Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Bruised

I’m feeling bruised. Not literally (although the BH has move me up from Never-a-sex-bomb to Novice-sex-bomb), but emotionally, like I’ve been through some drama or upset. There’s no reason for it (apart from a dead grandmother I’ll explain about in a minute) and I can only assume my dreams weren’t pukka last night.

And going into town first thing didn’t help. It was quiet enough, but knocking a stack of cups and saucers off a shelf was traumatic! And who in their right mind puts these things on the bottom shelf where your bags might hit them inadvertently?! Thankfully the only thing damaged was my pride as I hurriedly stacked them up again and grinned at the man next to me.

But back to dead Grandmothers. Apparently mine died a week ago yesterday. I only got called yesterday, so I don’t think anyone is wanting me at the funeral. In fact the person telling me, made a point of saying it was just close family going and I suppose I should be grateful he thought to call.

And it’s not like I knew her. Only met her once. At her youngest daughter’s funeral, nearly eight years ago to the day. Her youngest daughter was my mother.

Geeze how I hate using that word (mother, in case you’re already confused). I could add ‘biological’ in front to make the point that she wasn’t anything other than host. Do I sound cold? I don’t mean to, it’s just there aren’t any suitable words for a person who just gives birth to you, but nothing else.

Funny but of late I’ve been wondering about whether to continue this blogging lark, but I didn’t want to stop till I’d told this story. I suppose more for me than anyone else. But it’s not an easy subject to get in to, though things like birth and death days come around – but how and where do you start? I guess here, with my biological- grandmother dying.

She had a good innings, made it to eighty-nine and only lost her husband three years ago. At least I think that’s a good innings, after a world war and four kids. No doubt broke her heart to bury one though. I spoke with her at that funeral. Her and her husband, my biological-grandfather. He didn’t say a lot, but then he’d probably long figured out he was blamed by my biological-mother for my adoption. But I didn’t blame him, but neither did I tell him that. When I was there she asked for a picture of me and my son (my last three weren’t yet born, though I was pregnant with P). I thought maybe it meant they had some interest in me. That maybe the family stayed away because my biological-mother had still been angry, but she's dead and they could have written or phoned occasionally if they’d really wanted to know me.

That funeral was weird. My mother’s husband (not my biological-father) invited me, and on the morning, after visiting the funeral parlour, I was shown to the lead car. I had to sit in it with her parents. They didn’t speak to me then. Not a word. I stared at the back of my grandmothers head, wondering if she would ever look at me.

And the church was even stranger. I could hear people asking who I was. Didn’t hear the answers mind. No one spoke to me there. But by the end of the service they all knew about me. Complete bloody run down of how she got herself pregnant, and couldn’t keep her child. Looking back it reminds me of Princess Diana’s funeral with some family members making the point of sticking the knife in to others, because they could. Would have preferred it not to have been at my expense, but then no one asked me.

It really threw me too. I didn’t know she’d tried to get me back. Can you imagine doing that to a child you gave up? Waiting till they were six and believing they had a mommy, daddy and baby brother, and then going to court to try and destroy their world and take everything they knew away? Of course it didn’t happen, and I never knew about her efforts. Made me feel bad though, that her pain never eased with the knowledge I was loved.

The wake didn’t get an easier either. The older people who’d known about me all kept their distance, no doubt wary. There was one man though, Andrew, who came over and asked me out-right if I was Michelle.

No is the easy answer. I’m not Michelle. Haven’t been Michelle for a very long time, but I was once. He told me his mother had tried to adopt me within the family, he said he would have been my big brother if our grandfather had of allowed it. That made me cry. I always wanted a big brother, and he was so nice. Very good looking too, which felt like an odd thing to notice about a man who could have been my brother, and is biologically a cousin.

And there was a woman, another cousin. She talked with me as I stared at her. It’s a very strange thing to meet someone who looks like you and twiddles their hair in the same way you do, when you’ve never met anyone related by blood before. My hair twiddling has always driven my Dad mad, goes to show some things you can’t help.

13 Comments:

Blogger Anduin said...

Thank you for sharing your story. It is very interesting but I can see that it carries pain with it too. I'm sorry that you have those feelings about your biological family but from what I've read, it sounds like your real family is really great and they love you a lot. It hurts to not be acknowledged by your own blood and I think there is nothing worse than that feeling of not belonging. I hope you don't decide to quit blogging. I would sincerely miss you and I think that this is a good outlet for all of the feelings you have.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006 2:06:00 pm  
Blogger No_Newz said...

It's obvios there is lots of pain left within. I hope writing about it has helped you in some way.
Lois Lane

Tuesday, January 10, 2006 5:05:00 pm  
Blogger mm said...

Hi Jona - I have a feeling you'll be tempted to take this entry down, and I hope you don't. It was without a doubt one of the most moving blog entries I've read anywhere.

And please don't stop blogging.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006 5:16:00 pm  
Blogger FTS said...

What a story. I don't know what to say. There's obviously some issues you still have to work out for yourself.

Better to be a novice sex bomb than notta. I don't think I would even rank as a toy pop gun.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006 5:35:00 pm  
Blogger Peace said...

I have a similar story. My "sperm donor" (AKA Biological father) abandoned my brother and I (and my mom) when I was 3. He was on drugs and a JERK. His family... my grandparents and aunt kept in contact for a couple years, then my grandfather died and my grandmother stopped calling. My aunt sent me a XMAS and birthday card every year. Last year, i got the call that my grandmother was dying. I started crying uncontrollably for some odd reason... we were very close when I was small, but I hadn't seen her in 20 years.
When she died, i decided to go to her funeral. My sperm donor paid for the ticket (weird) and i flew out and stayed with my mom's sister. The morning of the funeral i could have smacked myself for making such a stupid decision. WHY DID I GO??!!?
When I arrived at the church it was SO weird... everybody was staring at me, asking who i was.. and my sperm donor's old friends all came and hugged me as they remembered me from when I was a kid. My sperm donor followed me around like a dog (he's been feeling guilty for the last few years) and introduced me to everyone as his daughter. I HATED IT. During the funeral, I was the only one not crying. I have never experienced such up and down emotions in my life. After the funeral, they invited me to a big lunch with family and friends, I politely declined.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006 7:41:00 pm  
Blogger Monique said...

Adoption is never easy. I hope you have some comfort in knowing you weren't unwanted... that other family tried to take you in and that your mother wanted you back. I'm sure it's better that didn't work out, but still kind of nice to know.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006 9:17:00 pm  
Blogger Moxie said...

Hugs!

Glad you wrote about this...am proud of you for sharing...

your old island "sister"

Tuesday, January 10, 2006 10:18:00 pm  
Blogger Ivy the Goober said...

If you give up this blog, I'll miss you. But I will understand because I have thought about deleting mine a time, or two. If you want a fresh start with a brand new blog, I'd be delighted if you'd let me know where it is. :)

If you stop or go on, whichever, I wish you the best!

Wednesday, January 11, 2006 5:07:00 am  
Blogger Huw said...

*Rounds Up Jona & Ivy With A Big Stick*

Enough of this talk of blog deletion, the both of you!

Wednesday, January 11, 2006 6:19:00 am  
Blogger Douglas Hoffman said...

Sorry I'm so late to the game. I agree wholly with Maureen on this. Excellent post. Write it up, kiddo, because this is one area (messed up families) where catharsis writing coincides with fine writing.

Your story made me think of my own upbringing, so very different from yours, but also full of -- what's a polite way of putting it? -- unsettled feelings. And it made me think how many ways there are to put a cramp into those early years.

You might think it's worthwhile to confront these people, but in my experience, it isn't. I did that a lot in my 20s. Never did me a damn bit of good. Blogging about these things, on the other hand, is helpful. And not just for you.

All the best,
Doug

Wednesday, January 11, 2006 10:34:00 pm  
Blogger Professor Snape said...

Dear girl, don't dare delete your blog. Put it out of your head, do you understand? Too many fine people love you.

There. It had to be said. And by me.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006 10:36:00 pm  
Blogger mm said...

I'm fully dressed.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006 10:47:00 pm  
Blogger Tammy said...

I'm new to your blog, but I was moved by this post. Thanks for sharing that. And, although I don't know you, I'm glad you were raised in a loving family. Blood can mean some things, like your hair and eye colour, but it's not everything.

Sunday, January 15, 2006 12:59:00 am  

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