his shop with my leg in a cast.
My father died in a fishing accident when I was four. I'm not sure if this a correct memory, but I think I remember sitting on the bank and looking at the sky while he fished. I was mad because I couldn't go with him. Well, he couldn't swim. If I couldn't swim, I wouldn't let my children in the boat either. I don't remember exactly what happened but I do remember not knowing what to do when I didn't see him. And I knew that I'd get a beating when I got home.
My mother gave up her children to the orphange later that year. Orphanage life is hard. Of course, I was a bit lively. I tried to find my brother upstairs where they kept the babies but I couldn't find him. It wasn't until years later that I began to put the pieces together.
Then we were adopted and life got better. We were loved in a quiet, soft way. It was never spoken. Life went on. I fought with my american brother, went to gymnastics, and played sports.
During my high school years, I think I was depressed but wasn't diagnosed. I tried to convince my dad that I needed to see someone, but he wouldn't hear of it. That was the first time that I thought I'd rather be dead. I curled up on the kitchen floor (Everyone left to go to brother's game) holding a long kitchen knife. After I had no more tears and my stomach hurt from crying so hard, I put back the knife. Later that night, my dad asked if I felt better. I nodded, but I was deeply hurt. I struggled through school and met my future husband and went to college because he was. Life was getting better.
My birth mom decided she wanted to be in my life again when I was 20. I was newly married and going to college. I felt rage. I was angry. I would go to sleep hating her and wake up hating her. She should have no right to give us up and then barge right back into my life whenever she chose. I felt like my foundation was crumbing. It took two months to come to terms with what was happening and finally signed the affidavit that allowed communication between us. She was so sorry. I was hating her more. She wrote that she remarried about a year after we were given up and went on to have a family and another child. Screw her!!! While I struggled with my new adopted family and life as an American, she was living fine....and with my younger brother. She kept him! Why??!! Why us and not him!!! Damn her, damn him, and damn everyone else.
The first time I thought maybe we were abused was my sister and I talked on a long car ride. I think I was 23. I distictly remember her saying that aborting a child that is for sure going to be molested is a good thing, so therefore she was prochoice, and I was prolife. (Just a little riff there) I flat out asked her if she remembers anything about our history and she only said that she knows that something terrible, horrible happened to us. She would not elaborate. I was in tears by the time the car ride ended.
During college ( and thereafter), I worked at a hospital helping doctors deliver babies. It was a great position and a lot of fun. I had a keen interest in this arena of medicine, almost an obsession. During one delivery in July of 2004, a woman gave birth naturally to a boy. I was attending and for some reason, I had sharp pains in my private area during the delivery, like I was having the baby....what was going on? I had just had a baby about four months before so I thought I should go see my doctor. Everyone at work noticed that I couldn't even walk straight. I was hunched over and even my thighs hurt.
The next morning was my first memory. It was very clear. I had an elbow on my back, hand grabbing my hair, and my hands held down. I was on my stomach and I was in terrible pain. I tried so hard to keep my legs together, but he was so strong. The man had on a black shirt, and jeans that would make that zip noise when he zipped up his pants. I remember a threat....but I don't remember the words. I'm sure words were exchanged, but having no memory of my previous language erased that from the memory. I knew who he was instantly. He was my father's brother, my uncle. He was also the man that ran me over with the motorcycle...coincidence? I think not. That was it. Short, but intense. I think it was like ten seconds long. I thought I was going CRAZY.
I kept this to myself for about three days then I finally came out and told my husband. Remarkably, he was not surprised. At this point I felt terrible. I couldnt' sleep, but I wasn't awake either, and I was really heading down hill fast. When my heart started to race and I thought I was going to die because I couldn't get enough air, I finally got through to a doctor friend. She set me up for an appointment with a therapist in TWO WEEKS. I thought for sure I was going to be dead by then. I don't think I can handle another memory!! But more kept coming.
There has been about a dozen so far. Most are beatings, some are just pain, a couple are horrible.....
I went to see the therapist who told me I had PTSD. I'm like, "I'm not a war veteran." When I got home that night, I studied. Apparently my case is somewhat controversial. Some people don't think the memories have any merit...because how can you forget something like that? I kind of agree. If I had a proper, adult, coherent mind, I probably wouldn't forget. But as a three to five year old? Besides, my therapist never "suggested" I was abused, I came to her telling her my memory. I struggled with the reality of the memory. Did it happen? or am I just being Drama Queen like my family used to call me, (and still do.) I still struggle with that because there is no way to validate. By this time, my birth mom and I had dropped communication. I don't think she would ever tell me anyway. Korean culture is much different.
One thing is for sure. I know now why my birth mom decided to give my sister and I up for adoption. We were vunerable against my uncle after my father died. Women don't have the same rights there as they do here. I feel that she thought that was the only option. She kept my brother because he was not harmed. So....she knew it was happening and didn't do anything....or did she and she was abused too? I don't know. I do know this for sure....she sacrificed her life as a mother to her precious girls so that they can live without ever being abused by "him" again. I have two little girls....I can't imagine what that would be like, walking away from the orphanage and letting fate take over.....(shivers up my spine, and a tear in my eye)
I was put on drugs to sedate me. And boy was I sedated. I couldn't do anything but sleep. And if I slept, I'd have nightmares. I was a horrible mother....and not much of a wife either. I couldn't do anything.
I tried to stay at my job, but it was getting difficult. I didn't enjoy it anymore. Life was altered, my axis changed, I was violated. I'd hide in a corner to try to "ground" myself when I thought for sure my heart was going to stop. If I heard one woman groan in pain from childbirth, I felt like I had to run to save my life. I couldn't stand it. So I quit a few months later and tried to heal.
I'm a take charge kind of person, so I wanted a quick recovery. F**K the six years to recover or never recover and just live with it. I was going to recover!! I was never hospitalized, but I should have been. Having sedation pills right there, although that wasn't how I envisioned my suicide. I wanted to bleed...cause I deserve it. Slow death, flowing blood. The only reason I am still here on this earth is because when I got those feelings, I would remember my children. I couldn't do that to them. My husband was wonderful although he missed the absence of a sex life. I was fearful of the next memory. I had no control over it. My daughter would clap her hands and I would have a memory of being beaten. I logged all my memories in a diary. I haven't opened it in a long time. I lived life that way. In fear. I felt like I was a failure. And life was so good before this happened!! I was happy. Precisely. I was stable for the first time in my life and my mind decided now was the time. That SUCKS. So whenever I felt a little bit better, I'd have another memory. I thought for sure the cloud would never lift.
My therapist began to tell me the pattern it took for me to get to this point. The fact that I was "rejected" as a child and thrust into a family I didn't know. My family didn't want me to have counseling, and they couldn't love me the way I wanted to be loved (secondary wounding). They never said so. I felt that my sister was miss perfect, and my brother, well he's their blood born son, that explains alot. All of that coupled with bad sex experiences in high school (date raped during my sophomore year, but I feel like it was no big deal), I was not getting what I needed and getting what I didn't need. I was set up to have PTSD.
To this day, I still struggle. I still cry, and I'm still on meds. I'm obsessed about natural childbirth. It's like if I can conquer the pain of childbirth, then I can beat him! HA! That didn't hurt!! Because I'm strong!! How crooked. With both of my children I tried to go naturally but failed both times. And I'm sure with the next one, when ever that will be, I will try again. But this time, I know why I'm doing it....not just some hidden force that was willing me to be in pain and to endure it. Still a little crooked...uh?
So that's my story. Right now, I am feeling way good. I'm taking a different med after I tried to quit previous meds but relapsed into depression a few months later. (So don't quit!) Life is good. I'm a stay at home mom now, I finally quit my job..., and I'm renovating my house and having fun. It's weird. Sometimes I'll wake up in the morning with motivation to be up and doing things. I'm thinking, "This is what normal people feel like." It's so much easier to live life when you have energy and drive to do so. BTW, my sex life is better than ever. There are so many good things that came out of the ugly beast (PTSD), but that is one that I really enjoy! (my hubby too.) :smile:
I'm slowly learning how to love and trust. My children have a better mother and my husband has a better wife, and my friends have a better friend. First you cope, then heal, then conquer. I believe I'm nearing that conquer stage. During the worst part of PTSD is horrible...but hang in there, the rewards can be great.
I shared this story today so that it may help others...and in return, it helps me too. It's a win, win. I sympathize, and empathize those that are going through the the depths of hell....keep talking, keep going, it does get better....
Nam
