The Fighting Word

Having been bullied by inconsiderate people all my life I have developed a tough skin. I already wrote about it in one of the chapters of my book (which is still a work in progress). I have been called every name in the book. I can pretty much handle anything you call me; except for one specific word. People say this word all the time but don't really know what it means. I'm talking about the 'R' word. I can deal with people saying it around me, because it is going to happen and, while I'm not fine with it, I can let it slide.

If you were though, hypothetically, to direct it towards me then, well, you've just opened up a can of worms my friend. Based on the context you used it in I can usually tell whether you mean it or not. At this time I will give you a look. If you say anything that reinforces what you said before please be prepared for verbal abuse. If I know you I will use everything I know against you in an effort to try to prove your previous comment correct. By saying this word to me you think I don't know right from wrong or have feelings or a conscience or any mental capacity at all. At this point I do not. I will turn the language control area of my brain off and use what I feel is just. Keep in mind that I can be heartless and my regular lack of emotion will still be what is outwardly present. If you happen to be a woman then, at this point, I have no problem with calling you the "you know what word". I would look you straight in the eye as I said it, too. You have disrespected me on the most sinister way possible and I feel that you deserve only the same. I will then ask you how you feel but not really care as to how you answer. I hope you are just as pissed off as I am.

That situation was all hypothetical, of course. This has never happened to me. If it ever did, you now know what would transpire.

My Thoughts on Being Adopted

My Mom was recently watching an episode of Oprah when Marie Osmond was on and talking about her son who had committed suicide. She sang a touching song that she had to try really hard and keep her composure through. She stopped and starting over, attempting to hold back her tears. A bunch of photos of him were shown as she sang. She also talked about it with Oprah. The thing that struck my mother was that, not once, did Marie say “My adopted son”. She always said “My son”, which is the way Marie, Mom and I, feel it should be.

Every March when my brother sister and I were younger we would have a party. Nothing too fancy, just a small present each. Our birthdays were in September and October. I vaguely remember it each year. I didn't really understand what it was for until it ceased to be. It was because we were all adopted from Colombia by our parents as children. I was only an infant when they went and got me. My brother and sister are biologically alike, each having the same mother and father. I came along a couple years later. I was more of the luckier one, although I do not feel like revealing the details of just how much at this time.

My siblings and I all have no doubt that our parents love us, although it cannot be said for sure which set did so more. In fact, it is impossible to judge that love on any scale. While one set had the courage to give us up, the other had the courage to take us in. There was obviously a lot of love on both sides of the equation. I know this not by experience, but because having, then giving a child away for a chance at something better is nothing to take lightly; while taking one in is one in the same.

As children, none of us had any say on the issue. We accepted it because we had to. I do not mean this in a bad way. We all turned out fine and I’m sure it was the best thing that could have happened to any of us. I myself could not imagine what life would have been like had I stayed in Colombia. I cannot say it would have been bad or good, just different.

More recently my Mom has discussed whether or not if we, individually, wanted to find out birth parents, should the still be alive. I was for it, along with my sister. My brother is totally against it for some reason.

Mom asked me how I would feel if my biological parents were either against meeting me or told me that they did not love me, and that is the reason they decided to give me up. I gave her my response;

“I would be fine with them if they liked me and just the same if they did not. Either way, I have you and Dad already. That is all I could ever ask for”.

Sun Glasses to the Supermarket

Pretty much every time I go to the supermarket I wear sunglasses. The eye contact I make with people is lessened when I have them on. They act as a shield for me both to, and from, everyone else. I don't like them to see my eyes because often times in public I have sort of a zombie eyed appearance that I don't want them to see. I feel like they may be freaked out if they were to look at me. As I have said earlier posts it is not an inviting gaze I put on when in public. This all depends on my mood, of course. When I am shopping for food it tends to be longer than usual and my discomfort can grow as time wears on. A better safe than sorry approach is my standard M.O. My facial expression is usually minimal so having my eyes hidden allows me to blend in. Shopping at a time when it is still light outside gives me a built in excuse.

I am only talking about this because I left my sunglasses in the car while shopping today and wish I had walked back to retrieve them before I was swallowed up by the place, and its vast array of light and other sensory overload.